But for every shadow that falls, two more seem to take its place.
My sister and Atticus move in perfect synchronization, a lifetime of combat reduced to instinct. Blood magic erupts from their hands—not separate attacks but combined, their bond allowing them to weave their power together into something greater than either could manage alone.
The blood arrows they create are works of terrible art. Each one forms from drops of their own vitae, crystallizing in air into projectiles that shouldn't exist. But these don't just pierce—theyexplodeon impact, each detonation spreading corruption through the shadow ranks.
I track every movement, cataloging the way they fight as unit rather than individuals. Where the blood touches, shadows begin to dissolve from within. Their forms corrupt, black flame torches flickering as the beings clutch at wounds that spread like infection. Some try to tear the infected parts away, but the blood has already spread through whatever passes for their circulation.
Gwenievere's fangs are fully extended, her eyes burning crimson as she draws more blood from self-inflicted wounds that heal almost as fast as she creates them. Each arrow she fires carries a piece of her rage, her determination, her absolute refusal to let Nikki and Nikolai die.
"Left flank!" she shouts, and Atticus responds without thought, their movements so synchronized they might be one being in two bodies.
Cassius has become something more than human, less than shadow, caught between states in a way that makes him devastating. His darkness doesn't just attack—itmultiplies, each tendril that strikes a shadow being splitting into more, creating an exponential expansion of destruction.
The shadows he creates are different from the beings they fight.
Where the torch-bearers are animated absence, Cassius's shadows are aggressive presence. They don't just occupy space—theydevourit, creating voids that the shadow beings fall into and don't emerge from. Each void pulses once before collapsing, taking whatever was caught inside to somewhere that isn't here, isn't anywhere.
His form is barely visible in the chaos, not because he's hidden but because he's become the chaos. Every shadow cast by every torch is potentially his, every dark space between enemiesa doorway for his attacks. He's everywhere and nowhere, striking from angles that shouldn't exist.
"Above you!" he calls to Mortimer, who immediately rolls—dragon flexibility defying physics—as a wave of shadows attempts to drop from somewhere that wasn't there until they needed it to be.
Zeke maintains the barrier while simultaneously attacking, a feat of multitasking that would be impossible for anyone not carrying nine lives of experience. His frost magic doesn't just freeze—itflash-freezes, the temperature differential so extreme that shadows shatter like glass the moment the cold touches them.
Waves of arctic force ripple out from his position, each one perfectly timed to catch shadows mid-charge. They freeze in place—torches still burning but bodies crystallized—before shattering into diamond dust that catches the diseased light beautifully.
But maintaining the barrier is draining him. I can see it in the way his form flickers occasionally, the way his breathing becomes labored. The acid rain is relentless, eating through ice faster than he can regenerate it, and every moment spent reinforcing the barrier is a moment not spent attacking.
"I need thirty seconds!" Zeke shouts, his voice strained with effort.
"You've got it," Gwenievere responds, and she and Atticus shift their attack pattern to cover his section.
I watch the battle with growing frustration at my inability to help physically. The fluid chaos is beautiful in its violence. Each member of the group knows exactly where the others are, what they need, when to attack and when to defend. It's not practiced—they haven't had time to practice. It's instinctive, born from bonds that transcend simple teamwork.
Halfway up the hill.
The shadows are getting denser, pressing in from all sides. The narrow path forces them to fight in tighter formation, backs to each other, each covering angles the others can't reach.
"Why won't they stop coming?" Atticus snarls, his blood magic starting to show signs of depletion. The arrows come slower now, and he's having to use more of his own blood rather than generating it from magic alone.
"Because they're not finite," Mortimer rumbles, his dragon voice carrying despite the chaos. "They're being generated from something. Or some?—"
Understanding hits them simultaneously, and I realize it at the same moment.
The shadows represent everyone who's spoken ill of Nikki and Nikolai throughout their lifetime.
Every cruel word, every dismissive gesture, every moment someone wished for them to be something other than what they are—manifested as shadow beings that burn with the black fire of judgment.
"There must be thousands," Gwenievere whispers, the weight of that cruelty staggering.
"Then we destroy thousands," Cassius responds, his shadows surging with renewed fury.
They fight harder, pushing through exhaustion that wants to claim them. I hover in my in-between state, unable to physically help but present nonetheless. I see every moment of struggle, every wound taken, every small victory against overwhelming odds.
Three-quarters up the hill now.
The platform is visible, Nikki and Nikolai's forms still unmoving. The golden chains pulse faster now, as if sensing potential rescue and trying to finish their work before it arrives.
That's when the world shifts again.
