Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 41683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
"Ja. I guess we did."
Adriel is all naked fury and lethal grace to my right, his pale skin stark against the backdrop of chaos. Savage intent brims from his solitary black eye. The scar marring his other eye seems to pulse in rhythm with his rage.
To my left stands Malachi, cool as an arctic breeze, a cheeky grin playing about his lips…as undeterred by looming death as ever.
I see the others in my peripheral, taking up positions around the room—Dax and Damrion to the right, Stephan and Daric to the left—but I keep my gaze fixated on the Forsaken.
They've trespassed on sacred ground where they have no right. They've threatened our people. Destroyed our home. They hurt my mate. For that, they will pay.
With a war cry born of raw fury and searing vengeance, I lunge at the Forsaken, my lyststål spinning through the air in an arc of Light. It shears through the tendrils of polluted evil the Forsaken send spiraling in my direction, my fury too hot to be stopped.
Adriel is beside me, as wild and unpredictable as ever, like a raging sea crashing through the church. His savagery is a wall against which the Forsaken crash over and over again, unable to bring him down or slow him at all.
Malachi counters their onslaught with effortless grace and brutal strength. The grin never leaves his face as he toys with our enemies before executing them with brutal precision.
Dax moves as if he's dancing—an artist painting death with his lyststål. Each swing is a lethal stroke in his masterpiece, each kill another testament to his prowess.
Damrion fights alongside him, their movements in uncanny sync—two ancient warriors battling in perfect harmony. Damrion's lyststål slices through the air neatly, severing dark flows of magic with blurring speed while Dax ends lives without hesitation.
The rest hold their ground too, never allowing a single Forsaken to breach their defenses. Stephan's piercing gray eyes ignite with primal hunger for battle; Daric's gruff face remains impassive as he decimates our foes one by one.
All around us the screams of the dying and the scent of charred, burning flesh fill the air. But they're not our screams. It's not our flesh. And we're not the ones dying.
The Forsaken start to falter, their collective strength waning under our relentless assault. Panic flares in their eyes as they attempt a futile retreat. They showed no mercy to my mate or the people in Eitr. I'll show none to them.
The space around us is a whirlwind of blood and violence, screams and roars echoing against the stone walls. None of them will escape this sacred place alive. They never should have trespassed here to begin with. This may not be our holy place, but it is a holy place. Evil doesn't belong here. We'll root it out, smothering every last shadow.
When the last Forsaken stands, his back against the wall and his companions nothing but ash around him, Damrion calls a halt.
"Where is the Valkyrie?" he asks.
The Forsaken's lips curl into a macabre grin, his eyes burning with an unholy light that makes my blood freeze. He staggers, weakened but still defiant. "You'll find her when it's too late." His voice is low and raspy as he spits the words out like venomous daggers.
Damrion's face tightens, an inhuman growl rumbling through him. "Where is she?" he commands again. "You can tell me, or we'll let the Valkyrie torture it out of your worthless mind."
Instead of answering, the Forsaken's lips stretch further. His gaze never leaves our leader as he lifts his arm slowly. Black tendrils of magic curl around his wrists like serpents seeking prey, growing more ferocious with each passing second.
I heft my lyststål, preparing to lob his miserable head from his body before he attacks. But I don't even get that far.
In a moment that seems frozen in time, the Forsaken plunges the malicious tendrils into his own chest. An agonized scream tears its way out of his throat as he begins to rip himself apart. His form rapidly deteriorates under the onslaught of his own magic, flesh and bones consumed by the very power he wielded.
In seconds, there's nothing left but blood and ash, a deafening silence pressing onto us heavily.
"Gods alive!" Malachi breathes, shuddering. "I've never seen one of them do that."
"Me either," Damrion says, his voice soft.
"I guess he didn't feel like talking," Dax says, deadpan.
"Either that or he didn't want the Valkyrie torturing him," Malachi mutters.
We fall silent again. The bastard's warning lingers around us: We'll find her when it's too late. No one asks what he meant by that. The possibilities are too grim.
Garrison groans, pulling us from our dark, worrisome thoughts. Dax hurries across the cathedral to him, kneeling at his side.
"We need to go," he says, urgency in his voice. "He isn't going to make it if we don't get him help soon."