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The air fell ice-cold.

One by one, torches blew out.

Shadows and smoke danced at their feet like fog in the night.

A devastating force burst from around her, slamming the soldiers into the graystone walls surrounding them. Alora had no idea what had happened—howit had happened. Even if she could call on her magic, it had never donethat.

None of them saw the blackened, moonlit figure stalking the shadows behind them.

Not until it was too late.

Three heads went flying, blood splattering into the backs of the others. Those who remained unsheathed their swords, but whatever the figure was had disappeared.

The only sound: their uneven breaths.

And then … their bloodcurdling screams.

In tendrils of clouded smoke and shadows, the dark figure appeared with a sword drawn and dripping blood at its side.

Alora watched in frozen horror as the figure fisted the commander’s hair. Its darkened gaze speared into his eyes until every last breath and shard of soul was sucked from his depths.

The male dropped limp onto the dirt, skin and eyes cast in gray like spoiled meat.

The shadow-covered figure slowly cocked its head to the second. The male who had stuck her with the needle. Without a moment for breath, the male’s head detached with one perfect, effortless swing of a sword.

A faerie who had been attempting to grab Alora stumbled aside, hands shaking as he withdrew.

Like smoke on the wind, the shadow moved.

Blade met blade, piercing her ears as sparks rained. In the moonlight, the much smaller soldier crossed swords with it—him—the shadow—Death—whatever it was. The figure was too focused on the soldier that it seemed unaware of the approaching threat stalking behind. Meticulously prowling close, two others ready to sink their blades truly believed they would down Death.

One raised his sword, a perfect angle to plunge right into Death’s back.

“Behind you!” she screamed.

Alora watched as, with one movement, a shadow-covered hand rose, freezing the two mid-step as the other hand granted the defending soldier their bloody end.

Death’s attention carelessly turned from those frozen. Black legs stalked toward the remaining two, who cowered against the wall near Alora.

One drew a bow and nocked an arrow.

Then let it fly.

It was a perfect shot—on anyone other than Death himself.

The figure effortlessly and with unperceivable speed, slapped it away in an explosion of wooden shards, inches from its darkened face.

“That was a mistake,” Death finally spoke. Its malicious voice echoed through the alley as it lifted a palm encased in smoke and shadows and jerked its hand forward in a sweeping motion.

A solid wall of wind rippled, barreling into the soldiers and forcing them to fly into the alley wall.

But they didn’t fall to the ground.

Death held its hand steady in the air and prowled forward. Every inch of its body releasing tendrils of darkness. For a moment, they lingered—hovered—in against the graystone, like the two others who remained frozen in time.

That malicious voice growled as he willed the commander who had ripped Alora’s shirt open to fall to his knees. “I haveenjoyedthis. Right about now, you should be regretting ever drawing your first breath.”