Page 52 of Scorched By Fate

The third Ignarath hit the ground behind the first with a force that felt like an earthquake.

This one was broader, darker, his scales nearly black. His massive frame loomed, unnatural in its size and weight. His eyesburned, piercing gold—locking instantly on me, his wings still tucked tight against his back, claws flexing as he moved closer.

No hesitation. No slow circling this time. They weren’t waiting anymore.

The weight of everything hit like a punch. My breath felt heavy and raw as my hand trembled harder around the knife hilt.

Vyne’s roar broke through. I whipped my head toward him just as the emerald flash of his scales collided brutally with the first Ignarath. His claws tore into his opponent, forcing him toward the edge of the ridge. The fight was blood-slick and loud.

He didn’t pause—didn’t falter. Even with his wings frayed and blood streaking his sides, Vyne dominated the fight. But there were too many of them, and for every advantage he gained, it only pushed me harder into the realization:

He wasn’t going to hold for long.

They weren’t there to test our limits. They were there to tear them apart.

TWENTY

SELENE

My knife was too small against the sheer size of the Ignarath warrior in front of me. No time to second-guess; no time to think. Just react.

He circled closer, a predator toying with its prey. Claws sliced the hot, sulfurous air. Behind me, Reika's breaths were panicked gasps that clawed at my focus. I couldn't afford to look back, not even for a second. One wrong move, one glance away, and this bastard would gut me.

The Ignarath tilted his massive head, his slitted eyes narrowing in what I could only interpret as cruel amusement. "I will suck the marrow from your bones."

Great. He was going to enjoy this. Mockery on top of the very real threat of murder. The crimson streaks across his wings shimmered in the light, like hell’s own tapestry come to life and intent on killing me.

This was bad. Beyond bad. Vyne was battling two of them now, his snarls and the sickening clash of talons echoing off the rocks. I tasted the metallic tang of fear on my tongue. How much longer could I keep this up?

Reika choked out a gasp, a fragmented attempt at a warning. I was too slow to process it, her voice splintered and lost in the fight, and that was all it took.

His claws lashed out, catching the strap of my pack and yanking me violently off-balance. I stumbled, one knee cracking hard against the hard stone. Pain exploded through my leg, white-hot and blinding. I swore and barely managed to throw my knife up in a useless defense as he bore down on me.

He came in again, faster this time, claws aimed with deadly precision straight at my chest. I braced uselessly, knowing this was it.

A wave of regret washed over me. Thinking of what could have been, all the things I wanted, this was the last thing I should be doing. But for a second, all I could think of was the taste of Vyne’s lips against my own, of the way his body melded with mine. Of the creeping suspicion that there was something more, somethingbiggerbetween us.

Or there would have been. If we had a chance at a future.

I'm sorry, Vyne.

But the blow never came.

The world shifted in a heartbeat. A thunderous slam echoed off the rocky walls as another massive figure collided with the Ignarath like a living firestorm of muscle and fury. The force of it sent shockwaves through the ground, knocking the crimson-scaled bastard back on his heels, his claws skidding uselessly against the stone as he scrambled to regain his footing.

Granite-gray scales gleamed as he straightened, his massive frame a nightmare—for my enemy, at least. For me? Relief flooded in, a surge of desperate strength.

I recognized this warrior.

Khorlar.

He didn’t spare me so much as a glance. His narrow eyes burned only for the Ignarath in front of him, his jaw set, aterrifying stillness about him. It was clear: his next move was already decided, and it wouldn't end well for whoever stood in his path.

The Ignarath snarled, his wings flaring as he prepared to strike again. But Khorlar was faster, a blur of motion. He lunged forward with brutal efficiency, his claws burying themselves with a sickening, wet crunch into the Ignarath’s shoulder.

The bastard roared, a guttural, enraged sound that was abruptly cut off when Khorlar’s other hand slammed hard into his ribs with the force of a battering ram. The blow sent the Ignarath crashing against the blackened rock wall, fissures spiderwebbing out from the point of impact.

It was over before I could fully react. Precise, devastating strikes. He wasn't just fighting—he was dismantling his opponent, piece by piece. There was a terrifying economy to his movements, a cold, calculated brutality that left no room for doubt.

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