When bones crack beneath the skin, they make a deep, wet popping sound. That sickening crunch echoes around us in the yard until there are no more bones to break.

Between William’s fingers, the goruchel’s hand is now a ball of flesh and broken joints.

She’s still screaming.

She tries to pull away again, but it’s a mistake—her destroyed hand is still in William’s fist. The pain must be excruciating. She’d have to break her own hand off at the wrist to escape him.

I’ve never seen William use his full power. I’ve been around him when it was present, but never seen it in battle. I imagined it would be flashier, somehow. Big swings of punches that send people flying. But this type of strength doesn’t need flash.

All he has to do is… squeeze.

William is a healer, and he is a warrior. William is one of the kindest people I know—but the boy before me is an angry god, crushing a mouse.

Is that how I looked when I hurt Lark? It was William who warned me about using my strength to hurt someone, about being accountable for their pain. Now I wonder if this is why.

The demon snarls, black spittle flying from her mouth. “Let me go, Legendborn!” William doesn’t budge.

The demon twists faster than the eye can track, this time sending an uppercut into William’s ribs with her free hand. The aether armor dents behind her fist, but William wraps his fingers around that wrist, pulling it up in the air too.

It’s like her hands have been caught in cement. Nothing she does moves him or loosens his hold. There’s only one way out.

The goruchel plants one foot and yanks hard with both arms—and howls in pain. The loud snap is her shoulders, popping out of their joints. I taste bile.

“Stop,” William says, grimacing. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“I’ll kill you!” she shouts, red eyes blazing.

Without a word, William steps forward and, with one hand, smoothly pulls her into a chokehold. His forearm presses against her windpipe, not hard enough to crush it, but hard enough that she can’t breathe. She kicks along the ground while both arms flail uselessly—one hand a bloody, gnarled mess.

Suddenly, Sel is on his feet beside me, fury marring his features. His right hand grasps the round hardwood handle in his left shoulder. A beat to inhale, then he pulls the eight-inch blade out with a roar behind gritted teeth.