Her blood coagulated when she saw Aloysius atop his horse, sitting tall as he watched his new army march forward. Freya took two steps back as she was faced by the assailant that had her unconscious for weeks.
And not just one, an army of them.
Aloysius had already won.
"Freya!"
He was going to murder Zavian and have his head up a stake while he sang songs of victory.
"Freya!"
He was going to kill every last one of them on the battlefield.
A rough hand pulled her arm, and Azriel held up a sword just as a wounded Darstun soldier slammed his down on him. He had been so close to her that Freya didn't notice, and it took one strike of Azriel's sword, and the man was dead.
"Aloysius has more," Azriel said. Freya noticed the blood dripping down his face. His blood, the enemy's blood, it didn't matter. They were all going to die.
