Every surviving attacker was snuffed out, those who stood, those who fled, and especially the one who had dared to touch her. Shadows ripped off limbs and tore through flesh, forcing Circe's attacker to drop his bloodied sword as the darkness nearly split him in two.
Before the man could even fall, Ragnar was there.
His sword flashed.
One, two. Three brutal, savage strikes was what it took before the man's head finally tore free from his body. It hit the ground with a sickening thud, eyes still wide, staring blankly up at the night sky.
Ragnar stood there, chest heaving, breath sawing in and out of him. When there were no enemies left, he let his sword slip from his grasp. It clattered uselessly to the ground.
Then he turned to Circe.
She had tried to rise while he killed the man who stabbed her, sheer will forcing her to her feet but the pain had been too great. Her legs had buckled beneath her, and she had collapsed atop the corpse of the first attacker she had fought.
