Page 81 of Vasmora

Wearing a mask of apathy, Zevander turned his attention back to Loyce.

Smile fading, she pushed up from the white marble throne where she sat. Again, the Orgoth stepped forward, muscles bunched, spoiling for a fight. “Stand down, you wretched brute!” she snapped and turned her attention back to Zevander. Her fingers drifted to her cheek, drawing his attention to the scar there, and she turned her head just enough to hide it from his view. “I knew it.” The awe sketched in her voice sent a beat of repulsion through him. “I knew you weren’t dead. Some tried to convince me, but I could feel it. Our Bond. It’s special.”

He didn’t respond. The fury inside of him coiled, burning his muscles as he advanced closer, his blade, light in his palm, charged and ready for blood. Three strides forward, and he swung out, metal clashing against metal as her quickly-drawn sword broke his near fatal slice. He had a far more brutal end for her in mind, but not before he had his fill. Too long, he’d dreamed of the moment when he could run a blade through her. Even if it wouldn’t ultimately kill her.

She threw out her hand again toward the Orgoth, who must’ve been grinding his teeth to a pulp, the way he snarled back at Zevander. “No matter what. You stay put. Do not move unless at my command. I’m going to enjoy this,” she said with an air of amusement.

Zevander swung again, the blade cutting through the air with lethal precision.

Sparks burst between their swords as she swiftly blocked him, already anticipating his move, and riposted. Zevander parried then stepped back, the two of them circling each other in a dance of death. Her skill was impressive, but not without weakness. Steel rang out as they clashed swords again.

Again.

She lunged, and Zevander threw himself sideways to avoid a deadly jab to his flank. When he lashed his blade toward her throat, she raised her sword to block him, and he pressed into the strike, pushing her backward. A slip to the side allowed her to break free, her eyes wild, tracking him like a cat, clearly enthralled by his prowess.

She wasn’t fighting the boy she’d broken, but an equally skilled opponent with the advantage of the gods. It was possible, even with her curse, that Zevander might’ve been capable of ending her with the flame, but that would be too quick. Too merciful. He wanted her suffering.

Her pain.

Her gaze shifted, and while he hesitated to look, tingling across his skin told him Maevyth was near.

He stepped back, creating some distance in case she took advantage of the distraction, and he turned to see Maevyth enter the room, framed by the massive scorpion at her back.

When he turned back around, Loyce was glaring at her, fingers once again pressed to the scar at her cheek.

“Of course you’d come back for her.” She spat the words like they were poison on her tongue and smiled. “You like her scar?”

“I like yours better.”

Her smile fizzled, and she swung her attention to Maevyth. “And what are you waiting for? Eager to watch him die again?”

“I told you,” Maevyth said, her voice eerily calm and vacant. “It’s you I long to hear screaming in pain.”

Loyce’s lips peeled back for a growl, and she lurched toward her.

The scorpion’s stinger slammed into the marble, kicking up bits of dust, and the general skidded to a halt. With a tip of her chin, she sneered. “I’ll save you for later, little dove. Perhaps the Orgoths can fuck you while he watches.” She sailed a grin back at Zevander, and despite the violent tide swelling inside of him at the thought, he didn’t bother to react. Every one of them would know the agony of his flame before that’d happen, and in the case of the Orgoth, he’d save those tusks for a souvenir.

“Go fetch the bloodbinder!” she called out, and in his periphery, Zevander clocked the Orgoth stepping down from the dais, feet thumping against the marble as he crossed the room.

Zevander raised his sword and swung wide.

The general jumped back as the blade whizzed past that precious vein on her throat. Even if she survived its severance, he enjoyed the threat of slicing it open.

“You’ve trained well.” Her sword flashed toward him, a blur of steel, and Zevander deflected the strike intended for his chest. “Your finesse comes as no surprise, though. I made you the killer that you are. Remember, darling? All those aristocrats whose trust you earned? The fools who imagined your misery as a slave outweighed your loyalty?”

“It wasn’t loyalty that made me kill for you. It was the promise that my enemies would seek revenge.” He advanced toward her, each step a claim to her life, and slashed his blade across her thigh, slicing a gash in her leathers.

She let out a growl, limping a step back. “I don’t want to fight you,” she said breathlessly. “This is futile. Wound me all you like. In the end, I won’t die.” She chuckled and straightened her posture, proving how quickly she’d begun to heal.

Except, Zevander had already decided her demise before he’d even drawn his weapon.

He lashed his sword high, and the blade caught the curve of her neck where it lodged itself in the meat of her throat. Blood poured down onto her collarbone, and he pushed into the hilt. Gods be damned, he would’ve had better success cutting through a block of stone, for all the resistance that met his sword. Growling, he yanked back his weapon.

Obnoxious laughter echoed around him, the general pressing her palm into the wound at her throat. “You think you’re the first to attempt that? I’ve fought men with more hatred in their hearts than you, love. They always go for the throat.” She lunged, blade thrusting forward, and Zevander shifted, parried, then issued a pommel strike to her head that had her stumbling backward.

Palm pressed to her forehead, she swayed to the side, her movements sluggish.

He drove the sword into her right flank, and she cried out as he yanked it out of her on a wet glide. A deadly strike for anyone else.