Page 20 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I flexed my fingers, calling another dagger into existence. The shadows coalesced eagerly, responding to my will with a hunger that still surprised me. Dark magic was supposed to be difficult, draining. For me, it felt like breathing, each exhale manifesting as deadly shadow constructs.

“Lady Blackrose!” Thorne’s voice cut through the din. “On your left!”

I whirled, throwing up a shield of light on instinct. An arrow shattered against it. Two archers had taken position on the ramparts, bows trained on me.

I reached for my magic again, but this time called on my bloodline—the power of the First Hero that flowed through my veins. Golden light bloomed between my palms, warm and alive. I shaped it with my thoughts, my will, my rage. Three birds of prey formed from the light, their wings beating with silent fury as they launched toward the archers.

The men barely had time to nock another arrow before my constructs tore into them. One screamed as talons of pure energy ripped across his face before bursting into flames. The other toppled backward off the wall, his bow clattering uselessly to the stones below.

Watch and learn, indeed.

I could feel Kazimir’s approval through our bond, a warm pulse of satisfaction that mingled with my own sense of accomplishment. I could also feel the vast reservoir of his power. He was somewhere on the other side of the outpost, surrounded by a whirlwind of shadow and blood. I could feed my power into his if needed, amplifying his already formidable strength. But so far, he hadn’t drawn on our connection. He hadn’t needed to. The Dark Lord was in his element, and his magic flowed freely.

My body still hummed with the memory of Kazimir’s hands on me last night, the way he’d pressed me into the pillow and made me come so forcefully that even now, in the middle of battle, I felt the heat of his body inside mine and wanted nothing more than to have it again.

A grunt of pain nearby snapped me back to my immediate surroundings. One of Kaz’s mercenaries was down, clutching a bloody leg. I darted over and pressed my hand over his wound. “Hold still.”

Life magic flowed from me, warm and golden, knitting tissues and sealing veins. The bleeding stopped. The soldier looked at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and pure, unadulterated fear. Most of the army still viewed me as a terrifying, unpredictable sorceress. They weren’t entirely wrong.

“Get back to the line,” I ordered.

I pushed myself up just as a new wave of Solandrian soldiers charged through a shattered gate, their faces grim, their swords raised. Five of them, all converging on me.

“The Dark Lady!” one of them spat when he saw me. “Traitor to Solandris!”

At least they’d stopped trying to save me.

I threw up a shield, a shimmering dome of force that cracked under the first blow. I was powerful, yes. But I wasn’t yet a seasoned warrior. My magic was raw and mostly untrained, fueled more by instinct than technique. And my inexperience was beginning to show.

The lead soldier circled left, barking orders. “Flank her! She can’t hold that shield forever!”

A cold tingle pricked behind my eyes. A lie. He was trying to draw my attention while the real attack came from—

I spun right just as another soldier lunged from my blind spot. My truth-sense had caught his deception before my eyes could. I let him think his feint had worked, then at the last second dropped my shield entirely and rolled beneath his strike. As I came up, I drove a shadow dagger into his exposed side.

I hastily re-formed my shield and swung around.

A third soldier circled, looking for an opening. The others hung back now, eyes narrowed, assessing. These weren’t the panicked, confused men who’d fallen to Kaz’s illusions. These were trained fighters who’d regrouped and adapted.

I gritted my teeth and pushed more power into my shield, feeling it wrap completely around my body. With my free hand, I began to form another shadow dagger, but the strain of maintaining both light and dark magic simultaneously made my vision swim. Kazimir made it look so easy, juggling multiple spells as effortlessly as breathing.

Another sword crashed against my shield. I staggered back a step. The shield flickered, threatening to collapse.

Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at me. I was trying to hold the shield with one hand while desperately trying to form a new set of shadow daggers with the other. My magic felt sluggish, my focus splintering.

One of the soldiers, a burly man with a snarling, piggish face, grinned as he saw my shield waver. He raised his sword for a final, shattering blow.

This was it. This was how I was going to die. Well, at least I’d go down fighting.

Then a shadow fell over us.

Kazimir didn’t even seem rushed. He was simply there, a dark storm of controlled violence. His face was spattered with blood, his eyes glowing with silver light. He looked like a god of war—beautiful and terrible and utterly merciless.

His eyes locked onto the soldier whose sword was poised to break through my shield. He didn’t raise a hand. He didn’t draw a weapon. He just spoke a single, guttural word in a language I didn’t recognize.

The effect was instantaneous and horrifying.

The pig-faced soldier gasped, his eyes bulging. He dropped his sword and clawed at his own throat, his face turning a mottled purple. He made choking, gurgling sounds as smelly black water began to pour from his mouth, nose, and ears. His companions stared in horror as he collapsed, his body spasming on the dry, dusty ground.