The disciples rose off the ground from where I had flattened most of them and regrouped as we did the same on the hill.

“We took out three," I said. "Not bad for our first attack.”

Nash wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ve never fought anyone like them.”

“They're retreating too, all except one.” Piercey sat on his knees, not bothering to hide.

In the field, the woman who'd walked through the blue haze stood over the body of a fallen comrade, facing us. The others ran for the rest of the Prophet’s warriors.

“She must be in charge,” I said. “I couldn’t knock her back.”

“She’s powerful,” Piercey said. “I have a good feel for them now. Let me do the next part.”

I nodded and twisted for my people. I couldn't see Leif and Wren but if I focused hard enough I could hear the pounding of their hearts. The Prophet's forces had swallowed ours whole, so our warriors were surrounded from all sides. Sweat dripped down Val's face. She couldn't defend them all, but I knew she was shielding everyone she could.

Piercey climbed down the hill and walked out in the field, as if he wasn't in any hurry. "Surrender now, so I don't have to hurt you."

The lead disciple snarled. She reached her hand up and roared. Piercey swiped his own, deflecting a gust of wind that shot from her palm.

"Last chance." His hands tightened into fists at his sides. "Please. I don't want to do this."

He didn't. The weight of what I'd asked him to do by coming to fight the Prophet sounded as though it would break his voice.

"Die!" The lead disciple shouted.

Piercey lowered his head. The grass around him rustled. The wind shifted. Without warning, a gust shot across the field, nearly slamming me back onto my ass. Nash settled a hand on the ground, eyes wide.

The Prophet's disciples shrieked, every one of them except for the lead disciple. I whipped around to see that one by one, they collapsed onto the ground, half-way retreated to the warriors. Their bodies writhed. My gasp lodged in my throat and felt like it would burst. Blood beaded all over their skin. He was drawing it out through their pores.

The lead disciple finally collapsed to one knee. Her head lifted. Blood streamed from her eyes.

Beside me, Nash shook his head. "This death is too slow."

"He's putting immense pressure on their bodies." My stomach revolted against such cruelty. "The disciples are fighting him off. I'm sure a normal person would have died instantly." No wonder Piercey hadn't wanted to do this first. It wasn't just because he wanted to gauge their strength and plan accordingly. He didn't want to issue such a cruel death.

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"Put them out of their misery," Nash said.

"I think he's trying."

"Then what are we doing?" He pushed to his feet and ducked down low as he ran down the hill.

"Nash!" I raced after him. "Let me go by myself."

Nash didn't even humor me with a glance.

Piercey stood unmoving in the field. As we ran past him, my oldest friend lifted his hand for me, eyes wide. Sweat doused his skin and clothes. Blood dripped from both of his nostrils from the effort. He needed our help. As powerful as he was, everyone with power was incredibly challenging to take on.

I focused on the disciple who knelt in the grass before us. Her body trembled and her mouth hung open as she whimpered. A thin glaze of blood covered her entire body. When she saw us, fear filled her eyes.

Nash already had his weapons poised to strike. We were warriors. It went against everything we believed to leave another fighter suffering like this. We gifted our enemies with swift deaths. And Nash was ready to oblige.

He could take care of her. I had to protect him. I focused on Nash, imagining an impenetrable circle of steel surrounding him, one only I could see, one that flashed only when he needed to be protected.

"You fought well," Nash said. His twin swords sliced through the air for her neck. But they slammed against air and bounced back.

The disciple gasped in relief, the tension melting from her body. Her eyelids fluttered and then she passed out.

There was only one person powerful enough to stop Piercey's attack like that.

"Nash," I whispered. "He's here."

Piercey swept past me and stopped directly in front of me.

The disciples all struggled to their knees and bowed. Turning, I saw the Prophet's warriors lower in a wave, even in the midst of battle. All around the battlefield, swords skewered warriors who made no attempt to defend themselves as they bowed down.

My people stumbled back from their enemies, ceasing their attacks as the Prophet's warriors made themselves defenseless.

Panic lurched in my gut. Nash moved close to me, hand coming to my back. I thought of the scars weaving down his spine. How many hours had he bled because of the Prophet? I wasn't the only one who understood his ferocity.

The black hood of the Prophet bobbed above his subjects as he walked through the crowd of warriors toward us. If he was willing to come out of his village to face us, why had he let three of his disciples die first?

My lips curled into a grimace. Of course. He needed his people to be afraid, so he would look that much mightier when he killed us. The Prophet let his disciples fight, knowing they may not be strong enough. The death of comrades spurred on any good warrior. The disciples would train more ferociously than ever.

This might be a loss for the Prophet's people, but it was a win for him.

As he drew closer, I could see his inky black eyes staring out from the shadow of his cloak. Only then did I notice the rope in his hand and the effortless way he dragged a bobbing form from it.

Tight fingers of panic strangled my heart. It was a man.

I didn't recognize him, but Piercey's composure wilted and I knew. This was one of his graduates.

"Jackson…" Piercey gasped.

The body was mangled, certainly just a corpse. Arms hung from the rope like loose sacks of skin, as if his bones had disintegrated. With every movement, his legs bounced at unnatural angles.

No one could survive this. The Prophet must have been delivering a dead body to us.

Only when the Prophet stopped and slung the body into the open space between us, did I see Jackson's wide eyes move to each of us. I pressed my fist against my stomach. He was alive.

Piercey walked toward him and then collapsed at his side, hands shaking as he slowly placed them on his back. The Prophet must have been actively keeping Jackson alive.

The man didn't respond to Piercey. He didn't cry or whine or even twitch. Nothing except wide, pain-filled eyes turning to his director.

"I'm so sorry," Piercey whispered. Then, he drew his knife from his side and stabbed it into his graduate's neck.