The roots strike first.
They surge through the floor near my boots, rising up to strike like serpents. They try to bind me, try to constrict me, and I cut them all down, praying the throne tree will forgive me. Another aims for my throat, and I dodge, rolling out of the way. My wardens face the same struggles, making no headway as another wave of tendrils emerges from below.
This has to end now.
I slash my way through the tainted growth, cold deepening with every step forward. Farandir lifts his bony hand, magic surging, and I’m overcome with thewrongnessof it. It’s more than cold, more than frost; it’s rotting and infected. The once-majestic roots blacken, exuding a putrid, foul sludge that seeps into the ground while the king’s demented laughter echoes.
My men cry out, horrified as their weapons corrode in their hands, panic spreading through them like a disease, leaving them vulnerable and exposed.
Our reinforcements could not have better timing. Torn between saving my men and finishing the mission, Valenar and the rest of our company break through like sun after a storm, sparing me the choice.
“Good to see you alive!” he shouts my way.
“Yoo too!” I answer, bolstered by the sight of my second alive and well.
“His magic is feeding off the tree—cut him off!” he calls. In the next moment, he ignites a couple of oozing tendrils, and disappears behind the wall of flames.
Tightening my grip on my sword, I hack through Farandir’s corruption, each step growing heavier. I can’t stop. Can’t give up. If Farandir isn't stopped, this corruption will destroy the entire reach, and my men depend on me to end this nightmare.
Farandir roars when he sees I’m still advancing. With a guttural snarl, he sends a desperate surge of magic, a maelstrom of dark roots, ice, and rot. I turn into the storm, the hardened armor of my back taking the brunt of the blow. In the last moment, with only steps between us, I see something flicker in the endless voids of the king’s eyes—fear? Relief? Maybe my own guilt and regret, haunting me amid the battle's chaos.
Without a moment to consider any of it, I cleave through the final defensive roots and plunge my sword into Farandir’s chest.
For a heartbeat, it’s as if time stops. Then, the thread holding Farandir’s magic to the reach snaps. His contaminated roots convulse like a dying animal, then slither away, back into the floor. The throne tree lets out a long, groaning creak, and a single brittle leaf drifts down, turning to dust at my feet.
The king is dead. But the battle isn’t won yet; chaos erupts outside the throne room as Val calls for back-up.
Without the fuel of the corrupted roots, the wall of fire is nothing but smoldering embers, and I don’t even register the heat underfoot as I rush to the aid of my men.
In the hall beyond, loyalists with nothing left to lose launch their frenzied attacks. I push to the frontline, raising my blade and planting my feet.
“Hold the line! This isn’t over yet,” I call out.
Shoulder-to-shoulder with Valenar, I’m almost convinced things might turn out all right. We fight together as a unit, two sides of the same blade. He’s fluid and precise, while I’m brutal and efficient. Together, we’re the deadliest soldiers the Emerald Wardens have ever seen, and the king’s guards don’t stand a chance, no matter how worn-down we are.
Val flourishes his blade as he fights off another guard. “That all you got?” he taunts, not seeing the loyalist lunging in from his blind spot.
There’s no time to warn him. No time to think. I just move, putting myself between Val and the attacker. The blade meant for him sinks into my side, and the world narrows to that sharp, burning sensation.
Valenar has another quip on the tip of his tongue when he cuts the guard down, but his gaze falls on me. His expression morphs to panic, neither one of us looking away from the dark blood seeping through my fingers where I’m clutching my side. Dashing toward me before I fall, he’s the only thing to keep me upright when I stagger.
“Xan,” he says, fear bleeding into his voice. “Why’d you do that? You idiot. Just…just hold on, okay?” Looking around frantically, he searches through the dwindling fight. “Can we get some healing over here?”
“No,” I rasp. “We’re not done yet.” Not until the fighting is over.
I won’t let my men think I’ve abandoned them.
Clutching my side with my off-hand, I lift my sword, booming to the hall, “Farandir is dead! Long live the reach!”
My men answer with a rallying cheer, the sight of seeing me upright, wounded but unbroken, giving them the second wind needed.
As the last loyalists surrender, the hall plunges into silence, only the labored breathing of the survivors filling the void.The excitement of battle ebbs, and relief brings me to my knees.
The pool of my own blood surrounding me makes me wonder if it wasn’t relief that brought me down.
Valenar drops to my side, clutching my wound where my hand has fallen limp. “Xan, stay with us. We’re not done,” he says, low enough for only me to hear, but with more urgency than I’ve ever heard from him. I wish I could see what a great king he’ll make.
I blink slowly, the ghost of a smile curling my lips as I pull his letter from my belt. “Told you,” I say, pressing it into his hand.
