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“No,” Hunter growled, his voice raw with grief. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
His hands shook as he pressed them to her wound, trying to stop the spread of the dark magic, trying to save her. But he wasn’t a healer. He wasn’t a mage. He was a killer, a warrior—and none of that could help him now.
Adriana and Elyria stood tall, their hands trembling slightly as the remnants of their magic sparked from their fingertips. Adriana’s chest heaved with exhaustion, beads of sweat glistening on her brow. Beside her, Elyria was a vision of unyielding power. The fae-shifter’s eyes still glowed with a faint, ethereal light, but the fury that had driven her moments ago seemed to have cooled into a deadly calm. She cast one final glance at the witch’s fallen form, her lips curling in a small, satisfied smile. Justice had been served. But the battle was far from over.
The vampires, though weakened and disoriented, were still dangerous. Without the witch to guide them, they moved with a newfound desperation, lashing out at Colby’s men with a wild, unfocused rage. Their attacks were no longer precise or calculated; they were the thrashing movements of beasts who knew their time was running out.
Colby’s men seized the opportunity, regrouping quickly. The shifters, those already in their animal forms—wolves, lynxes, and bears—pressed the attack, their fangs and claws gleaming in the dim light as they tore into the remaining vampires. With the witch no longer bolstering their strength, the vampires were no match for the ferocity of the shifters.
Hunter watched from his position beside Mercy's inert form, a restless energy surging through him. He wanted nothing more than to rush into the fray, to help finish off the remaining vampires, but he couldn’t leave Mercy. Not like this. Not when her life hung in the balance.
Instead, he gripped his dagger tightly, his eyes scanning the courtyard, ready to protect her if any vampire dared to come near.
Adriana and Elyria turned their attention to the remaining attackers. Adriana, though visibly drained from the magical assault she had just unleashed, still had enough strength to raise her hands and summon a barrier of shimmering light that encircled the remaining shifters, protecting them from any stray attacks.
Elyria, her power still potent despite the battle’s toll, stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the vampires that remained. With a single, graceful motion, she raised her hand, and the earth beneath the vampires’ feet trembled. As roots and vines rose from the ground, wrapping around the vampires’ legs and immobilizing them, Colby’s forces continued to cut them down.
The vampires struggled, hissing and snarling as they tried to break free, but Elyria’s control over nature was absolute. The more they fought, the tighter the vines coiled around them, squeezing until the sound of bones cracking filled the air, making them easy targets for the defenders to dispatch.
The courtyard was a chaotic symphony of growls, snarls, and the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart. Colby’s men, emboldened by the collapse of the witch’s magic, fought with renewed vigor, their movements a blur of violence and precision as they took down the remaining vampires one by one.
At first, it was subtle—a change in the rhythm of the battle, like the first stirrings of wind before a storm. The enemies' once-coordinated attacks began to falter, and their movements grew slower, more desperate. Those defending the abbey, though battered, began to feel a renewed energy rising within them, like embers fanned into flame.
A fierce shout rang out, echoing through the walls of the abbey, and it seemed to awaken something primal in the defenders. They pressed harder, their weapons slashing with new purpose. The fear that had gnawed at them moments before began to ebb, replaced by a ferocious determination. One by one, the enemy forces began to fall, and for the first time, the defenders allowed themselves to hope.
The sight of the enemy retreating, their formations breaking, ignited a frenzy in the ranks of the abbey’s defenders. With every foe they struck down, their confidence grew, feeding the rising tide of elation. They moved as one now, a unified force with no intention of letting their momentum slip. Every victory on the battlefield of the once-peaceful abbey became a shared triumph, their voices lifting in battle cries that echoed louder and more defiantly.
Then, in a pivotal moment, a great roar erupted from one of the battlements as the last of the enemy commanders fell, hisbody crumpling beneath a flurry of blows. It was as if the abbey itself exhaled, the weight of battle lifting from its shoulders.
A cheer went up, first small but quickly growing, swelling into a chorus of victory that filled the air. The once grim faces of the defenders broke into wide, exhilarated grins as they realized—they were winning. The enemy was in full retreat, their lines shattered. What had seemed an endless struggle mere moments ago was now a rout.
The defenders surged forward, emboldened by the sight of their enemies falling. Some evaporated into ash as they were killed, others fleeing as they realized their advantage had dissolved. Those who fought for the abbey found their strikes more efficient, and their collective ferocity intensified, driven by the realization that victory was within their grasp. What began as a desperate defense had turned into a pursuit of triumph.
An intense surge of energy coursed through Hunter as he watched the battle unfold, his grip on Mercy tightening. She lay in his arms, pale and still, her chest barely rising with each shallow breath. The wound the witch had inflicted on her was dark and festering, the remnants of dark magic still pulsing through it like poison.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this.
Across the courtyard, Adriana’s barrier held strong, deflecting any last-ditch attacks from the vampires as they fell to the relentless onslaught of the shifters. It was brutal; it was bloody, but it was effective. The tide had turned in their favor.
Within moments, the courtyard fell eerily silent. The last of the vampires crumbled into ash, their bodies disintegrating as the last threads of the witch’s magic finally unraveled.
Colby’s men stood victorious, their fur matted and bodies covered with blood, their chests heaving from the exertion of the fight. But there was no time for celebration. The cost of the battlewas clear—too many shifters had fallen, too many lives lost. And at the center of it all, Mercy lay wounded, her life slipping away with every passing second.
Hunter looked up as Adriana and Elyria approached, their faces grim.
“We need to heal her,” Hunter said, his voice raw with emotion as he looked down at Mercy.
“She’s not going to make it if we don’t do something.”
Adriana knelt beside him, her hand gently resting on Mercy’s forehead as she closed her eyes, concentrating. “The witch’s magic is still inside her,” she said, her voice strained. “It’s strong—too strong for me to break alone.”
Elyria stepped forward; her expression unreadable as she looked down at Mercy. “I can help,” she said softly. “But it will not be easy. Fae magic is not meant to mix with that of others.”
An unfamiliar rush flowed through Hunter as he watched Elyria. He knew the fae-shifter’s power was immense, but even she seemed cautious. The situation was dire, and there was no room for error.
“Do whatever it takes,” Hunter said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please. I can’t lose her.”
Elyria’s gaze softened for a moment, her eyes flicking to Hunter as if she understood the depth of his desperation. Then, without another word, she knelt beside Adriana and placed her hands over Mercy’s wound.
