Fucking plaguefire. Gyre concentrated and felt the click from his skull. The energy bottle at his side grew warm, and the struggling constructs were wreathed in layers of shadow. The silver sword buzzed in his hand, and he sprinted toward Naumoriel with long, loping strides.

There were a dozen smaller plaguespawn separating them. A construct was dogpiled under three of them, struggling to rise. Gyre fell on them like a whirlwind, his sword lashing out on neatly plotted trajectories to intersect the monsters’ makeshift bodies with maximum violence. One of the three came apart at one blow, separated into two shuddering halves, and the second lurched away missing most of its inside-out head. The third swung at him with broad claws, but Gyre felt like he had all the time in the world to duck under them, shadows passing over his head. He thrust his sword up into the thing’s guts, then twisted it to let stolen viscera gush out.

More of them came at him, two or three together, working side by side with unnatural coordination. Only his speed and the shadows projected by his silver eye kept him safe, while the ghoul blade he wielded was sharper and lighter than it had any right to be. He left wreckage in his wake as he closed in on the remaining giant.

One of the larger stone-constructs stumbled in front of him, crushing a struggling plaguespawn between its outstretched hands. Gyre swarmed up it, gripping its rocky surface with his free hand and pulling himself onto its shoulders. From there, without pausing, he leapt for the plaguespawn’s back, sword outthrust to make a handhold. For a moment he hung there, the thing’s muscle shifting and rubbery under his fingers. Then he started to climb, boots slipping, using his sword to brace himself. By the time he got to the top of the thing, its tentacles were reaching for him. He dropped into a crouch and intercepted them, one by one, drawing a neat line across their shadow-path and sending them spinning away.

Free of the need to defend itself, Naumoriel’s construct gathered its strength and went on the offensive, giving the plaguespawn a shove that nearly sent Gyre toppling off. As it staggered, the construct thrust its other clawed arm into the core of the thing, blades cutting into a massive clutch of eyes. Black blood gushed forth, and the plaguespawn weaved drunkenly, its legs spasming. Gyre jumped clear, hit the ground in a roll, and popped back up, looking for his next opponent, only to find none remaining.

“Kit!” He looked around for the familiar shock of blue hair. “Kit, are you all right?”

Finally he spotted her, one arm waving to him from the other side of a downed construct. Gyre sheathed his sword and switched off his augmented perception with a click. A glance at his energy bottle showed that it was nearly empty—he’d brought four with him, and this was the second he’d exhausted in these fights.