Page 62 of The Sin-Binder’s Fate (The Seven Sins Academy #1)

There are too many of them. The battlefield is endless.

Wraiths pouring through the snow-choked ruins like a black tide, clawed hands dragging across stone, their hollowed faces stretching into soundless screams. Twisted creatures slither through the wreckage, all sharp angles and gnashing teeth, their movements jerky and unnatural.

And the trolls, gargantuan, lumbering masses of rage and ruin, smashing through the remains of Daemon Academy like they were built for this.

I should be tired.

My body is screaming for rest, my arms aching from wielding the blade Riven forced into my hands. But the exhaustion never catches up to me. It’s there, in the background, simmering beneath my skin, but it doesn’t slow me down.

Because I feel it, him.

Riven is ahead of me, hacking through the wraiths like a living storm, blood-drenched and untouchable.

I move because he does. Every swing of his blade fuels me, every burst of wrath sinks into my veins like a drug.

He’s a force of nature, his presence an unrelenting current dragging me forward, pushing me to match him, to keep up .

Orin is at my back, moving with a grace that shouldn’t belong to someone as big as he is. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel him, an anchor, always there, watching, waiting for the moment I slip.

Another troll emerges from the mist, its grotesque form rising from the wreckage, swinging a club the size of a carriage. Riven steps forward without hesitation.

“Stay back with Orin.” His voice is sharp, final. A command.

And then he’s gone, charging into the monster’s path like he was made for this. Like there’s no part of him that hesitates. Like he wants the fight.

I grip my sword tighter, fingers numb from the cold and the blood. Orin shifts beside me, his weight settling, bracing.

“They just keep coming,” I mutter, my breath curling in the freezing air.

Orin lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Welcome to war, little binder.”

I move because I have to. Not because I have any training, not because I know what the hell I’m doing, but because my body remembers. Because wrath is inside me now, singing through my blood, feeding off every swing of my blade, every kill I take.

The wraith in front of me lunges, its body shifting like smoke, solidifying at the last second, claws reaching for my throat. I don’t think. I step into it instead of back, letting its own momentum carry it forward as I slash upward with my sword.

Black ichor sprays across my chest, burning hot even in the freezing air. The wraith shrieks, disintegrating as my blade cuts through it like it was never solid at all.

And then I hear him.

Riven .

His movements are effortless, brutal, something darkly mesmerizing.

He fights like violence is a language only he speaks fluently.

Steel glints as he drives his blade straight through the skull of a wraith, his other hand already reaching for another.

His sword is an extension of himself, a part of him, moving with a rhythm that is too fast, too sharp, too fucking perfect.

The ground trembles when he moves. Not from the weight of his steps, but from something deeper, his power spilling out, warping the battlefield itself.

I barely duck in time as a wraith tries to take my head off. I pivot, shoving my sword into its ribs and twisting until it shatters apart, smoke curling into nothingness.

Riven’s not even looking at me, but I feel him.

Every slash. Every kill. Like it’s my own.

And maybe in a way, it is.

He throws himself at the troll like it’s an offering, a fucking challenge. The massive creature swings its club, shattering the stone beneath them, but Riven doesn’t dodge. He steps into it. Like he wants it to hit him, like he wants to meet the force head-on.

At the last second, his body twists, his sword slicing across the troll’s exposed stomach. The wound isn’t deep, but it makes the beast stumble.

And Riven grins. A flash of something unhinged, something hungry. His power surges, the ground beneath the troll splitting apart like an open wound, swallowing its legs, keeping it trapped. The beast roars in frustration, swinging wildly, but Riven is already moving again .

He uses its own body as a springboard, climbing up its back, cutting into thick muscle, carving a path up to its throat. His sword is brutal, precise, every strike calculated to cause pain.

I don’t realize I’m watching, not fighting, until Orin steps in front of me, cutting down a wraith before it can grab me.

“Luna,” he snaps, shaking his head. “Now’s not the time to be mesmerized, no matter how pretty the bloodshed is.”

I grit my teeth, forcing my focus back to my own fight. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m learning something, watching Riven. That this, this carnage, this fury, this destruction, was always meant to be mine, too.

The first one skitters out of the shadows, its legs moving too fast, too smooth, like liquid darkness unfolding. Then another. And another.

Orin curses under his breath. “I fucking hate spiders.”

These aren’t normal. They move too intelligently, coordinated, like a pack of hunters that have been watching, waiting. The smallest of them are the size of hounds, their glossy black bodies shimmering with an unnatural chitinous sheen. Others are bigger, much bigger.

One of them unfolds from behind a crumbled wall, its body twice the size of a horse, legs long enough to spear through a man. Its eyes, too many, too knowing, gleam with something worse than hunger.

Malice.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Orin mutters. “Why can’t we ever fight something normal? Like a murderous ghost? A good old-fashioned demon? I’d even take a werewolf at this point. ”

One of the smaller spiders lunges, its mandibles clacking as it aims for my throat.

I pivot, driving my blade through its body, but it doesn’t die.

It shrieks, its insides liquid fire, burning up my sword, trying to climb it, trying to get to me.

I rip my blade free and kick it back, watching as the wound stitches itself closed.

“Healing spiders,” I say, exhaling sharply. “Why the hell not?”

Orin snarls as he slashes through another, but the second his blade leaves its body, the wound knits itself together, the creature still very much alive.

“That’s not going to work,” I grit out.

“You think?” Orin slams his boot down on a smaller one that scurries too close, its body collapsing with a wet crunch.

And then the massive one moves. The ground quakes as it drops down from the wall, legs coiling, shifting, before it launches forward with terrifying speed.

I barely have time to dodge the first strike, its leg punching into the ground where I was standing, a jagged spear of chitin burying itself deep into the dirt.

I look up, too late.

It’s already on me.

Its massive body rears back, its mouth splitting open, not just mandibles, but rows of gnashing teeth inside, something writhing beneath its glossy carapace.

I raise my sword, knowing it won’t be enough.

Then Orin moves. He shoves me out of the way, throwing himself under the weight of the beast. His hands slam against its body, and suddenly, it freezes. No movement. No sound .

Orin grits his teeth, veins darkening beneath his skin. His power gripping the thing in place, forcing it into stasis.

“Kill it, Luna!” he chokes out. “Now.”

I step in, flipping my sword in my grip before driving it straight into the monster’s open mouth. Through flesh. Through bone. Its body jerks, spasming, twitching, before it collapses inward, as if something inside it has imploded.

The smaller spiders shriek as their alpha dies, scattering like shadows. Some burn up. Others vanish into the dark.

Orin staggers back, his breathing ragged.

I grip his arm. “You good?”

He exhales, rolls his shoulders. “Yeah. Just remind me to never be your bodyguard again.”

I glance at the battlefield, the next wave of horrors already moving in.

“Come on, Orin.” I smirk. “We’re just getting started.”

The battlefield shifts, the air thrumming with something new, heavier. A sudden, unnatural silence sinks in before the world explodes.

The swarm comes. Not spiders. Not wraiths. Something worse. A wave of bodies, fast, ravenous, endless. The first ones burst from the ground, clawing out of the frozen dirt like corpses dragged from the grave. But they aren’t dead, not yet.

Twisted things, with too many limbs, faces distorted, stretched into something inhuman. Their skin shifts, warping like smoke and shadow, their mouths unhinging as they scream.

And then they charge.

I slice through the first one, my blade cutting deep, but it doesn’t fall. It lurches, head snapping back into place, wounds closing like they never existed .

Orin is beside me, snarling, fighting like a beast, his claws slashing through them, but for every one that drops, two more take its place.

I don’t even have time to breathe before another one grabs me, skeletal fingers locking around my wrist, yanking me into the chaos.

Then fire.

Not real fire. Rage. Wrath. Mine. Riven’s. It fuels me, surges through my veins.

The creature’s grip shatters. I twist, driving my sword through its ribs, twisting hard, feeling it collapse into smoke.

Orin grins, blood running down his cheek. “That’s one way to do it.”

Then, a roar. Not from the creatures. From him.

Riven.

He slams into the horde like a hurricane, his blade carving through bodies with brutal precision. His power is an inferno, feeding off mine, amplifying it, turning him into something unstoppable.

I’ve never seen him fight like this, not up close. Not like a god of war, like destruction incarnate. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, except when he does. His gaze finds me through the carnage, assessing, deciding.

Then he roars over the chaos.

“Silas! Get your ass over here!”

The shadows stir. Silas emerges from the madness, blades glinting, his illusions flickering through the battlefield, twisting reality, making the creatures hesitate.

But it’s not enough. There’s too many. Too fast. The creatures pour in faster than we can cut them down, an unrelenting tide of horror, all writhing limbs and snarling mouths.

Riven is a blur of brutality. His sword is an extension of his body, moving with raw, primal rage. He cuts through the swarm with vicious precision, each strike leaving a trail of mangled bodies and smoke.

Orin is just as lethal, but wilder, grinning like he’s enjoying every second of it. He moves like a predator, claws raking through flesh, fangs flashing as he tears into anything that gets too close.

Silas is a storm of illusions, weaving through the chaos with impossible speed. His knives flicker in the darkness, slicing through creatures that can’t even tell what’s real and what isn’t. He laughs as he moves, a manic, gleeful sound that sends a shiver down my spine.

And I, I am holding my own.

I slice through one creature’s throat, black blood sprays across my face, but another takes its place before I can recover. Another grabs my wrist, its grip crushing. I wrench free, but the moment I do, something else slams into my side, knocking the breath from my lungs.

A hand tangles in my hair, yanking me backward. Another clamps onto my arm, another onto my leg. They’re swarming me, dragging me down.

I snarl, fury igniting in my blood, and I call on wrath.

The ground shudders beneath me. A shockwave of power bursts outward, throwing them off. Some are crushed beneath the weight of it, bodies breaking like twigs.

I gasp, sucking in air.

But then, a sharp, burning pain. The world tilts. I look down. And there it is. A blade. Slick and glistening, buried deep in my stomach. For a second, I don’t feel it. For a second, it doesn’t seem real.

Then, agony. White-hot, spreading like wildfire.

I stagger, my legs giving out, the battlefield twisting around me. My vision blurs, the sounds of war fading to a distant hum.

Someone is shouting my name.

I don’t know who.

I fall.

And the world goes dark .