Open ground. No cover; nowhere to hide.
The hunters spill into the square behind us.
Others emerge from the streets ahead.
Left. Right.
More from the rooftops.
They encircle us with frightening efficiency.
My chest heaves as I pull Moe behind me.
Steel gleams in every direction.
A male near the front grins, blood already staining his teeth from some earlier fight.
“One hundred and fifty points,” he says. His grip tightens on his blade. “Worth dying for.”
A chorus of agreement follows as everyone charges at once.
Metal flashes from every direction, a chaotic blur of blades, spears, and wild desperation. The first man reaches me screaming, sword raised overhead, and I step inside his swing before it can fall, driving my fist into his throat hard enough to crumple him where he stands. He collapses clutching his neck, but another immediately fills the space he leaves behind.
Then another. And another. It’s a flurry of movement.
They come in waves, singleminded in their greed. They strike, retreat, and strike again, probing for openings while the others wait for me to make a mistake.
I shove Moe behind the shattered remains of a fountain.
“Stay behind me.”
A spear lunges for my ribs. I slap it aside, catch the shaft, and wrench the wielder off balance before smashing my elbow into his temple. He goes down hard, but a knife flashes toward my face from the side and I barely jerk back in time. The blade grazes my cheek.
Pain blooms hot and sharp.
Another cut follows across my forearm.
Then one across my thigh.
They are not trying to kill me quickly. They are dragging this out, as if they’re waiting for someone.
“Back!” someone calls from behind them.
The fighters in front of me part immediately.
A large male steps through the opening.
He is older than most here, perhaps by appearance if not actual years, his movements measured and calm where the others’ are frantic. A jagged scar cuts from brow to jaw, and faint arcs of electricity dance lazily between his fingers.
My stomach sinks.
That must be the Tempest Domain. Who knows what level—most probably advanced if he’s able to command those lesser fighters.
He doesn’t rush me. He studies me for a brief second, then flicks his wrist.
Lightning tears across the square.
I react on instinct, ripping the shadow of the fountain upward between us.
