"See, now they are running away… filthy fucking illiterate elves."
Arina's voice was raw, still riding the storm of her berserker high. Her crimson hair clung damp to her temples, streaked with sweat and splattered with the green blood of the loafer giant.
Her shoulders glistened where the ichor had dried like cracked paint, and as she moved around the fallen head, it was like watching a war goddess pace her altar.
The giant's head itself loomed grotesque and enormous, twice her height. Its bark-flesh sagged as if it had rotted in an instant.
The smell was sharp, resinous, undercut by something metallic, like rain on iron.
Clap.
Clap.
Aiden's hands broke the silence, two measured beats that seemed to echo across the clearing.
He wasn't mocking. No—he was impressed. They all would be, anyone who had seen her rip the sky apart with that stolen serpent style.
