The Immortal (Rise of the Warlords 2)

He swooped in, shoving her to the mattress.

As she and the god grappled, a thousand thoughts rapid-fired. Trapped like a lamb at slaughter. No match for someone as powerful as this. Going to lose. Soon to die. As promised, he’s enjoying it. Fight! Too much to do. Too much to prove. Leave Vivi? Never! Still going to lose. Will perish on a field of battle at least. Every harpy’s dream. The stuff of legends. Just not the kind of legend I hoped.

Here lies Ophelia Falconcrest. Basic damsel in distress.

Fight harder!

In the end, Erebus succeeded, driving a rigid dagger into the hollow above her sternum. Cold metal sliced her airway, and searing pain consumed her. Blood rushed up her throat and into her lungs, drowning her. Her vision blurred. So dizzy.

“Poor harpy,” Erebus cooed, tenderly smoothing hair from her brow. “You feel your life slipping away. How terrible it must be to realize you aren’t as indestructible as you once believed. Immortal, but not. The younger you are, the swifter death sets in before an injury can regenerate. But I’m sure you know that.”

Fighting...

“Don’t hate me for loving this. You are magnificent.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re making me even more excited for what comes next.”

Fight...

He twisted the blade, giddy as he announced, “Get ready, little girl. Your second ending will not be as tame as this. But then, I’m not the male who will wield the blade—Halo is.”

Figh... Death came as Ophelia expelled her final breath.

5

The little beauty might be a big problem.

Halo stalked through the torch-lit catacombs beneath the coliseum, determined to root out any traps his enemy might have readied.

A mission had never been more vital, yet again and again his thoughts veered to the harpymph he’d trapped in his bedchamber. A room with walls fortified by trinite, thereby limiting a phantom’s abilities. Ophelia wasn’t a phantom, the substance nothing to her—but Erebus was.

Did she align with the god? Was the curvy seductress tasked with Halo’s distraction, perhaps?

He narrowed his eyes. Though the bundle of energy struck him as a walking contradiction—defensive but inviting—Halo had enjoyed her company far more than he should have. Somehow, he’d tasted both the ease he’d sought for so long and a tension far worse than any other, and swung between the two.

When she’d told him she wouldn’t bed him, she’d eyed him as if he were a slice of warm honey cake fresh from the oven. He’d throbbed then. He throbbed now, remembering.

Despite her denials, the nymph pheromone must be responsible. No matter how powerful it was, Halo would not succumb. Rather, he would learn more about Ophelia Falconcrest and build stronger defenses against her allure.

Return to her. Now. The unexpected, instinctual command jolted him, and he stumbled. Return to his distraction before the meeting with Erebus? Hardly. Halo wasn’t so foolish.

He poured his energy into his mission, taking note of his surroundings. Eternal torches hung from posts on cracked stone walls, casting muted beams of golden light over high, arched ceilings and dirt floors. Different aromas layered cool, damp air. The metallic stench of old blood. A tinge of smoke and burnt wood. A collage of fading perfumes.

Finding no sign of foul play, he flashed topside to the center of the battlefield. The sun was in the process of setting, painting sections of the sky with streaks of azure fire.

Before invading Harpina, the Astra had spent a year traversing the realm, invisible to all. He’d observed hundreds of violent matches in this stadium as harpies settled their disputes in front of a roaring crowd. If Ophelia had attended, he would have scented her.

What did she do in her spare time? Sex? As a nymph, she must have an insatiable sexual appetite.

A fire of...something burned his chest, unnerving him.

Recall your training or lose everything. The stark command had the deserved effect, and he snapped to attention. The other Astra counted on him. He would not let them down.

A trumpet boomed from the stands. Frowning, he palmed two daggers and looked about.

In a flash of light, Erebus appeared on the other side of the battlefield, wearing his customary black robe. The hem billowed in a soft breeze. Fresh blood wet his pale curls, splattered his face, and coated his hands. Behind him stretched an army of phantoms. Females dressed in widow’s weeds, slumped over and motionless, their feet hovering several inches off the ground. Eerie silence permeated the masses.

With a single command from their creator, those lifeless phantoms would attack with mindless fervor, desperate to feed. To suck Halo’s soul from his skin. A revolting act that drained even an Astra’s strength.

“Hello, Halo,” Erebus said. “Our first solo face-to-face in centuries.”

The god’s deep voice inspired a tidal wave of hatred. An emotion Halo had never forgotten, no matter his training. “Consider pleasantries exchanged. Meeting adjourned.” He poised to flash to his bedroom—