Page 113 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

I will never beg.

49

XIRATH

Blood will drown Jalith’s kingdom before this night ends.

The wind carries the scent of war, thick with steel and the promise of death. Beyond the ridge, the dark elf stronghold rises like an obsidian monolith against the horizon, its towering spires gleaming under the pale light. Shadows prowl the ramparts, archers and spellcasters waiting, their sharp eyes sweeping the darkness beyond the walls.

They do not see what lurks beneath the cover of the trees.

Xirath crouches among the massive forms of his new allies hulking minotaur warriors, their armor dented, their weapons thirsting. The ground beneath them trembles from their barely contained rage. They are not creatures of patience. They are beasts of battle, bred for carnage.

Tonight, they will get their fill.

One of the warlords, a towering brute named Threx, steps closer, his axe resting against his shoulder. “We wait much longer, my warriors will start killing each other just to pass the time.” His voice is a deep, guttural thing, carrying the curse of a thousand battles. “Do we charge, Naga Lord, or do we stand here measuring our dicks in the dark?”

Xirath’s grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. “We go in. Now.”

Threx grins, teeth sharp as broken stone.

The command is silent, a movement of his hand, and the minotaurs move as one.

The dark elves do not hear them until it is too late.

A horn blasts from the towers, the panicked wail splitting the night, but the walls are already being torn apart. The first line of minotaurs slam into the iron gates with a force that rattles the bones of the earth. Metal groans. Wood splinters.

The elves rain arrows down from above, but the brutes do not falter. Their shields take the brunt, and those unlucky enough to be hit barely seem to feel it. They crash against the walls again until the defenses buckle beneath sheer brutality.

Xirath doesn’t wait.

He is a blur of motion, weaving through the chaos, sword flashing in the firelit dark. Magic crackles through the air, bolts of violet light striking where the minotaurs break through, but they do not slow.

A dark elf captain rushes forward, blades twin flashes of silver, eyes alight with magic.

Xirath meets him mid-charge.

Their clash is brief and bloody. The elf moves with lightning speed, his strikes aimed at Xirath’s throat, but Xirath is faster. His sword carves through his opponent’s ribs, splintering bone, severing sinew.

The captain’s mouth opens in a silent scream as his body crumples to the ground, lifeless.

More surge forward to take his place.

Xirath doesn’t hesitate.

He slams into them like a force of nature, his sword an extension of his fury. Every strike is precise, merciless. A head rolls. A body crumples. A soldier screams as his chest is split open, his lifeblood spilling onto the black stone.

Another comes at him from the left. He dodges, spins, and his claws sink deep into soft flesh.

A severed arm hits the ground.

A roar erupts from behind him. A minotaur barrels through the fray, impaling two elves on the massive horns crowning his skull. He shakes them free like a beast flinging aside carrion, then stomps forward, trampling the fallen beneath hooves the size of a war drum.

The stronghold is falling.

But Xirath isn’t here for conquest.

He is here for her.

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