"Make it a hundred," Thalatha said through her teeth.
Two arrows—one high, one low—punched two joints.
Clack.
The fingers splayed uselessly. The sword sagged half a degree.
Scarlet light crawled. The thing learned as they watched. The broken hand knitted not into fingers but into a hook, a barbed cleat that wouldn't drop a blade twice. The cracked fissure up its thigh bubbled with black sealant that foamed and dried into necrotic glue.
"Ew," Mikhailis said. "No points for style."
The ceiling cracked open like brittle teeth. Stalactites of bone sheared loose, and a hailstorm fell. At the same moment, glyph channels that had slept under dust woke along the floor, threads of red light bleeding toward them like veins filling.
