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Description
In the last moments before death, the meaning of life comes with amazing clarity. I have, at best, minutes to live. There’s no way my arms are going to be able to hold my sword for much longer, and no matter ten years of training, my time is up.

I knew this day would come when I joined Reaper; it was part of the enlistment spiel. No joke, my recruiter told me point blank that I would die before I was twenty-five, that it would be horrible and painful and bloody and messy. And then he told me why I would die: to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. It was the whole purpose of Reaper, an entire fucking army of half breeds and demon kin, fighting the good fight, being big damn heroes.

Another demon comes at me, this time a lesser imp, driving me back into the cave wall as I move to block it. It’s times like these that I wish I were more comfortable with firearms, and that they were more than stall tactics. The ability to kill true demons from a distance would have been brilliant, but I’m fresh out of holy hand grenades and really, the only thing that has worked for millennia are Elvin forged swords. Every last one we have is blessed—or cursed—with the gift of True Death.

Mine had been given to me by my father, a Shadowstalker, just before he’d died. He was a pureblood elf, he lived longer than most. Longer than anyone I’d known, longer than I will.

A scream dies in my throat as yet another demon rushes me. Stone scrapes through the shirt and webbing the rest of my gear is attached to; I can feel blood rolling down my back and dampening the waist of my pants. Somehow, it’s more important to feel that than the claws that are gripping me tightly at my stomach, talons deep in the flesh. It flexes, gaping maw in my face and breath rancid.

I gag, then shove my sword up through its jaw to pin them shut. He stumbles back from me yanking the grip from blood slick hands, and there are even more now than there were a second ago. I can see two other members of my squad fighting in the distance, hear the steel clattering against stone and talon and sometimes sinking into flesh. They’re doomed, too.

My hands fall to my belt and I pull my knives out. blood won’t make me lose my grip to these—the leather on their pommels fair sticks to my hands. I brandish them once and leap into the fray.

Yeah, true clarity.

My name is Cassandra Lao, and I lived.

Description
In the last moments before death, the meaning of life comes with amazing clarity. I have, at best, minutes to live. There’s no way my arms are going to be able to hold my sword for much longer, and no matter ten years of training, my time is up.

I knew this day would come when I joined Reaper; it was part of the enlistment spiel. No joke, my recruiter told me point blank that I would die before I was twenty-five, that it would be horrible and painful and bloody and messy. And then he told me why I would die: to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. It was the whole purpose of Reaper, an entire fucking army of half breeds and demon kin, fighting the good fight, being big damn heroes.

Another demon comes at me, this time a lesser imp, driving me back into the cave wall as I move to block it. It’s times like these that I wish I were more comfortable with firearms, and that they were more than stall tactics. The ability to kill true demons from a distance would have been brilliant, but I’m fresh out of holy hand grenades and really, the only thing that has worked for millennia are Elvin forged swords. Every last one we have is blessed—or cursed—with the gift of True Death.

Mine had been given to me by my father, a Shadowstalker, just before he’d died. He was a pureblood elf, he lived longer than most. Longer than anyone I’d known, longer than I will.

A scream dies in my throat as yet another demon rushes me. Stone scrapes through the shirt and webbing the rest of my gear is attached to; I can feel blood rolling down my back and dampening the waist of my pants. Somehow, it’s more important to feel that than the claws that are gripping me tightly at my stomach, talons deep in the flesh. It flexes, gaping maw in my face and breath rancid.

I gag, then shove my sword up through its jaw to pin them shut. He stumbles back from me yanking the grip from blood slick hands, and there are even more now than there were a second ago. I can see two other members of my squad fighting in the distance, hear the steel clattering against stone and talon and sometimes sinking into flesh. They’re doomed, too.

My hands fall to my belt and I pull my knives out. blood won’t make me lose my grip to these—the leather on their pommels fair sticks to my hands. I brandish them once and leap into the fray.

Yeah, true clarity.

My name is Cassandra Lao, and I lived.