But the hunter had made a fatal mistake: he'd gotten too close.
Cassius's hand shot out, grabbed the man's throat, and crushed his windpipe before he could scream. The hunter collapsed, choking on his own blood.
Seven remaining.
They adjusted immediately, spreading wider, denying him easy targets. Three formed a defensive wall with shields and blessed weapons. Two hung back with crossbows, blessed bolts ready. Two began chanting prayers that filled the air with holy light.
The crossbow bolts came first—one aimed at his heart, one at his head. Cassius created a blood shield, the hardened essence deflecting one bolt. The other he dodged, but barely.
The holy light intensified, making his skin prickle uncomfortably. Not deadly, but distracting, weakening.
They were methodical. Professional. And they were wearing him down.
Cassius made a decision. He couldn't win by playing their game, fighting their way. He needed to change the rules entirely.
