My magic billows over the great cat, coating him in a protective ward. Heedless of the few seconds I have left, I turn the same spell on myself, my power moving down my form and readying me for battle. It won’t hold forever, these spells never do, but it will protect us for now at least.

There are a dozen or more sets of feet rushing toward the end of the hall where we are, likely drawn in by my scream.

Quickly, I place a curse on my mother-in-law and sister-in-law’s bodies. “Skin like death, liquefy the innards of any who dare touch these corpses.” My voice breaks on that final word. My mind knows these women are gone; my heart cannot fathom it.

I cast the bodies one last grim look. The soldiers will try to desecrate their remains. I smile malevolently at the thought of the pained death that awaits such fools.

My power gathers beneath my skin, my muscles and joints throbbing from it. Rage makes even that pain feel good.

I glance at my familiar. “Ready yourself, Ferox. Everyone beyond this room is an enemy. Kill whatever you can.”

I step out of the room as the first of the Roman soldiers closes in on me. This soldier is a youthful man with rich, golden skin and thin, lithe legs.

His eyes widen a bit when he sees me, and he slows just a little. Behind him are more than a dozen others. I raise a hand, my magic gathering.

“Annihilate.”

BOOM! The entire castle trembles as power explodes out of me, blowing the soldiers in front of me apart. Bloody limbs fly, smacking into other soldiers farther back, knocking them down.

All that’s left of that golden-skinned man is a bloody splatter mark on the ground.

I stride forward as more soldiers pour into the hallway off the stairs.

I waited too long to leave this place, but I no longer care. My rage burns in me, scalding my magic.

I storm down the hallway while Ferox rips out the throat of a soldier struggling to push off the mutilated torso of a fallen comrade.

More magic gathers. “Annihilate!”

Another explosion. More scattered bodies. Those pretty Roman helmets are blown from the heads of their soldiers, or else they’re blown away with the severed heads of their owners still inside them.

The sight of the scattered remains of soldiers soothes something primal in me. I never thought of myself as particularly malicious, but apparently, for my soul mate and my family, I am. Ruthlessly so.

So focused on the carnage am I that I don’t notice the first arrow that strikes me. It hits me in the right shoulder, and though it doesn’t so much as tear the fabric of my warded tunic, the force of it still nearly knocks me off my feet.

Archers. There are archers inside the palace despite the close proximity of this space. The thought has me casting out another annihilation spell. Bodies burst apart and dust falls from the ceilings, and the walls shake. I don’t care if this whole, massive place falls on our heads so long as it takes these men out with it.

I try not to think about the grief and sorrow that claw up my throat at what I’ve lost this evening and what I might still lose.

Need to get to Memnon. Gods, I need to get to him. I still haven’t heard from him, and I sense little down our bond.

There are many places Eislyn could’ve taken Memnon, most of them entirely inaccessible. But if she and my mate are still here in this realm, then there is one place above all others where she would take him.

When I get to the stairs, I blow apart another cluster of soldiers, the spell taking out a large section of the stone steps with it.

I descend down what remains, recasting the ward I placed on Ferox, who clings close to my side.

The palace temple, then. That’s where I must go.

Down on the first floor, the sounds of battle cries and anguished screams are louder. And when I catch sight of the melee, it takes my breath away. A few loyal Sarmatians fight back against the soldiers, but they’re vastly outnumbered. The Romans are also cutting down innocent palace servants who have no battle training and smashing or carrying out royal items, most of them relics of the rulers who lived here before us.

As soon as I’m noticed, the atmosphere in the main area of the palace shifts entirely.

“The queen!” someone shouts.

I can’t place the voice, and I have no clue whether it’s from friend or foe. But then I catch sight of Rakas, one of Memnon’s named betrayers. He’s pointing his sword at me and shouting orders.

All my rage is directed into an unnamed curse, one I aim for that traitorous Sarmatian man. The pale orange magic that barrels toward him is threaded through with oily black stains. When it hits Rakas, it lifts him into the air, great plumes of orange smoke upwelling beneath him. Never have I made such a spell or committed such a feat as lifting a person into the air. This is fueled by rage and pain and my power’s own sentience.

The fighting slows, and people stop to stare as Rakas writhes above them, slashing his sword at thin air to try to break himself free.

The cursed magic still swarms around him, hugging close to his skin, and it’s only once it’s sunk into him that I clearly see his flesh begin to boil and bubble until all at once, his body explodes, bits of cursed flesh raining down on the room. People begin to shriek as the curse lands on them and burns their own flesh.

The Roman soldiers are screaming, horrified. They signed up for war, not witchcraft. Some run, but most cast new, deadlier gazes on me. That’s when the fighting begins in earnest.

I blow those nearest me back, then cast two more annihilation spells. Many, many bodies go flying.

Beneath my impassioned feelings, I begin to feel the drain of my magic. It’s running out; it will run out. Rather soon if I keep attacking as I am. It’s hard to care. Not when my cheeks are wet and a soul-deep ache has taken root inside me.

The moment the room recovers from their panic, a dozen arrows rain on me and Ferox. My familiar yelps when one of them hits his flank, and I lash out, my magic slicing a whole row of soldiers nearest me.

The temple, I remind myself. I need to get there if I have any hope of reaching Memnon.

I raise my arms to the room. “Incinerate.”

Fire billows from my palms, blowing out at those nearest me. Soldiers catch fire, and smoke and the acrid smell of burning flesh fill the room.

I cannot think about those I’m leaving behind. It’s a bloodbath in the palace, and Memnon’s forces have either been slaughtered or co-opted by the enemy. Any hope of us winning this fight will come only once I have my husband at my side.

My arms shake as I carve a bloody path for myself and Ferox. My panther lunges at anyone who comes too close, ripping out throats and slashing legs. I’m feeling the first true strain of my power. Sweat drips from my brow, and⁠—

I choke as an arrow lodges in my back, throwing me forward. Another hits me near the armpit.

The protective ward I cast must’ve disintegrated.

A soldier rushes me, sword swinging. I jump out of his way, but his blade slashes me across the abdomen.

I gasp, then rush out, “Impenetrable armor for my body.” The ward returns once more.

It’s too late though. Blood is seeping between my fingers and dripping down my back, and there are dozens of soldiers closing in on me.

The temple, I remind myself. Just need to get to the temple.

Closing my eyes, I draw on my pain and my blood and then the blood of anyone nearby. My power reaches out, drawing on the suffering and building in my veins. Dazedly, I release it, only half noticing the people it rips apart.

The temple. The temple. It’s become a chant.

Ferox sticks close, and I can feel his inquisitive, worried gaze on me as I manage to pass through the double doors and leave the palace, my power blowing the enemy back many arm spans.