Page 110 of A Fate Unwoven
Dimas’s focus homed in on the lithe female at the front of the group. With her palm held up before her, it was easy to see the symbol inked into her skin. The same one his uncle had shown Lena back in the church.
Not all of them have it,he noted. Only a handful of the cultists had their marked palms facing outward, whilst the rest seemed to be relying upon weapons of steel.
“Focus on the ones with symbols on their hands!” he shouted. And then he moved, diving toward the magic-wielding cultist just as the familiar sensation of shadows brushed against his mind.
Dimas lunged before the magic could take hold, forcing the cultist to dart out of the way of his attack. Her concentration broke, and like wisps of smoke, the shadows receded. Dimas didn’t give her a chance to regain it. He lunged forward, sword slicing through the air in a slash that cut across the cultist’s body. Her lips parted, blood welling between her teeth, before she slumped to the ground.
Dimas’s stomach churned at the sight. He’d never taken a life before. Never even injured someone outside of sparring. General Alræn had always warned him of how hard it was. Of how taking a human’s life took something from you, too.
The pounding of his heart was so loud that Dimas only heard the cultist coming up behind him a moment before his sword came down.
He lunged out of the way too late. The sword sliced through his side, cutting deep enough to steal the breath from Dimas’s lungs. Pain surged up his side as he blocked another attack, and then another, and another. Aggressive blow after aggressive blow. If Dimas could just find an opening—
There!
TheHæstamember swung his sword in an arc above his head, preparing for another blow—and leaving his stomach completely unguarded.
Dimas didn’t try to block the attack. Instead, he waited until the cultist’s arms were completely raised before jabbing out with his sword, piercing straight through the cultist’s stomach in one clean strike.
The man’s movements came to a halting stop, his sword clattering to the ground. Dimas pulled his sword free a second later. Watched as the man fell, lifeless, to the ground.
This time, Dimas didn’t let the guilt in. He raised his weapon once more, preparing to fend off another attack.
But none came. All that was left of the half dozen cultists who had launched their attack were still, bloodied bodies.
Casimir and Maia were still standing. The latter had a nasty gash across her cheek that Finæn—now free of his bindings and standing at his sister’s side—seemed more concerned about than she did. If the unconscious form of the cultist who had been watching over Finæn and Brother Dunstan was any indication, Finæn must have freed himself during the fight.
Now it was time to deal with Iska.
Dimas faced his cousin once more, sword raised. But she simply tilted her head and said, “It isn’t over yet, cousin. You aren’t the only one with reinforcements.”
A door crashed open somewhere behind them. The echo of multiple footsteps flooded the chamber.
“I take it there’s no sign of Yana and the general?” Dimas asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Not yet,” Casimir said. “Ioseph is still waiting on them, but I doubt he’ll wait much longer.” The unspoken warning behind the Verlondian’s words was clear: if reinforcements showed up after Ioseph left his post, they’d have no way of knowing where Dimas and the rest were.
Dimas’s fingers tightened around his sword. “It doesn’t matter; I’m in this until the end.”
He had to stop theHæsta’s ritual. Even if it cost him everything.
Even if it killed him.
Beside him, Maia drew another arrow. “So am I.”
“Me too.” Finæn nodded.
“I’ve never been one to leave a party early.” Casimir drew another set of daggers from his coat. “Heads up!” Casimir yelled, whirling just in time to dodge a blow from an axe-wielding assailant. The smuggler used the time his dodge had given him to kick the cultist square in the stomach, sending her staggering backward far enough for Maia to shoot an arrow into her chest.
It wasn’t a fatal hit. The cultist recovered quickly, axe swinging above her.
And then she stumbled.
Her steps slowed before coming to a stop, her brow furrowing. With a grunt, she slumped to the floor.
“Well, at least we know your potion works when administered via the bloodstream,” Casimir commented, dodging another attack in a whirl of throwing knives. “Great job, Maia!”
They must have used the remaining potion to douse Maia’s arrows. “Maia,” Dimas yelled, pointing toward two assailants with sigils on their palms, “focus on the ones channeling magic!”
