The courtyard was drowned in shadow.
No moonlight touched it, only the flickering dance of torches nailed into stone walls. The smell of blood had already soaked into the air like rot, thick and cloying. Steel sang through the night, blades clashing and scraping—but only from one side.
The other side didn't scream. It didn't struggle.
It slaughtered.
Ian stood bare-chested in the center of the blood-slick stone, his body a map of healing wounds, most fresh, some deeper than others. His arms and torso were wrapped in fading bruises and lash-like scars—leftovers from the battle with Torkas.
They knit slowly with each kill.
Around him, desperate men surged with fury and dread. They screamed with every swing—axes, daggers, spears aimed at his heart.
But none of it mattered.
He moved like shadow given muscle. Fluid and cruel.
