Snezna
His vision swam. If not for the gale he had conjured to slow his fall, his spine would have snapped like dry twigs against the trunk he had slammed into. He spat blood, his breath ragged.
Goddamn it. They're back.
It was rare for nightmares to linger. Rarer still for them to hunt in the open like this. Something was wrong.
His sight cleared just in time to catch it—the flash, blinding as lightning, and then one of the abominations lunging for Varka's throat.
Don't let them touch you! his mind screamed. Even from here, that single brush felt like it could unmake a man.
The tree at his back wrenched violently. Another nightmare had lifted the entire trunk as if it were no heavier than a spear. Snezna reacted on instinct, a torrent of wind blasting from his palms to fling the thing back. Splinters showered the ground.
"These things are too fucking fast," he muttered, forcing himself upright.
Then he saw them all.
Not one. Not two. Nearly a dozen, slinking from the black treeline, their forms twitching and reshaping as they encircled him and Varka. They weren't just waiting—no, they had baited them. Patient hunters, wearing bodies that barely held together.
And some of those bodies… were changing. Elongating. Broadening. Their silhouettes carried echoes of men. Of him. Of Varka.
Revulsion twisted in his gut.
He conjured his bow in an instant, but there was no time to look at Varka. The things were already moving.
A gust carried him upward. The sky is mine, he thought grimly.
But even as he rose, a nightmare's hand snapped up to grab his leg. The wind current shielding his body howled, hurling it away before contact could be made. The ward worked—this time.
From above, he scanned the battlefield—just as another shockwave of wind slammed into him. He reeled midair, teeth gritting. A nightmare had sprouted wings of shadow, mocking him.
"Well, I'll be damned," he spat, steadying himself. "You're learning. Almost proud of you."
He conjured an arrow, pure storm compressed into a spear of wind, and loosed it. The flying creature twisted away. The ground beneath erupted, soil and roots vaporized.
Movement behind him. Another one—teleporting. Its hand closed on his neck, piercing through his protective gale as though it were cutting the world itself.
They're adapting…
But the abomination was too slow. Snezna spun, wind swirling around his fist, and slammed it into the thing's chest.
Detonate.
The gale crackled. The creature was hurled back, and then it exploded, shredded by the storm from within.
No reprieve. Another one above, its arms peeling into jagged glass, hurling shards down. He bent the air around him, redirecting them in a screaming arc that cut the monster itself to ribbons.
Through the chaos, he risked a glance toward Varka.
One nightmare gripped his sword. Another lunged for his throat. A third was unleashing shockwaves that shattered the forest itself.
Snezna's bowstring sang. A storm-wrought arrow blasted into the one reaching for Varka's neck. He couldn't see if it killed—there was no time.
Another came for him midair, too close. He couldn't dodge. He couldn't shadowstep like Varka.
So he twisted his body. The claws pierced his shoulder instead of his chest. Pain like molten iron seared his nerves.
But it was opportunity.
He conjured a blade in one hand, and in the bleeding wound of the other, he gathered a howling torrent. His sword cut the nightmare's arm clean off. Then he thrust the storm into its body.
Penetrate. Ignite.
The wind slithered into every crack, every fold of its flesh. Then it combusted.
The abomination screamed as it was hurled earthward—straight into another nightmare below. The impact detonated them both in a grotesque bloom of black ichor and ash.
Snezna winced, holding his shoulder, but didn't falter. He turned, ready for the last flying nightmare—only to see it already bisected, torn apart by Varka's blade.
But there was no time to breathe.
Through the drifting ash, Snezna's eyes caught motion near the carriages they had left behind.
Two nightmares, their shapes already sickeningly familiar, closing in on the slaves.
He blinked.
Too late.
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