Soldiers rushed her. Fools. Dead men. The Lioness landed amid their number before Stasia lowered her ax. The fire had faded from her bone wings, but her teeth and claws were more than enough to tear through their ranks. Once Stasia joined her, and the sisters linked up side by side, none could withstand them. Her great-ax weaved back and forth, a lumberjack cutting down tree after tree in a drunken stupor. Blood spilled across the streets, and Pilus’s soldiers surged in the wake of every assault made by the Ahlai sisters. Stasia’s ax broke shields. Mari’s claws shredded open plate without a care to their attempted blocks and parries. Forward, always forward, pushing the imperials back until they had no choice but to break lines and collapse before superior might and a growing numbers advantage.

Through it all, Stasia whooped and hollered like a child on her naming-day. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her lungs burned, and her heart pounded in her chest, but never did she feel so alive, and so at peace with herself, than in such a carnage-filled frenzy.

It might have been minutes, it might have been hours, but the last of the soldiers broke before Stasia. The way was clear. Smoke billowed across the entire intersection, and what people had not already fled south dashed around and over the corpses. The remnants of Pilus’s soldiers sheathed their weapons and sprinted along with them. The battle was over, and there was no objective to fight for beyond survival. The way would be clear for Cyrus, should he survive.

Mari bounded near, and it seemed she had reached the same conclusion.

“It is time we flee,” she said.

“And the others?”

“We pray they endured.”

Stasia hoisted her ax onto her shoulder, thankful for her mask. It took the bite out from the smoke when she sucked in gulps of air. Mari climbed up to one of the rooftops opposite the rows that were aflame and led the way. Stasia sprinted after her, feeling the first hint of exhaustion starting to weigh down her tired legs.

She should have known her escape would not be so simple. A familiar blue-armored paragon emerged from the smoke directly ahead, his spear thudding upon the dirt as if it were his walking staff. His long blond hair blew wild in the ashen wind. Men and women of the crowd fled past him, and he paid them no attention. His grin was reserved solely for Stasia.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “It’s that horse’s ass.”

“I prefer the name Soma.”

“Same thing.”

Prior experience told her a duel against him was hopeless, but this time she wasn’t alone. Mari stalked the rooftops. If Stasia could only distract him long enough, they might catch him by surprise.