Page 47 of Forging Darkness

If the Fallen were terrifying when I could only half-phase and see them as shadow beasts, this is next-level terror. I’m glad I wasn’t subjected to their real form all those years. If I had, I probably would have found a hole to curl up in and never emerged.

I don’t have time to mess with these two. In the distance is the battle I have my eyes set on. I don’t think these two are allowed to enter the fight until the silver fighter steps over the borderline again.

With a mighty downward thrust of my wings, I lift into the air. I wobble on the second flap, but am high enough to sail over the heads of the advancing Fallen.

Not ready to give up their prey so easily, one of the Fallen cocks his arm back and chucks his spear at me. The shaft slices through the air at the perfect trajectory to impale me. I bank to the left just in time for the sharpened tip to spark against my metal breastplate and wings.

Close. Too close.

The sloppy flying has me careening toward the ground and second-guessing my rash rescue attempt.

I smash into one of the battling Fallen and end up in a lump several feet away. He lumbers to his feet, looking shell-shocked. Drawing a knife, I stretch forward on my belly and slash at his ankles, cutting through both Achilles tendons and sending the giant crashing back to the ground with a howl.

Clamoring on my hands and knees, I scurry to his head and plunge another knife into his eye socket, sinking the blade through his squishy eye and into his brain.

The huge form of the Fallen remains still, and so I think I’m in the clear to move on to the next obstacle.

Three Fallen still battle the silver angel-born. The armless one has been dispatched and is lying face-down on the other side of the brawl. The two Fallen who chased me are standing a ways away, snarling and shifting from foot to foot in obvious agitation.

Good, I was right about them not being able to join the fight.

Popping up, I sprint to the Nephilim’s aid. I only have to wait a split second to see an opening, and I jump into the fight, positioning myself at the angel-born’s back as I’ve been taught to do.

The Nephilim spares a quick look over his shoulder. His helmet covers most of his face except for a “T” that exposes his eyes and runs down the center of his face. I only catch a flash of blue before he’s turned back to the two Fallen bearing down on him.

The third Fallen attacks me.

I’m focused solely on staying alive as the minutes tick by. The angel-born slays another Fallen, but sometime during the fray, he must have stepped out of bounds again because a new Fallen replaces the deceased one.

I must have become an honorary combatant, because the moment I step out of bounds, the last Fallen joins. The odds are four-on-two again in no time.

I steal the sword from a slain Fallen to defend myself. My muscles shake from fatigue, burning as if poisoned by venom.

I’m terrified but also strangely exhilarated. Exhausted, but focused. My world narrows to the smell of blood, the cold kiss of shadow fog on my legs, and the heavy clang of metal meeting metal.

Anticipating an opening, I swing the cumbersome sword with a battle cry, separating a Fallen’s head from his shoulders. The feeling I get from the victory is euphoric, but I don’t stop to rejoice as another enemy advances.

This monster dispenses with his weapons and comes at me with his claws flashing. I bring the sword up to deflect his blows, but his aggressive movements are faster without the added weight of a weapon.

His arms rain down on me. Black blood streams from deep cuts over his forearms where my blade blocked his attacks, but it doesn’t slow him.

Catching me on the thigh, he rips a jagged path past my protective armor and through the muscle.

I have a few minor nicks and cuts, but this is the first major wound I’ve sustained. Red blood flows freely from the injury.

The Fallen stops and inhales a deep whiff of blood-scented air. He tips his head back and howls.

The terror that has been waiting on the sidelines decides to rush into the game and zips throughout my body. I limp away in a feeble attempt to escape.

Behind the Fallen, the angel-born notices my predicament when the two Fallen he’s battling give up their fight with him and sprint toward me.

Are they like sharks that frenzy at the smell of angel-born blood? Didn’t Tinkle say something about me being tastier than a regular Nephilim?

I really don’t want to be eaten. That sounds like an awful way to go.

Crouching, the Nephilim shoots into the air and lands in front of me before the first Fallen can tear into me.

The Fallen is so distracted by my blood, it makes it easy for the angel-born fighter to sink his sword through her hardened breastplate and into her chest.

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