The rain had long since soaked him to the bone, but Julius hardly noticed.
The world was reduced to movement, blood, and breath — and even that was fading into the dull hum of endurance.
His body was worn down, exhausted from constant fighting, his latest weapons bent, and still the Francians pressed forward, chanting their saint's name as if she would rise from the muck and mire to save them.
He spat mud from his mouth.
Enough.
Julius ripped another looted sword from its now dead owners hand and hurled it into the chest of a charging levy, dropping the man in a spray of crimson.
His hand went to the weapon slung across his back — the blade he had held in reserve for the moment he could make it count.
Heavenly Demon Rain.
The hilt was warm to the touch, as though it had been waiting for him.
The cool metal of the blade thirsting to quench itself in blood.
The moment the black steel cleared its scabbard, the air shifted.
