Smoke burst outward. Azrael's body dissolved and reappeared meters away, the mist gathering to reform him.
Lyra tightened her grip on the scythe, eyes narrowing. What was that? Think. Her breathing slowed. Maybe beneath that hood is nothing physical. No, it is. He covered his eyes from the blinding light. Something about his abilities didn't let the attack hit him. Like his body didn't react.
She reshaped the scythe into a bow, her hands quick and fluid. An arrow of mana formed and shot forward, trailing light through the fog. One after another, Lyra fired. Arrows pierced the haze, exploding on contact, but Azrael weaved between them, smoke rising from each step. His own darkness gathered into orbs that swallowed the projectiles whole.
"Stop!" Julian's voice rang out.
He stood several paces away, covered in blood. His arm lifted toward the sky, dripping red. Above Azrael, the air thickened, turning liquid. Blood cascaded down and solidified into sharp crimson bars, forming a cage around him.
Arthur stepped forward, his sword raised. "He'll slip out!"
"He can't." Julian charged, his arm reshaping into a sharp spike of hardened blood. One of the bars melted into liquid strands and coiled around Azrael's body. Julian thrust his arm forward. The spike drove straight through Azrael's stomach. Thick black blood spilled down, mixing with the mud.
Julian raised his other hand, commanding Azrael's corrupted blood to rise. It hardened instantly into a spike and shot through Azrael's throat.
Lyra's eyes widened. He was hurt. Earlier, our movements slowed until we practically couldn't move at all. Time. It's time. He froze time on his own body so it wouldn't react to my scythe.
She pulled back the string on her bow.
But that means there's a time limit or a cooldown of sorts. Restrictions.
Her eyes snapped open. Lyra lowered her bow and shouted. "Get away from him!"
A wave of black energy erupted outward, expanding in all directions until it formed a transparent dome. Lyra tried to move forward, but her body wouldn't respond. The air itself seemed to turn to stone.
Azrael's arms tore through the explosion's haze. The blood bars shattered apart, scattering into droplets. He ripped the spike from his throat, grabbed Julian by the arm, yanked it free from his stomach, and drove his fist into Julian's face with brutal force.
Julian stood frozen, body locked like a carved statue. His breath hung suspended. Azrael stepped past him without a sound and raised his fist high, right in front of Arthur.
Splat.
One droplet hit the flagstone and the world snapped back. Rain began, thin at first, then heavier, striking the keep with a steady drum. The spell that had held Julian cracked; the paralysis loosened in a splintered line across the courtyard.
Arthur felt it first as a loosening in his limbs. He shoved forward and grabbed Azrael, closing the distance into a grapple. Their faces were inches apart. Beneath the hood the red pinpricks like eyes glowed faint and steady.
Smoke uncoiled from the dark hood and slid down into Arthur's mouth, filling his throat and lungs with choking ash. He gagged, hands clamped uselessly at his own chest. He could not draw a clean breath.
Lyra reacted in the same breath. She pulled the bowstring back and loosed. The arrow bit into Azrael's shoulder with a wet, metallic thunk. The Blight staggered backward. Arthur stumbled, dropped to his rear, and coughed until his chest burned.
Julian skidded across the mud, rain washing the blood from his face. He forced himself upright with a sharp curl of mana, boots finding purchase in the slick stones. He spun his sword in a single, furious arc and drove the hilt into Azrael's forearm. The blade sank home, dark smoke hissing from the wound.
Azrael answered without hesitation. He gathered the smoke around his hand until it condensed into a dense, black sphere. He hurled it at Julian. The impact detonated with a sick, hungry sound. Black energy tore into flesh and bone, exploding across jaw, throat, and chest. Julian's body convulsed and folded; his sword shattered into shards that skittered across the stone.
Arthur crawled over, rain dragging rivulets of grime down his face. He pressed both hands to Julian's chest, breath ragged, whispering his father's name. Julian coughed. Blood slicked his lips. His chest rose once, twice, with slow, shallow breaths.
"Father," Arthur begged, voice raw. "Please. You can't—" His hands shook as he searched for warmth in the armor he had known all his life.
Julian's eyes flickered, a distant light dimming, then they stilled. Blood pooled at his mouth. He tried to form words and failed. The last breath left him like a whisper.
Arthur's cry split the rain. He wrapped an arm under Julian's head and sobbed against his father's chest. "No, please. I wanted you to be proud. We never—" His voice broke and fell away.
Azrael bent, smoke pooling at his knees. He drew back his arms and wound them, preparing to strike. Lyra slammed both palms to the wet stone and shoved mana outward, forcing a domed, rose-colored shield between them. The dome flared, ringing with the pressure of Azrael's next blow.
Arthur held Julian's limp body. He stroked the fallen man's cheek with a hand that was suddenly small and shaking. He whispered broken things. Lyra's voice came thin and strained. "Arthur…" she said, fighting the current of the attack against the barrier.
Arthur rose slowly, rain tangling his hair to his face. His tears lost themselves in the storm. He spoke in a low voice, empty and numb at first. "Drop it."
"I can't," Lyra whispered, the dome bowing under the force of Azrael's attacks. "He'll just—"
"Drop it!" Arthur shouted then, the sound tearing from him like a wound. He slammed his gaze into Lyra's. He was not yet fury but a coiled thing that had been fed by loss and helplessness.
The rose light fractured. The barrier shattered and fell away into wet sparks.
Arthur planted his sword into the flagstone and pushed every spirit he had into the blade. Darkness poured outward from his feet, a spreading black that drank the rain. The sky swallowed its red hue and became a void that narrowed the world. The rain did not stop. Now each drop burned white and cold as it struck through the dark.
The spirits rose and swirled until they fused into a vast, searing globe above him. It glowed like a second sun, a pale, terrible orb suspended over the keep. Arthur named it with a voice cracked raw from grief and fire. "False Moon."
Azrael spread his cloak and let the smoke gather at his palms. Where his hands parted, a handle bloomed and curved outward into a scythe of living night. He twirled the weapon through the falling water and drove the haft into the stone with a final, echoing slam.
The ground trembled. The rain hissed against the blade.