Two against three was much fairer a fight than four against one.
Lyra gave a shout of rage when he saw Killian. His plan beginning to unravel.
Fyar barely spared Killian a glance before changing tactics. Killian read his intentions easily, moving to take on Lyra’s soldiers as Fyar went for the prince himself.
They pushed harder than ever, each blow felt like ten. Lyra’s soldiers could wield theirenin ways that Killian couldn’t, andthey wielded it well. Ruthless and heavy.
In that sense, Killian was at a disadvantage, but he didn’t need magic to beat two of Lyra’s traitors. His heart beat thundered in his chest, blood soaring through his veins. He felt alive with the challenge. With the danger.
There were only two outcomes to this night, fight and win or fight and die.
It was a rush.
Leaning into his anger, Killian barely felt it when a sword caught him in the side, avoiding being stuck through by the smallest margin. He used that chance to swing his sword as hard as he could. That close, his blade cut through flesh like butter, bringing down another.
Two were left.
Both halves of the twin blades found their mark as one: Killian’s tore across the side of his opponent as Fyar’s found home embedded in Lyra’s chest.
Lyra grunted, surprise flashing across his face. His sword clattered to the ground. He gripped Fyar’s arms as he went down. Fyar went with him, holding him all the while.
It was just days before, Killian had watched a scene very much like this one. Only it was a different golden hair elf that lay dying while family held them one last time.
Porthos and Lyra. Lyra and Fyar.
“I never could best you,” Lyra said letting out a wet laugh, marred by the pain. He took shallow and gasping breaths. Trembling, he touched his bloody fingers to Fyar’s cheek. “I won’t apologize.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did.” Fyar blinked down at his cousin. “I never wanted this. I never wanted to kill you, Lyra,that’s why I sent you away.”
“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could I?”
“It was never your way.”
Lyra was blinking fast, like it was getting harder and harder for him to focus. To summon the strength to talk. “It’s better this way. Take care of her…our Netyere.”
“I will,” Fyar promised, bringing their foreheads together.
Seemingly satisfied, Lyra let go. He let himself fade. “You and me, cousin?”
“You and me. To the end.”
Lyra smiled.
Fyar didn’t cry. He was the king, it wasn’t safe for him to cry here, even after all that had happened. He simply sat with Lyra, holding him.
Kade, standing where Killian had left him, had tears streaming down his cheeks.
Killian had only seen Fyar rage once, just after they had successfully carried out a plan ten years in the making. Killian’s sword had still been dripping blood and Numar’s body was staring unseeing up at the ceiling. Fyar had collapsed, crumbling in on himself as he sat in crazed disbelief at what they had just done.
Killian had stood dutifully by, looking over his new king, guarding his back. He’d been there, so it was safe for Fyar to be weak.
Not here. Not now.
Things were different this time.
Picking up Lyra’s abandoned sword, Fyar pushed to his feet. He stood with his back to them, closed his eyes, and turned hisface towards the stars.
No one moved for a long time.
