Nobody could call the savagery that occurred inside the manor a "battle."
A whirlwind of devastation had been birthed there in the lobby, a maelstrom of roaring flames and relentless darkness. It seemed as though the very air itself was caught in the middle, filled with the nauseating stench of dead bodies and singed flesh.
Damian slipped on viscera, his boots sticking in spilled blood. No matter how desperately he wanted to retch, he couldn't spare even a glance away from Maria Frost. Even with both Damians and the dwindling army of Apostles arrayed against her, the Sixth Seat of the High Table continued fighting like a berserker.
Is this woman even human?!
The thought danced across Damian's mind as he leaped back, narrowly avoiding a whip strike that split the timber flooring in two. He gasped for air, his lungs burning, his muscles aching.
None of his training sessions with Dominic or Lynn matched the intensity of this duel.