Tanith opened her mouth to shout a warning.

The scythe swung for Sanguine’s neck, but he was already turning, launching himself into a dive. Tanith had seen walls and floors crack before him, but never had she seen clothes and flesh. This was the moment where that changed. The Black Cleaver’s armoured coat frayed and the pale skin beneath split, almost too fast for it to register, and Sanguine dived through the Cleaver. He hit the ground behind and rolled to his feet, dripping with black blood. The Cleaver looked down at his ruined torso. Now Sanguine grinned, his cockiness returning to him. And he had a right to be cocky. Diving through the body would have killed just about any living creature.

But, of course, the Black Cleaver wasn’t living.

Sanguine was still grinning when the Black Cleaver twisted round, and the tip of the scythe blade whispered across his throat.

For a moment, he stood there, frowning. Then a thin line of red opened up above his collar. He coughed, and the wound opened further, and wider, and he stepped back, gagging, his hands up, trying to close the cut, to keep the blood in. He dropped to his knees, the front of his shirt turning red, his tie becoming sodden. Blood splashed on to the floor, soaking into his trousers. He toppled over sideways, dislodging his sunglasses. He lay there, mouth open, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, choking on blood he couldn’t spit.

And then he died.

Something wrenched deep within Tanith’s chest.

The Black Cleaver turned to her.

He attacked and she blocked. Blades clashed. He was fast and so was she. Something burned inside her. Sanguine was dead. Did she care?

Some part of her did.

The burning gave her strength. Her wounds still bled and her head still spun, but she had found her centre now, and she sank into it and let her body do what it wanted to do. No longer was fear clouding her judgement. No longer were frightened thoughts obstructing her flow. She was an extension of her weapon, and her weapon was an extension of her.

She thrust her sword through the Cleaver’s ruined coat, then retracted it and spun away before the scythe reached her. She found an odd, detached satisfaction in noting the black blood she had drawn. But she could stab him in the chest all day and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. He was a zombie. The only way to stop him was to take his head – but there was no way she was going to be able to do that while he wore that uniform.

She was reminded of something she’d once told Valkyrie, years ago, and she smiled thinly as they broke off.

The Black Cleaver watched her get her breath back, the way a lion would watch an injured gazelle.