Page 245 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Snarling against the agony of it, I palmed my blades and charged.

The motherfucker smiled.

Then we were moving—dodging, grappling, every failed strike more maddening than the last. Every thrust took more effort as the pressure built.

“August!” I bellowed. “Can I… get some… cover!?”

Moros struck for my neck. I threw my head back, spine bowing to evade it as my arms flew up to block, knocking his blade high. The next one still found me. Grunting, I spun as a searing line of crimson opened across my arm.

I struck for his kidney, but the piece of shit was fast for an old fuck. His block knocked my blade away. I rolled past his next blow and palmed another—two strikes this time, one high, one low—as I ducked his own.

A familiar cold pressure slammed into my back, and I snarled as he pulled the blade free.

Goddammit, I hated bleeding.

I caught his wrist, yanked him forward, and drove my forearm into his throat, nose, then eyes. Three rapid strikes, and his face pissed blood.

Then cold slammed into my chest. I stumbled back, knees buckling.

Groaning, I tightened my grip on my remaining dagger, staggering as he did the same.

And then Carr was there—swinging his shield with everything he had.

It collided with the side of Moros’ head, sending him to the ground.

I couldn’t hear shit. Stars glimmered as I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. Not the fucking time.

Carr was already moving, drawing a reaper’s pistol and aiming for Moros. I staggered forward, fighting to see. To breathe.

Then I was running. Moros’ power lashed out, pain lancing through me as Carr hit his knees, eyes wide, hands clutching his temples. Blood dribbled from his nose—a matching heat sliding over my own lips as I dropped a shoulder and slammed into the son of a bitch.

I took him down, a yell building as the pressure crushed me—mind splintering, screaming, fractured pieces piercing through my skin. Burning, burning, burning, even as he threw me.

Gasping, I rolled onto my side and forced myself onto hands and knees. A brutal kick to my ribs sent me sprawling, rolling, barely blocking as a blade came down.

Fuck.

Too damn bright for shadows. Arms trembling, I shot an ice spear into his torso. His dark eyes widened, and I used the distraction to throw him off. Carr caught him as I scrambled upright, both of them bleeding around blades buried in flesh. My cousin swung, steel flashing. I didn’t wait—charged, slid low, and drove a short blade into Moros’ thigh, aiming for the femoral.

Carr shouted—and suddenly I was off the ground, a slick hand locked around my throat as my cousin hit the dirt, his arm bent unnaturally.

Darkness stretched through Moros’ veins, growing, writhing beneath his skin as he canted his head in assessment.

Agony ripped through my mind, skull, spine. It speared beneath my ribs, through my shoulder blades, down my arms. A high-pitched ringing swallowed thought while my feet dangled, kicking, striking uselessly against him. I was dying⁠—

—but my eyes snagged—red hair against muddy earth.

A roar ripped from me when my eyes found Freya. My Freya, motionless and bloodied in the mud.

The pain vanished as quickly as it came, and he dropped me. I crumpled. The agony—that horrific ringing—cut off like a wall slamming down.

I dragged in a serrated breath and rolled onto my side. Blinked. The world swam behind a greasy film. But where she’d been lying there was only… grass?

Movement.

Lost to the agony, I lifted my face, trying to focus.

Grunts and bellows nearby.