I slam into the left one with my shoulder, drive him into the rock wall, and feel ribs snap like dry twigs. The other slashes at my back—I twist, catch the blade in my palm, blood hissing between my fingers—and then Ibreakhis arm. Just grab and twist and feel the bone give under my grip.
They scream.
They always do.
I don’t stop. Ican’t.
This is what I am.
This is what I was made for.
By the time I’m done, the ground’s wet and dark. The last one’s crawling away, whimpering. I don’t chase him. Let him tell the others what he saw.
River stands a few yards away, breathing hard. Her hair’s loose, cheek smeared with blood that isn’t hers. Her blades drip crimson. She’s staring at me like she doesn’t quite recognize what she’s looking at.
I breathe heavy. Not from effort. Fromholding back.
“Didn’t even get your boots dirty,” she says, voice hoarse.
I glance down. She’s right. Not a speck.
“That’s what happens,” I mutter, “when you finish quick.”
She sheathes one blade, keeps the other in hand. “You changed.”
“Only a little.”
“Wasn’t little from where I stood.”
I wipe my axe on one of the bodies and sling it back across my shoulder. “You scared?”
She’s quiet.
Then: “A little.”
It shouldn’t gut me.
But it does.
I walk toward her slow, careful. Like I’m approaching something fragile. She doesn’t back up. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with those stormcloud eyes.
“I would never hurt you,” I say.
She nods. “I know.”
“But seeing it is different than knowing it.”
Another nod. This one slower.
I stop a foot from her. Reach up and brush a lock of hair from her cheek. She leans into the touch, even if just a little.
“I’ve killed before,” I say. “Too many times to count.”
“I’veseenyou kill,” she answers. “But this was… more.”
I don’t deny it.
Because she’s right.
