Page 65 of The Sundered Blade

The crowd disintegrated into chaos. Cries of fear mingled with running feet, terrified courtiers collided and fell, and shrieks of pain rose from those who were trampled in the rush to be anywhere but between this terrifying newcomer and the King of Garimore.

But still standing in the road were the manacled prisoners, surrounded by guards who now turned towards Kyrion, weapons held in shaking hands.

“I have no quarrel with you,” Kyrion told them, lifting the broadsword as if it weighed nothing, and spinning it casually through the air. “I want only two things. I want the red-haired woman who was taken alongside these prisoners, and I want the life of your king. If you stand aside, I will not harm you.”

“He’s going to run,” Karreya said in Vaniell’s ear. “My father has no physical courage, and if he realizes who Kyrion is, he will flee.”

Vaniell was searching the crowd of prisoners and finally spotted the one he needed most…

Slipping his enchanted key into Karreya’s hand, he leaned closer, keeping his eyes fixed on the frozen form of Modrevin. “Can you free Lord Kellen?”

“I can,” she promised. “And the others too, if you wish it, though I cannot promise to leave the guards unscathed.”

“Only do not put yourself at risk,” he said, squeezing her hand and looking down at her with utmost confidence. “I trust you to do what’s needed.”

“And you.” She reached up suddenly and placed her palm on his cheek. “Stay alive, Abreian. And know that no matter what happens, I will find you.”

Swift as a rising wave, she rose on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. They were soft and warm and light, like the touch of spring sunshine after a dark winter, and then they were gone as she vanished into the surrounding chaos.

There was no time to savor the feeling. No time to linger in the rush of joy that accompanied it. Vaniell could only tuck it away, deep in the only corner of his heart where bleak cynicism could not reach, and promise himself that their first kiss would not be their last.

He would see her again. He would kiss her again, properly this time. And he would find a way for them to be together. No matter what stood between them.

As he took his first steps toward the stairs, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kyrion heft the massive sword and begin advancing on the guards. They spread out to face him, weapons held in trembling hands, but ready to do their duty, because they had no idea who they truly faced.

And up at the top of the steps, Modrevin watched as if in a dream.

“Kyrion, your hood!” Vaniell shouted. “Show him your face.”

And miraculously, the night elf listened. He released the catch of his cloak and stripped it away, and in the stunned silence that followed, three of the guards dropped their weapons.

“Stand firm,” their leader ordered. “This is the very threat we have prepared to confront, and there is only one of him. We must protect the king!”

Kyrion moved towards them, one slow and deliberate step after another. “Before you throw away your life in defense of a liar, Boregar, you should know who I am.”

While the eye of every guard was on Kyrion, Karreya slipped behind their ranks and began unlocking the prisoners’ manacles one by one. And as she did so, Vaniell turned and raced for the stairs, knees trembling with urgency, praying she could release them before the battle was joined.

“You have faced me before,” Kyrion called out, “but you have never defeated me.”

“How do you know my name, night elf?” Boregar spat. “I have never seen you before.”

“You saw me nearly every day for ten years.” Kyrion’s voice seemed to freeze the very air around them until it crackled with tension, holding every eye but Karreya’s. “It was I who wore that black armor. I who was enslaved by your king’s magic to obey his vicious whims. But the skill was mine, and you know well what will happen if you continue to stand in my path.”

“It isyouwho lies,” the guard said fiercely. “Our king has ever stood against the use of magic. He would never employ the likes of you, or choose such a wicked path as you suggest.”

“If you choose to stand with him, then you can die beside him,” Kyrion roared, and he leaped, swinging that impossible sword over his head in a move that would have sliced clean through anyone fool enough to stand in his way.

Vaniell opened his mouth to cry out in protest, knowing he could do nothing to stop the violence and the bloodshed but needing to try.

The words died in his throat. The world slowed to a crawl, and he could not move so much as a finger as everything seemed to happen at once.

As if someone had stepped on an anthill, the prisoners scattered, targeting the guards as they went, catching them by surprise and relieving many of them of their weapons. Kyrion met the leaders with the clang of steel against steel, while Modrevin watched as if in disbelief, unable to contend with the disintegration of his plan. He took a step backward, and then another, and Vaniell’s eyes were still on his face when the gates to the palace grounds blew in with a roar that shook the very stones beneath their feet.

An eye-searing burst of flame raked the ground, and smoke billowed up as the grass and the trees caught fire.

Three guards lay on the carriage road, their blood staining the golden stone, but the others were no longer concerned with Kyrion. Every eye had turned to the walls, every tongue froze in terror, and every heart stopped as the flames died and revealed the impossible creature advancing through the rubble of the shattered gates.

A dragon.

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