Meanwhile, at the other end of the battlefield.
Nyss stood motionless, one hand on the hilt of her blade, the other on her hip, like a queen gazing at her domain. The blizzard whipped through her hair, the strands plastered to her pale cheeks, but she didn't blink. Her golden eyes scanned the plain with the coldness of a housewife inspecting a room still too dirty.
Before her, the war continued to howl. Her army of black-armored demons advanced methodically, each thrust of her pike, each volley of arrows, each spell cast felling more enemies than the Saint could revive. Corpses fell by the dozens, and for every body that rose at the enemy's prayers, three more crashed into the snow.
Nyss smiled. A slow, cruel smile, stretched like a blade.
She inhaled deeply, swelling her bare chest beneath the dark leather that held her, then released her power.
