Then came the hooves—unmistakable, thunderous, shaking the ground like a war drum.
The Vorash shrieked and launched from the plank, wings beating hard enough to shake feathers loose.
Mettius froze, turning slowly to look over his shoulder.
Augustus followed the sound—hoofbeats, growing louder?—
Impossible…
A herd of Sandstone Elk was storming the beach.
Six flaming arrows flew as one.
A flicker of orange trailed behind each shaft as they sliced through the mist, then disappeared inside the vent.
The silence was absolute.
Then—
A sound like the world inhaling.
Fire erupted.
The vent ignited in a spiraling blaze, racing backward into the unseen tunnels beneath the mountain. For a single heartbeat, nothing else moved.
Then the ground shuddered.
Far below—deep and distant—the mountain groaned.
A thunderclap split through the training hall, and in the far reaches ofthe stone walls, a muffled explosion boomed—low and distant, but powerful enough to make dust rain from the ceiling.
Somewhere in the belly of Black Spear Mountain, the poison had met its match.
Fire nipped at the heels of the Sandstone Elk. Small bursts, spitting through the grass, never touching hide, just enough to drive the herd down the sharp incline, through the reeds, and across the sand.
Little Gus.
Augustus laughed, wild and breathless. He’d never been so happy to see that little bastard.
The ground shuddered under the weight of the oncoming herd.
Thorne blinked, reeling back—knife still in hand. “What?—?”
Augustus drove a fist under his chin.
The pirate captain staggered, but rebounded fast, lunging with the blade.
Augustus twisted, caught Thorne’s wrist, and ripped the sword from Thorne’s own belt. Momentum found him, and he moved like memory. Like blood on water.
Like a Triarius.
Several men surged forward, weapons raised.
Augustus didn’t wait. Sunlight gleamed across silver, the weight of the sword already singing in his hand. He spun. Arced. Carved. A slash across the gut. A cut behind the knee. One man fell, then another.
He was fury and vengeance. An answer for all the lives taken. He swung high. Ducked low. He painted the sand in strokes of red.
“He’s mine!” Thorne roared into the chaos.
