Ten men had emerged from the darkness to clash blades with Domajor, and all ten had been brought down one by one. Severed limbs were scattered among the floor, while arterial sprays of blood had gushed along the windows and wallpaper.

  A nightmare to clean, certainly. But Domajor was determined to ensure the corpses of his charges would not being among those cleaned up.

  The battle, however, had gradually taken its toll on the butler. Thin scars had been sliced at various points of his suit, the skin beneath slick with blood. His hair, normally pomaded to perfection, was askew. And his chest rose and fell with the kind of exertion a butler was normally never allowed to show.

  It went against etiquette. Most nobles and aristocrats did not like to be reminded that their servants were living, breathing beings.

  Another masked man rushed him, clutching a hatchet in both hands. Essine’s eyes widened, unable to look away from their gleaming, silver edges. Domajor growled and met the man halfway, deflecting two strikes from the man. The flash of sparks from their colliding blades lit up the hallway, illuminating the beastly glower on Domajor’s face.

  “Good grief,” Pearl muttered, watching as Domajor batted several strikes away. “All these men dead, and he’s still going strong.”

  “Master Domajor could have been a high ranked adventurer, if he wanted. Or a bandit king,” Leonid said, grinning excitedly. “We’re quite fortunate that he’s chosen to live his life this way.”

  Domajor hopped back, the edge of a hatchet slicing a strip from his waistcoat in passing. His counter was instantaneous, his sword moving so swiftly that Essine didn’t even see the arc of it.

  One moment the assassin was standing erect, the next a great chunk of his torso was sliding away, split diagonally from one shoulder to the opposite hip.

  All fell silent, save for Domajor’s heavy breathing. “Are you all well?” he eventually asked.

  They had fallen back to a more defensible position on the ground floor. Elijah’s smoking room, which had never had a single pipe or cigar puffed inside it, was a room with no windows and only one door. Domajor, in the hall beyond, had been more than capable of fending off any assassins who showed their face.

  “Such a sizeable group,” Essine murmured. “All these people, sent to kill Coin.” It would have seemed excessive, certainly. Did they send a large group just to be certain they could get him? Had they heard of his magical potential, and were approaching the situation with due caution? Or... Essine swallowed harshly. Did they know about Coin’s true nature?

  “I believe... that should be the last of them.” Domajor clenched his teeth as he stood upright. “But... goodness, that was close. Those men were... all rather well trained. Not just street trash.” He reached into his jacket and produced a handkerchief, which he promptly used to dab the sweat and blood from his brow. A stray blow had nicked his forehead. The cut hadn’t been deep, but the blood had been plentiful.

  “You were phenomenal, Master Domajor!” Leonid exclaimed, hurrying over. “You fought like you had the Goddess herself guiding your blade!”

  “I would hope the Goddess did not want me getting cut at all. Unless these wounds were her attempt to keep me humble, Leonid.”

  “This one shall go and get bandages for you,” Essine said, making for the door.

  “And this one,” Pearl let go of the poker she had been holding onto for dear life, letting it clatter to the ground. “Shall sit down before she has a heart attack.”

  “It would be unwise to go off on your own right now, Lady Essine,” Domajor said. “Until we know for certain that this home is secure.”

  “But you said that was the last of them!” Pearl groaned.

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  “I said I believed it was the last of them, Lady Pearlovska. But I cannot be certain. They sent a considerable group here, and this is a large estate. It’s possible there were others who split off from the main-”

  A floorboard creaked somewhere down the hall.

  In the pervading silence of the night, it was louder than the strike of a sledgehammer.

  All the fatigue in Domajor’s body seemed to vanish in an instant. He went from slouching to standing ramrod straight, his blade clutched firmly in his right hand. His eyes, Essine noted, had the steely gaze of a veteran killer. A look she had seen from humans in the past, who thought of killing kobolds in the same way they thought of washing their hands: a simple task to be done efficiently.

  Essine, against her better judgement, moved to the doorway for a better look.

  A man rounded the corner, and he was perhaps the largest man Essine had ever seen in her life. Her eyes widened as she examined all seven feet of him, dressed and masked as his cohorts had been. Yet, unlike them, his skin was ashen grey, as if all the pigmentation had been sucked from it. In his hand he held a great warhammer, which seemed no larger than a carpentry tool in his massive fingers.

  “Hrm.”

  Domajor glared at the newcomer. “You can see that I’ve killed your cohorts,” he growled. “I must politely ask that you leave. Lest I kill you too.”

  The giant stared at him. It was not, Essine quickly realised, the stance of a man sizing up an opponent. It was more like the look a wild animal would sport while sizing up prospective prey. A growl rose in his throat, like stone grinding on stone.

  He broke into a sprint, charging toward Domajor.

  The half-elf, in turn, lunged to meet him halfway. The flat of his blade blocked an incoming swing, the force of the blow sending Domajor skidding backward. He grunted and braced himself. Another strike hit his blade, driving Domajor into a window.

  The glass was far sturdier than normal glass, the craftsmen boasting that it was borderline shatterproof. A cobweb of cracks spread out when Domajor’s shoulder struck against it.

  “Master Domajor!” Leonid cried. He snapped his right hand upward, rings of light glittering along his index and middle fingers. Thin beams shot from his digits and struck the giant in his forearm, the stricken flesh blackening and smoking. The giant grunted and glanced to his arms, seeming to only barely register the burning skin.

  Domajor grit his teeth and swung at his foe. But the giant was quicker than he looked, weaving around several slashes. The tip of Domajor’s blade brushed his arms more than once, opening thin scars that seeped blackened blood.

  His skin, Domajor couldn’t help but note in the back of his mind, was nearly as tough as stone,

  He ducked under a swing of the taller man’s hammer and swept a slash toward his throat. The blade missed his neck by a scant inch. The hammer swung down, set to crush Domajor into a fine paste. He jumped back grimacing as the sculpted head smashed a great hole in the floor.

  Domajor countered quickly, a desperate sweep of his sword aiming to sever one of the giant’s wrists. The towering man pulled his arms back, the edge grazing his forearm and leaving a long, thin slice in his skin. Undaunted, Domajor pressed forward and whipped a slash at his foe’s stomach. This time he hooked the man’s shirt and sliced it clean off in a single stroke. The flesh beneath was dark and scaly, save for a craggy line of orange that ran up the middle of his chest.

  Whatever this man was, Essine had never seen his like before.

  A gnarled fist swept upward, catching Domajor in the side and flinging him backward. He skidded across the carpeted floor, a pained wheeze rising in his throat. The giant was over him in an instant, and Domjaor had to brace his blade against the rough, resounding impactsof his hammer.

  “Master Domajor! D-damnit all, my magic is no use against that thick hide!” Leonid cried.

  Essine tensed where she stood. Leonid couldn’t do much, but perhaps she could? A strange gnawing sensation blossomed in her breast, radiating toward her extremities. A void of ice cold nothingness that chilled her veins.

  It was clear Domajor wouldn’t last long. And if he fell, they wouldn’t be far behind him.

  But more than that... more than that, Essine had lost enough people to last several lifetimes.

  “Oh Goddess, we’re doomed,” Pearl whispered.

  Essine raised her right hand, a sickly green glow radiating from her body. “No,” she said, a degree of steel lining her words. “No more.” The erebite bristled at her power, like a chunk of ice from coldest Thallborea. “Keep behind me!”

  A wave of green light flashed from her fingertips, like the glow of a torch. She aimed high, hoping to avoid catching Domajor with Sheol’s deathlight. There was no sound or sense of impact as it struck the scaly giant, but the effect was undeniable. A horrid shriek rose in the man’s throat, his skin wrinkling and furrowing, muscles being sucked inward like rotting fruit.

  He thrashed and flailed, turning to face Essine all too late. Rot tore through him, down to the marrow of his bones. One arm fell from the socket, a shrivelled husk, while his chest had shank so much that his ribcage was poking through in vivid detail.

  Essine could only maintain the glow for a handful of seconds, and lowered her hand as the fatigue threatened to overwhelm her. She swayed on her feet, gasping as she fell into Pearl’s arms. “G-good grief... that witch wasn’t exaggerating. Such power... you... you did wonderful, my lass.”

  The giant wasn’t dead. Shrivelled into a shadow of his former self, he could scarcely stand. Not could he even lift the hammer clutched in his remaining hand. Domajor, untouched, swept upward and shaved his head from his shoulders in a single stroke.

  Domajor huffed and fell to one knee, his whole body trembling from a potent cocktail of pain and exertion. “Blast,” he huffed.

  The giant’s corpse did not fall. It stood in place, like a half-melted statue.

  “Damnable monster... what could create something so beastly?” He forced himself to his feet with considerable effort and slowly strode toward the others. His tired eyes fell on Essine. “And what in the world... was that strange magic that flew from Lady Essine?”