Light detonates from my hands, the blast cracking through the night like thunder. The nearest Caelorian disintegrates—armor melting, bones atomizing into golden ash that rains over the square.
Kael doesn’t flinch. He’s already moving, carving through the line like judgment itself. Every strike is deliberate—an anatomy lesson in violence. He drives his zarethite blade through one man’s throat, rips it free, pivots, and opens another from hip to sternum in a single, fluid motion.
Teddy barrels past him, a blur of speed and precision, his axe cleaving a man in two so cleanly the body doesn’t fall until he’s already gone. Each swing leaves a shockwave in its wake—one that reverberates through the square like the heartbeat of war.
Seren crouches low on a fallen beam, loosing bolts faster than breath. Every trigger-pull is perfectly planned, every shot an orchestrated move to disrupt their ranks, working in time with Ronyn’s arrows that fly from the tree above for maximum carnage.
Ronyn balances on a forked branch, god metal arrows gleaming faintly in his quiver. His eyes are steady, movements calm amid the chaos. He doesn’t just shoot—he commands. One arrow through a helm. One in a kneecap. Another to spear swords from hands. The battlefield bends to his aim.
But Jax burns brightest of all. My light still coils through her like divine possession, gold veins spidering across her arms. She spins her chakram, and each sweep of the weapon slices through flesh and metal alike. Her grief has become a language the enemy can hear.
My mother defends like she’s proving a point—that she loves me. That she’ll fight to keep me safe. But I push past her, ripping my Starforged Blade through flesh.
Because I’ve fought for myself. Defended myself. Found safety in my pain.
We move as one—a unit of warriors who’ve memorized each other—our hurt, our joy, our technique.Everything.
And through it all, Kael.
Bleeding. Beautiful. Ruthless.
His eyes trained on Vaelor like his death is an overdue task.
He sheathes his blade again, refusing to let a weapon take his glory, stalking toward Caeloria’s prince with the promise of violence.
Vaelor breaks rank, fury twisting his face. “No shadows today, Prince Ka?—”
He never finishes the taunt.
Kael’s hand snaps up, shoving Vaelor’s forearm mid-swing, the clatter of his sword screeching across the gritty earth. Kael drives his knee into Vaelor’s chest, knocking the breath—and the arrogance—clean out of him.
“That’s for Eldric,” Kael snarls, but I know he’s not done.
Kael’s hand grips Vaelor’s throat. Strong, unrelenting, but not fatal. No. His grip is psychological.
Vaelor thrashes, clawing at Kael’s forearm. “You never knew when to shut the fuck up, Vaelor.”
Then his thumb finds the hollow beneath Vaelor’s jaw, driving up hard until bone splinters and his scream cuts off in a wet choke. The rain swallows the sound.
No fanfare.
No show.
No weapon.
No mercy.
Only him.
“That’s for Daelen and Merrik,” he whispers with finality.
And I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that Vaelor’s death will come with retribution. Queen Maireth will respond. But right now, I don’t have time to dwell on it. And I don’t care.
But before I can register movement?—
Kael takes a blade through the ribs. A wet, squelch rips through the air as Kael clutches his side where the soldier’s blade threaded through the slit in his armor.
“Kael!” I scream, my legs lurching into a sprint.
