I know he's right. The knowledge doesn't help.
Altin lunges—a killing thrust. The form is perfect. Years ago, he used that exact strike to demonstrate technique to two children who thought swords were toys.
Zoran doesn't block. He flows sideways, letting the blade pass, and drives his sword into the gap between breastplate and shoulder.
Light-crystal steel punches through and emerges from Altin's back.
"I'm sorry." Zoran catches him as he falls, lowering him to the mud. "I'm sorry it came to this."
Altin looks up. Blood froths at his lips. "You... chose correctly." The words come wet and slow. "Your father... he's become something... something that would make your mother weep."
Then his eyes go empty, and Zoran is kneeling in the mud beside the body of a man who helped raise us.
Something cracks in my chest. Not grief—not exactly. Something bigger. The world we grew up in is gone. Every bond, every certainty, every familiar thing—gone. Bleeding out in the mud of this valley.
A roar from the command pavilion snaps my attention back.
Father.
His armor blazes with light magic—so bright it washes out everything around him. He's fighting Morwenna's commander, and their battle sends shockwaves across the field, flattening anyone too close. Light and wild magic tear at the air, opening rips that show glimpses of somewhere else.
"We need to end this," I say.
I look at my sword. The twilight magic pulses through it, light and shadow finally working together instead of fighting. The pressure in my chest has become something else—not pain, not fear. Power. Mine.
I glance at Kaan, he arches his sword, a smirk spread across his face. “Let’s do this then.”
We charge.
Father's elite guard meets us at the edge of the pavilion. These aren't conscripts or frightened soldiers—these are the Light Court's best, hand-picked and battle-hardened. They move in perfect coordination, shields locking together, blades finding every gap.
It doesn't matter.
My twilight magic and Kaan's shadows weave together. I strike and darkness follows, amplifying every blow. He attacks and light flares along the edges, burning where shadow cuts. We've never fought like this before—never trusted each other enough to let our magic merge completely.
The elite guards fall. One. Three. Seven. Their perfect coordination shatters against something they've never faced—something they have no training for.
And then we're through, and Father is turning away from the commander to face us.
He looks at me.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The battle rages around us—screaming, steel, dying men—but here, in this small circle of trampled mud and fallen bodies, there is only my father and me.
"Daughter." His voice cuts through the chaos. "You came after all." His gaze darts to one of his guards who has stumbled out of the fight and towards him. He reaches for the guard, touching his shoulder, like it gives him strength. “You wouldn’t hurt your own father, you’re too good for that.”
I force my voice to stay steady. "You're wrong."
I raise my sword. The twilight magic responds, flaring bright enough to throw shadows even against his blazing light. My hands are trembling. I tighten my grip until they stop.
Father studies me. The armor I'm wearing—shadow-steel and leather. The weapon in my hands—both light and dark forged together. The way I stand beside Kaan, shoulder to shoulder. Not behind him. Not apart from him.
Equal.
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment? Grief? It's gone before I can name it, replaced by the cold certainty I've known my entire life.
“Please, Nesilhan don’t force me to raise my hand.”
I snort. “Fucking raise it, so I can cut it off.”
