Stephan had braced for slow inevitability, the way giants lumbered, trading speed for weight. He'd fought enough big things to expect the ponderous swing, the easy telegraphed blow. What he hadn't planned on was speed that felt like a lie: impossible, sudden, and perfectly precise.
One of the swords cleaved where his head had been a breath before. He twisted his body, the blade singing past his ear; the air screamed like a wound. The stone under his boots didn't explode into chunks the way it had when the commander's charge hit, but it shuddered, thick, seismic vibrations rolling out in concentric rings. The mountain itself seemed built of something that laughed at impact.
He spat blood onto the cracked flagstone and grinned through it. "Not slow then," he muttered, planting his feet and tasting the metal in his mouth. The Ossuary Sword felt heavier and hungrier in his hand, its black fire coiling along the edge like a living thing.
