"Demon magic!" someone screamed.
Mikhailis spun to greet a dagger flashing for his spine. He saw the thug's wild eyes, smelled ale on his breath. Cloak swirling, he parried at full extension, then used the blade's momentum to hook the man's wrist. A half-turn, a wrist flick—dagger gone. Before panic registered, Mikhailis reversed grip, pommel-smacked temple. The thug's eyes rolled white; he sagged.
Three. Keep pace, Volkov, keep pace.
A crossbow clattered on planks above. The disarmed roof-archer clawed for a backup quarrel; shadows yanked again. He yelped, slid off the beam, and crashed in a mess of arms and curses. He wouldn't be rejoining the fight.
On the courtyard floor two thugs remained, blades wavering as they backed toward the prisoners. Their faces shifted between bravado and terror under uneven torchlight. Serelith's violet eyes tracked them, smoldering with both pain and contempt. Cerys, jaw clenched, fought the runes with raw muscle; veins stood out on her arms.
