A chunk of road struck Oy as he lay on the ground, the impact shoving him backward. He slid across the moss-coated surface, only stopping after colliding with a wall. The moss was wet against his back as he stared up at the night sky, his mind still foggy from the last hit. He drifted through thoughts, trying to find a conclusion that might lead him to victory. He grasped the bandage tied around his waist, now starting to loosen. The wound on his abdomen still stung, but the fear of defeat hurt worse.

  Another chunk of road slammed into the wall behind him, cracking it. His opponent groaned, frustrated at the miss, and picked up another slab. With a deep, steadying breath, Oy gripped a newly carved ledge in the wall and hauled himself upright, legs shaky as he tried to find balance. His opponent began winding up, eyes locked on Oy.

  A drop of blood ran down Oy’s brow, trickling past his cheek and onto his lip. It tasted metallic. A breeze passed, blowing his hair from his eyes. It was cold. He took another breath. It hurt.

  He slammed a foot down, mana-enhanced. It punched through the road and wedged into the ground. He slammed the other. It locked into place just the same.

  The man, stained green, hurled the rock—its speed and power both enhanced. Oy raised a fist and swung, knocking the projectile aside. It shattered against his forearm, leaving a coat of chalky dust.

  Another came. Oy blocked it with his opposite arm, smashing it like the first. It cut into his skin, leaving a gash—nothing he couldn’t handle. A third chunk barreled down the street, faster than the others. This time, when Oy deflected it, pain rippled from his forearm to the bone. The force slowed him, every nerve humming with discomfort.

  He shifted his stance—it was time to go on the offensive. Drawing his arm back, hand clenched tight, he braced his feet deeper into the ground. When the next rock came, he struck.

  His eyes locked on the target, fist blazing with mana, and with supreme focus, he punched the air. The technique was hard to describe, but to Oy, it felt like punching upstream through water rather than air. The nuances were beyond him. All he had was the muscle memory from hours of practice.

  Whether it was luck or skill, Oy succeeded. His punch surged with mana across the street, over the moss-covered ground, knocking the projectile off course—and hitting its mark. The impact sank into his opponent’s chest, forcing a splatter of blood onto the road.

  Oy’s heart leapt. That was the furthest he’d ever landed the technique—and the hardest, too. But it wasn’t enough.

  The man bent forward, still standing, reaching for another chunk of road. Oy struck again. The pressure on his fist felt like fighting gravity. The blow landed in the man’s chest, drawing more blood. The rock dropped from his hand—but he still stood.

  Oy grit his teeth and closed his eyes. Once more, he told himself. That’s all it will take.

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  He knew better. But he punched anyway.

  The force of fist against wind cracked like thunder, rippling down the street and stirring clouds of dust. Oy’s opponent stood firm, channeling his aura in an attempt to tank the blow. But the impact surged through his body like a storm. His eyes bulged as he was lifted off his feet and hurled into the air. The street trembled when he landed, blood pooling beneath his unconscious form.

  Oy took a breath… satisfied. Then collapsed.

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  The scruffy-haired fool flew back from Sil’s strike, rolling to a stop in a cloud of dust. Sil continued to dart through the street, pulled by her strategically arranged ribbons of Heavenly Parchment.

  She landed and thrust her dagger forward. Her opponent, to his credit, kicked her hand away and rolled back. It wasn’t skillful—just reflex. The man had no real combat experience. But really, that shouldn’t have surprised her. Men who gave themselves to the powers of Surath rarely sought great strength—just enough to bully the weak.

  As he rolled to his feet, the man lifted a finger and pointed at her. As tired as she was of his incompetence, Sil was smart enough to recognize the danger of that beam. Any weapon like that could be deadly in a fool’s hands.

  Hands gripped her arms just as she moved to jolt away, locking her in place. Her eyes darted behind her—one of the Owlmen. She’d let her guard down. Her confidence had stabbed her in the back. And now…

  The beam struck her stomach, wedging deep into skin and tissue. The reflexive clump of mana she’d assembled helped slow it slightly, but all it really did was keep the blast from tearing through her and hitting the Owlman behind her.

  Her body crumpled under the pressure, the wound weakening her core. The Owlman slammed her to the ground, squawking with pride. She could feel a warm puddle spreading beneath her. Her aura might help seal the wound and stem the bleeding, but not as well as a proper bandage. The Owlman held her hands behind her—he knew better.

  The man walked toward her, finger still raised. A quick glance through enhanced vision told her he was running low. His aura was flickering, unstable. That beam wouldn’t last much longer.

  “Stay down!” the man shouted, his voice trembling.

  Even now, restrained and soaked in her own blood, he was afraid of her. This was what they faced—not just soldiers, but cowards. Cowards dressed in confidence. Given power, allowed to carry out their sickening whims. That was the danger of Surath. That was what Sil feared.

  She pulled her aura from the wound. It would hold for a few seconds. Though her hands were pinned, she managed to slip a finger to the ground. That was enough. A sharp spike of clay launched from the road and slashed across the Owlman’s face.

  The grip on her arms loosened. Sil sprang up and slammed her heel into the beast, snapping its unnatural head toward the sky. Her wound squelched—but she didn’t stop.

  As her opponent fired another beam, Sil wrapped the Owlman’s head to her foot with parchment and dragged it down to block the blast. The cushion of flesh did little. The beam tore straight through—but missed her.

  Propping herself up with her hands, Sil shoved forward, ramming both herself and the Owlman into her enemy, knocking him down beneath his own ally. She dispelled the parchment, releasing her foot as she flew over them. Landing beside the man, still dazed by the impact, she struck—again and again. A thousand stabs, faster than she’d ever managed before. It was rapid. Brutal. But she was desperate.

  She kept going until her body gave out, collapsing to her knees. Two bodies lay before her, bleeding… but their auras would save them.

  Sil conjured more parchment, drawing from the last of her aura, and sealed her wound, channeling mana into healing. Then, with flickering vision, she stood and tried to walk toward the heart of the battle—where she prayed her comrades were still alive.