The orcs fight differently.
Thra’kkor wields a jagged axe, swinging it with such force that it cleaves a monster’s entire upper body clean in half. But even as its torso falls, the arms still crawl forward.
Another orc crushes a creature’s skull to splinters with his bare hands. It should be dead. It should befucking dead. But it keeps moving, headless and mindless, clawing at the orc’s chest. Nothing kills them. Nothing works.
I grit my teeth and move, slashing, slicing, tearing through flesh and bone, but it doesn’t matter. Another monster rushes me from behind. Too fast.
I barely turn before claws drag down my shoulder, tearing into muscle, cutting through my skin like it’s paper. The warmth of my own blood spills down my arm.
But I don’t feel the pain.
Anger surges through me, drowning everything else out, sharpening my focus. The monster tries to strike again, but then, it stops. It stares at its hands. At my blood staining its rotting skin. And then it screams.
A piercing, earsplitting wail of agony.
Its body convulses, its veins bubble as if something is boiling beneath its flesh. Its movements turn even more unnatural than before, its hollow eyes bulge. And then it melts. Skin sloughs off in blackened chunks, muscle disintegrating into steaming, frothing rot. It collapses into the dirt, then shrivels into nothing. I freeze. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. What the??—
Another monster lunges, but before it can touch me, Theron slams into it, tearing into its chest and ripping it apart limb by limb. And it still doesn’t die. Enough.
I snarl and slam the blade of my sword straight through its skull, twisting it with a wet crunch.
It stops moving. Huh?
Not because of my sword. Because of the blood. A single drop from my shoulder drips onto its face. It twitches once, thencollapses, shriveling into the same melted, rotting nothingness. I can barely breathe.
My blood. My blood kills them.
I don’t know how. I don’t care. I meet Theron’s wide, shocked gaze. His chest heaves, his face covered in the blood of our enemies. I lift my injured arm, letting more blood drip from my fingertips.
And then I grin. “Theron,” I breathe. My shoulder burns, but I don’t care.
He grabs two creatures by their skulls and smashes them together with a loud crack. Their hollow eyes still stare as their bodies twitch. He turns to me, fur matted with blood. His blood. Their blood. “Yes, my dove?” His voice is rough, but his eyes are locked on me.
I lift my blade and drag my wounded arm across the steel. Theron’s entire body tenses. His ears flick back, his tail lashes, his stance shifts as if he’s about to lunge and stop me. But he doesn’t. Because he understands.
This is the only way. If my blood kills them, so be it.
I take my good arm and slice my palm, then the other. The sting is uncomfortable, fire races through my skin, but I don’t stop.
I raise my hands, coated in my own blood. It drips from my fingers, splatters against the dirt. My heart pounds. “LISTEN ALL!” My voice shakes the battlefield. Every single warrior—orc, vólkin, nýmphá, wolf—and every single twisted, grotesque monster turns their head toward me. They feel it. They hear it.
They know.
“EACH OF YOU, TAKE MY BLOOD. IT KILLS THEM.”
Theron’s gaze locks onto mine, understanding written in every part of his face. He knows what I need. He doesn’t hesitate. Neither do I.
We move.
He smears his paws with my blood, and we run in opposite directions. Theron surges through the chaos, his massive paws crushing bones beneath him, claws raking through the flesh of those in his path. With every step, he grabs a monster, smearing my blood across their skin. And I do the same.
And just like that, they wither.
They scream and melt.
I dodge a monster near me, twist my body, and shove my bloody hand against its throat. The monster seizes, its body convulses, its veins bulge. Then, with a wet, gurgling shriek, it collapses. It rots before it even hits the ground.
Another lunges, swinging a rusted blade, but I duck, pivot, and slam my palm against its ribs. One single touch, and it crumbles.
