Chapter 60 #2
Blood sprayed her face—hot, metallic. Elara gagged, forcing herself upright as her vision swam. Sound collapsed into noise. Screams. Steel. The crack of magic.
Bodies rushed past in a wash of motion and light until the world became chaos and she could no longer tell who was friend or foe.
Another fireball exploded nearby, the heat searing her cheek, and she stumbled, catching herself just in time to see Reynnar charging forward, ripping through another soldier with a snarl. She forced her legs to move, half-running, half-stumbling after him, the ground slippery with mud and blood.
Her boots snagged on the outstretched arm of a fallen soldier, and she pitched forward, slamming into the dirt.
The sharp sting of gravel bit into her palms as she braced herself, her breath hitching. Bodies surged around her, their boots kicking up dust and debris that filled her lungs. She hacked, sputtering, until a firm hand gripped her shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded, grabbing his hand, and he pulled her to her feet just as a blast of earth tore through the ground behind them, sending a shockwave that nearly knocked them off balance.
They stumbled forward, Reynnar keeping a tight hold on her as they surged through the melee.
Elara gritted her teeth, every muscle screaming the blade feeling like dead weight in her hand, as they ducked under a burst of fire; the heat singeing her hair, her heart hammering as they pushed deeper.
Bodies pressed in on all sides—soldiers, Script Keepers, rebels—all blurring together in a mass of color and movement, blood splattering her as she slashed at anything that moved too close.
Reynnar carved a narrow, bloody path through the fight, inching closer to the heart of the battlefield, where a dense circle of soldiers guarded a single figure.
Elara’s heart clenched as they neared, dread pooling in her stomach. Even before she saw him, she felt the chill of his presence, the dark energy emanating from the center of that human shield like a poison.
Osin stood motionless, cold and composed, surveying the slaughter with idle curiosity.
Shadows coiled around him, snapping out in brutal strikes, twisting and wrapping around the necks of rebels who dared approach.
The Legionnaires clustered around him, moving in perfect, unbreakable formation, yet it seemed almost unnecessary.
Osin wasn’t even breaking a sweat, his gaze calm, his expression bored, as if this massacre was no more than a mildly entertaining spectacle.
Elara’s blood ran cold. She could see it, could feel it—he was stronger.
Somehow, the Draoth pulsing from him was denser—consuming everything it touched. The shadows darted out like vipers, striking with precision, and each time, they seemed to feed back into him, thickening the surrounding air with a power that felt smothering.
Reynnar’s hand tightened on her shoulder, drawing her gaze to his.
His face was ashen, his eyes tense. “All right,” he said, voice steady, slipping into the calm command of a seasoned warrior.
“Here’s how we’re doing this. We split their line.
I’ll draw their attention, create an opening for you to get through. ”
Elara blinked, struggling to process it. “You’ll be completely exposed—”
He cut her off with a quick, fierce grin. “Let them come. I’ve dealt with worse. Once you’re through, don’t look back. Keep your head low and keep moving forward. And when you see an opening—don’t hesitate. Don’t second-guess. Strike hard and fast.”
She nodded, nerves twisting in her gut.
“I’ll be right behind you, covering your back," he added, voice a shade gentler, "whatever happens, we bring him down together.”
Reynnar gave her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before stepping back, blade steady in his grip. He turned toward the line of Legionnaires, his eyes alight with deadly focus. “We move on my mark.” Elara’s pulse quickened.
His chin dipped—and then he was gone, darting left.
His sword flashed, opening the first soldier’s throat in a single, fluid motion.
Blood sprayed his face, but he was already moving, blade turning on the next target.
The Legionnaires barely reacted—eyes widening, weapons half-raised—before Reynnar tore into them.
One soldier charged. Reynnar cut him down at the knees and drove his blade home in the same breath.
The line buckled. Reynnar pressed through it.
Elara’s pulse pounded as she slipped through the narrow gaps Reynnar carved open. A blade cut the air above her head; she ducked, boot skidding through blood as she fought to keep her footing.
Ahead, movement drew her attention. Other Script Keepers had spotted Reynnar, their grim expressions hardening as they surged into the fight, weapons glinting.
Her breath caught when she saw Dario among them.
His left arm hung limp, clearly dislocated, but it didn’t slow him.
He charged forward, wielding his blade one-handed, slicing through a Legionnaire before shoving another aside.
She sprinted toward him, her pulse hammering in her ears, but a pair of soldiers locked in vicious combat blocked her way. She pressed against the writhing wall of bodies, forcing herself through just as one of them crumpled to the ground, a spray of blood spattering her boots.
The copper tang filled her lungs.
Keep going. Just keep going.
Her gaze locked on Osin—still untouched amid the chaos. Shadows coiled and twisted around him, a living shroud that mocked the bloodshed at his feet.
Her grip tightened on the Wound of Light, its hilt warm against her palm. Her lips curled as she stepped forward, gaze narrowing.
Then a figure moved into her path.
Her breath stalled.
Ivan.