More scales erupt across my forearms, spreading toward my elbows. My strength amplified—not a full dragon, but enough. My shoulder connects with the hound’s body at full speed. The impact tears through ice and crown-magic and wrong-jointed limbs. The hound shatters—not from strategic violence but from overwhelming force. My power flares, interrupting its reformation before it can begin.
The other two hounds react instantly. One launches at my exposed back. The other goes for Zephyra.
No.
I spin, but I’m too slow. The hound’s teeth close on my side, punching through armor and leather and flesh to scrape against ribs. The pain hits like lightning—white and blinding and absolute.
I take the thing’s head in both hands—scales spread across my knuckles, grip absolute—and tear.
The hound’s teeth come with it, still embedded in my side. Blood pours down my flank, hot against the cold air. My vision wavers for a half-second before I force it steady.
Four down.
One left.
The last Hound has Zephyra cornered against the far wall. She’s holding it at bay with her magic—silver light flickering around her fingers, creating a barrier that the hound can’t breach. But the barrier’s weakening. I can see the strain in her face, the tremor in her arms.
The Auric Veil’s drained too much from her. She can’t maintain this for long.
I cross the waystation in three strides. The hound senses me coming—turns to face me with teeth bared and eyes blazing. I don’t give it time to react.
My hands close around its skull. Claws dig into ice. I squeeze.
The crown-fire flares, fighting back. The thing’s magic pushes against my power, trying to reform faster than I can destroy. For a long moment, we’re locked in a stalemate—my power against its divine animation.
I push harder.
The skull collapses. Crown-fire dies. The body drops.
Five down. None remaining.
I stand there for a moment, breathing hard. Blood runs freely down my side, pooling in the frost at my feet. The wound was the worst I’d taken in decades—deeper than the axe-strike, deeper than anything since. The hound’s teeth tore through muscle, scored bone, opened a vessel inside me that shouldn’t be open.
The Crown Hounds outclassed the Sentinels in every way that mattered. The Arbiter’s escalating—sending better hunters, learning from what the Sentinels revealed about my capabilities.
The Sentinels were a measurement. These Hounds were a declaration.
I know what comes next. Frost-Bearers—the former rulers who refused crowns, bound into weapons that plead for death while they kill. I’ve heard stories about them. Seen the aftermath of their hunts. The psychological damage they leave behind is worse than the physical.
And if those don’t work, the Arbiter has worse. The Crown Herald. Its lieutenant, carrying a fragment of divine authority. That’s what it sends when it wants someone dead beyond doubt, beyond recovery, beyond the possibility of reformation.
That’s what’s coming. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The Arbiter is patient—endlessly, eternally patient—but it doesn’t stop. It escalates until the threat is eliminated, no matter how long it takes.
Next time, it’ll send worse.
My vision’s graying at the edges. Not good.
“Tyr.”
Zephyra’s voice cuts through the fog. Her hands find my arms, steadying me when I didn’t realize I was swaying.
“The wound.” She’s already moving, pulling me away from the dead hound, guiding me toward the wall. “Sit. Now.”
Every instinct says to refuse. To stand, to keep going. More hounds could be coming. The Arbiter knows we’re here now.
My legs give out before I form the words.
I hit the ground harder than I intend, my back against the stone wall, my hand pressed to the wound in my side. Blood wells between my fingers—between claws that haven’t fully retracted. Too much blood. The dragon healing that saved me before is working, but not fast enough. Not when the injury’s this severe.
