The footsteps drew closer, the guttural voices of men echoing against the damp stone. Nerine stiffened, instinctively drawed closer to Penelope, who looked moments from fainting.
Kael did not move.
The shadows around him thickened, spreading across the walls like veins of black fire. The moment the first guard turned the corner—smirking, a cruel whip dangling from his fist—Kael struck.
He did not lunge. He simply raised his hand.
The man's body convulsed as invisible force snapped his spine backward with a sickening crack. The others shouted, weapons clattering in their panic, but Kael was already among them, his form dissolving into shadow and reappearing behind their ranks. His crimson eyes blazed, his cloak a storm of midnight.
One tried to swing a blade. Kael caught his arm, tore it from its socket, and let the man collapse screaming. Another begged for mercy; Kael crushed his skull beneath his boot without so much as a glance.
It was not a fight. It was slaughter.
