Rhysand buried his sword into the Hybern soldier, gritting his teeth as he pulled the sword back out. The soldier collapsed at his feet. His whole body ached; every muscle screaming at him to stop. It was an effort to keep his wings from dragging. He was a High Lord after all. Though titles meant nothing here. Not on this field and not to these soldiers.
He'd lost sight of Azriel a while ago. The last glimpse he'd seen of him he'd taken to the skies, siphons blazing and scarred wings barely carrying his weight. He should of tied him to the damn tree. Cassian had gone to distract the king. He didn't let himself think of the likelihood he'd have to add his brother's name to the same list that had taken so many others. Didn't let himself think of some Hybern commander stringing a pair of Illyrian wings up on their wall.
And so instead he cut down soldier after soldier after soldier. Each hit, each swing of his sword wore him down. His magic was spent. His brothers were probably dead. His... Feyre.
No.
He couldn't think of her. Not now. He couldn't let even a small part of him stray from the task at hand.
He swung. Again. And again. And again. Again until bodies littered the floor around him. Until he lost track of whose blood coated him. Until every sense of direction was replaced with the primal instinct to survive.
Above him Illyrians and Seraphim rained down death on Hybern's forces. In front, behind, to the sides of him, the high lords and their armies mowed down Hybern's soldiers, cleaving portions out of his army. Yet still the king stood; and still the king was winning.
Only Bryaxis remained of the three they'd called to help them. And Rhys made sure to keep the whirling mass of shadows and darkness in the corner of his view, maintaining his distance.
He lifted his gaze as he cut down the five soldiers flanking him. Lines were breaking - he wasn't sure how they'd stood for so long. Seraphim and Illyrians were falling, broken and bloodied - he wasn't sure how much longer they could last. He no longer saw flashes of his Shadowsinger in the sky.
And so he transformed.
He shed his skin - trading feet and fingers for talons, and a face of lethal beauty for one of nightmares. He became the monster the courts had feared for centuries, the one the world believed him to be. The one who had made his throne in the Court of Nightmares.
Soldiers fled.
He watched from his peripherals as the High Lord of Day transformed, running to him in a shroud of gold feathers and shredding claws. The two shared a glance, one almost of courtesy, before loosing themselves on the soldiers foolish enough to fight instead of flee.
They fought. And they fought ; blood marring fur and feathers. They tore through ranks of Hybern soldiers, cutting their attempts at retreat short. Around him, Rhys saw the High Lords transforming and unleashing their hidden selves upon Hybern.
At some point, he can't remember when, Helion broke away, leaving to fight a Hybern commander and destroy their hopes of winning against the Spell-Cleaver. Rhys had to admit, he wasn't sure who'd walk away from that fight.
He threw himself back into the fray, tearing into soldier after soldier until his hands became heavy with their blood.
He was bleeding. He didn't remember how. Or who. Only that with every drop of blood he lost, he felt his strength wilting. He tore a swath out of the oncoming army, a soldier moving up and replacing the space left by their fallen comrades. He felt himself tiring. Every blow became harder to land, every strike against him seeming to hit harder.
He tried to keep his feet from dragging as he moved; tried to keep his head held high.
He surged forward through a wall of soldiers, slashing and tearing until his vision went red. He tasted the blood in his mouth. Dots began spotting his vision the way the blood spotting his armour.
Forward and forward he pushed; back turned to the carnage behind him, eyes on the bloodbath ahead, and heart with his mate wherever she may be.
Thanks for reading x