Page 77 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
I aim my hand at his chest and squeeze.
His heart stops. He pitches forward, dead before he hits the ground.
Another comes from the side. I slap my palm to his face and let the magic pour in. He shrieks, drops his sword, claws at his own eyes as they turn to glass and shatter. I shove him away, stepping over his twitching body.
I thought it would feel like horror. Instead, killing feels like breathing.
Onyx is on his knees now, three spears buried in his side. He grunts, pulls one free, and uses it to impale a guard to a tree. Rune’s roots are dying, the guards cutting through them with axes, but he’s switched to knives, slicing at hands, faces, exposed throats.
Bran and Grim are covered in blood, working in tandem to corral the men into clusters, then picking them off one by one. Bran yanks a man down by the collar, slamming his head against a rock until his skull splits. Grim pins another to the dirt and uses his beak to gouge out an eye. They don’t speak, don’t even look at each other, but every move is coordinated, practiced.
Shade never lets up on the captain, dragging him through the mud, demanding names and orders, never once breaking eye contact. The captain, for all his bravado, pisses himself before the end.
Talon takes a blade to the leg, another to the ribs, but doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps swinging, breaking faces, cracking spines. When he rips a man’s arm off at the shoulder, the sound is wet and perfect.
But there are still too many. They’re everywhere, screaming, fighting, dying.
I hear footsteps behind me, turn, and see a young guard—barely older than me—raising his sword over Sable’s head.
Sable is too weak to fight, barely strong enough to raise his hands.
I move without thought, sprinting the last few feet and throwing myself at the guard.
He swings the sword down. I catch it with both hands, the blade biting deep into my palms. Pain lances up my arms, but I don’t care. I twist the sword from his grip and fling it away.
He tries to backhand me. I duck, grab his wrist, and channel the magic. It rushes through me, lightning and blood and fire. The guard screams as his arm withers, muscles shriveling to dust in seconds. I let go, and he falls to his knees, sobbing.
I grab Sable, drag him up, and shove him behind me. The guard whimpers, “Please,” but I can’t risk him getting up again. I place my hand on his head and whisper, “Sleep.”
The magic obeys.
His heart stops. He slumps over, face buried in the moss.
The brothers are winning, but it’s taking everything they have.
I feel the magic ebbing, burning itself out, but I won’t stop. Not while there’s still a chance.
I step forward, hands out, and scream—not in fear, but in fury. The world tilts, and power pours from my body, a shockwave of blue. The guards closest to me drop instantly, their bodies hollowed out, their armor twisted into jagged, useless shapes.
The ones further back hesitate, seeing what I’ve done. They whisper, “Witch,” and “Monster,” and I love the way the words feel in my ears.
Bran and Grim finish off the last of their cluster, then turn to face the remaining guards. Onyx, Rune, Shade, and Talon regroup around me and Sable, bloodied but breathing.
Shade’s face is a storm, his jaw set, eyes locked on the captain. He drags the man to my feet.
“What do you want to do with him?” Shade asks, his voice flat.
The captain trembles, blood pooling at his feet. “Mercy,” he begs.
I look at Shade, at my brothers, at the broken, twitching mass of men at our feet.
I raise my hand, curl my fingers, and let the magic do what it was born to do.
The captain gasps, his eyes rolling back, and then he goes still.
For a moment, the world is silent.
I collapse to my knees, spent, the magic gone. The brothers gather around me, their hands gentle, their voices low. Sable is there, too, his face slack with pain, but alive.
