Chapter 13: Hollow Roar
The archers never stood a chance..
Zayne moved like a storm given flesh, his blade a crimson blur. One moment he stood among them, the next—gore painted the walls.
A soldier barely had time to raise his bow before his head toppled from his shoulders, his mouth still open in a scream that would never come.
Another turned, eyes wide, just in time to see steel punch through his ribs from behind, the tip erupting from his chest in a wet burst.
Zayne twisted the sword free, letting the man crumple like a puppet with cut strings.
Blood slicked the floor. Arrows clattered uselessly as hands—still gripping bows—thudded beside them, severed at the wrist. One archer, younger than the rest, stumbled back, fumbling for a dagger.
Zayne let him draw it. Let him swing. Then he caught the boy's wrist and slowly, almost gently, pushed the blade back into its owner's throat.
The gurgle was drowned out by the next man's shriek as Zayne carved him open from hip to shoulder, entrails slopping onto the stone.
By the time the last archer fell, his back pinned to the wall by his own arrows, the balcony was a slaughterhouse. Zayne flicked blood from his blade and glanced down at Annie.
"Happy now?"
She wasn't even looking at him.