Quinlou cut downward, his blades coated in dread. They sliced clean through Pervoick, knocking him backward. Blood spattered from his lips as he hit the ground.

  Host and Syle lay not far away, groaning as they tried to rise. But it was over for them that night.

  Blood stained Quinlou’s shoes—unfortunate, but rewarding. He looked to the sky, an endless sprawl of stars. The remaining conscious Owlmen flew overhead, squawking their proclamations of victory. Quinlou heard footsteps tapping.

  He turned toward the darkened street—Pervoick stood there, body leaning, blood leaking from chest to toe. The Sterna didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes did the talking.

  Quinlou inhaled, straightened his back, and let the dread awaken. His Levula, granted by Surath, was simple but deadly in his hands. At the cost of mana, his aura could take on a repulsive form. Those untouched by Surath’s power would feel immediate horror, disgust, and revulsion so strong it overwhelmed their senses. Even those with dark powers, like Quinlou himself, could falter if they weren’t strong enough.

  He let that dread take hold, then expanded his aura until it filled the street. Pervoick’s eyes bulged as he resisted. But Quinlou always saw that pain—the particular pain his Levula inflicted. That was power.

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Sil flew into the street, instantly spotting the Sterna on the ground—and Pervoick, somehow still on his feet. As she landed, a sharp sensation overtook her: Surath’s darkness, but far stronger than anything she’d ever felt. The silver-haired man with his back turned to her... it came from him. She steadied her aura, suppressing it in hopes of catching the man off guard. One hand clutched the wound in her chest. It was healing, but the mana to seal it fully was draining. She wouldn’t last long—not conscious, anyway.

  Pervoick raised his sword. He moved slowly, clumsily. In Sil’s mind, he’d have been better off staying down—but when their eyes met, something clicked. A plan, simple and unspoken, passed between them.

  With a powerful hop, Sil rushed forward, reaching the enemy just as Pervoick’s blade neared its mark. A simultaneous strike.

  Their opponent parried both attacks—one blade low by his waist, the other raised behind his head. He spun, the dark force of his mana tossing them aside in a whirlwind of power.

  Sil tried to land on her feet, but her injuries combined with the blast of aura knocked her down hard, writhing under the pressure he had forced into her mind.

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Blū leapt across Moonset’s rooftops, distracted by the distant, glowing lights. The festival still had no idea what horrors stirred just behind them—and Blū hoped it stayed that way, at least until the celebration ended.

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  He considered calling for evacuation, but the dark aura rising nearby made that impossible. Better to strike the source than move helpless people into its path. No... the only solution was to take the danger out directly.

  He saw Owlmen flying above, circling like wild birds in search of prey. And beneath them, he felt a pulsing, malicious aura. It was tempting to rush in—but after his last battle, caution won out. He suppressed his aura, choosing instead to observe from the shadows.

  Landing quietly in an alley, what he found surprised him: the head guard, standing tall before the silver-haired man, staring him down.

  “What’d you freaks do to me!?” he shouted. “To my men!?”

  “You’ve woken up, then,” the swordsman replied.

  The head guard wasn’t alone. Others were scattered around the area—some kneeling, others hobbling as they tried to stand. The green splotches on their skin had vanished, leaving behind dark marks where they had been.

  “You turned us against our own people!” the head guard shouted, pain and fury straining through his ragged voice. He wore heavy armor across his chest, shoulder pads, gauntlets, and thick boots below. Fittingly robust for the leader of their forces.

  Owlmen swooped down to attack, but Blū sprang from the shadows, knocking the strange creatures back with a sweeping upward kick.

  The swordsman’s aura erupted outward, hitting Blū with a disturbingly visceral sensation. But it wasn’t meant for him. The focus shifted to the head guard, who collapsed to his knees, vomiting—along with the other guards and most of the Stearna nearby. Sil and her friends, to their credit, resisted somewhat, though they still squirmed under the pressure. Blū wasn’t surprised. They were all running low, and soon, he too would inevitably suffer similar effects.

  Still, he fought on—striking one Owlman to the ground as the silver-haired man’s aura began to subside.

  From a nearby alley, the nervous guard, Joe, rushed forward and threw himself between his captain and the swordsman, arms raised.

  “Heads off!” Joe yelled. “That’s enough! By the law of this valley, I will not allow you to cont—”

  With a swift, effortless swing, Joe’s arm was severed from his body.

  The boy collapsed, too shocked to scream, grasping at the bleeding wound. The captain tried and failed to rise. The swordsman stood over Joe, indifferent.

  Blū moved to intervene, only for an Owlman’s talons to seize him and drag him back.

  “We are the law now!”

  Suddenly, a surge of mana burst from the distant mountains. Blū turned sharply, eyes lifting to the fields surrounding the temple. He smirked, struck an Owlman aside, then pivoted to kick another in the face. He knew that aura. Its potency annoyed him—but it still made him smile.

  The silver-haired man raised his blade to strike Joe down. And to the young guard’s credit, he did not flinch.

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Joe had fallen to his knees, clutching his bleeding stump as the dark figure loomed over him. The man with surreal, floating hair looked at Joe the way one might look at a flea—irritated by the presence of something so painfully weak.

  Without a word, he swung his dark blade again, intending to end the young guard where he knelt. Joe could do nothing but watch the sword descend—his final sight.

  A flicker of light cut through the gloom, warming the street with a glow more soothing than the lanterns at the festival half a mile away. The clash of metal rang out, sending a tremor through the air and kicking up dust around the fighters. Joe, still lying on the ground, pulled back his arm and summoned the courage to look.

  But the strike hadn’t landed.

  It had been blocked—caught by a cyan blade wielded by a man with a messy head of blond hair.