The air inside the Grand Ossuary was no longer thin, but thick with the copper tang of blood and the ozone stench of spent sorcery. Malphas moved with a strange, jagged rhythm. His human muscles burned with exertion, lacking the effortless grace of his former monstrous state, yet his mind had never been sharper.
He ducked a clumsy swing from a robed fanatic, the blade whistling inches above his head, and drove the jagged crown base into the man’s throat. The guard fell without a sound, clutching at the air.
"To the left!" Lyra’s voice cut through the clamor of clashing steel.
She was a whirlwind of lethal efficiency, her silver dagger weaving patterns in the air. She didn't fight like a queen. She fought like the daughter of a tyrant who had spent her youth learning the precise anatom
