Page 72 of The Sundered Blade

Somewhere he believed the dragon could not reach him. Somewhere the forces arrayed against him would not think to go…

“He will try to regain the illusion of control,” Vaniell stated swiftly. “Somewhere that makes him feel powerful.”

They exchanged a quick glance before Kyrion said, “Audience chamber.”

Kyrion broke into a run, and Vaniell did his best to keep up. Twice, they encountered a group of palace staff scurrying through the hall, but both times, their approach seemed to terrify the servants into disappearing.

Someone needed to gather them together. Tell them what was happening and lead them to safety. If the dragon attacked the palace itself, the safest place might be in the dungeons below, but Vaniell doubted anyone would agree to enter that subterranean labyrinth without a compelling argument.

They rounded a corner, and discovered a handful of guards arrayed against them in a semicircle, blades drawn.

“There is no need to…” Vaniell started to say “no need to kill them,” but he was too slow, and Kyrion had no intention of stopping.

Rather than raise his blade, he lifted his left hand and unleashed a torrent of pure magic. Like a strong wind rushing through the halls, it bowled over the guards and sent their weapons flying. Then, with a flick of Kyrion’s fingers, the wind died and turned thick and sluggish. The prone guards struggled to rise, only to find themselves pinned to the floor by the invisible hand of Kyrion’s power.

“That’s…” Vaniell found himself feeling terrified anew by the strength of the night elf’s magic. He’d always known Kyrion could wield vast amounts of power, butthis?

“It will hold until we have finished with the imposter,” Kyrion growled and Vaniell swallowed his misgivings. The guards would live—at least until he’d had a chance to tell them the truth about Modrevin—and that was all that mattered in this moment.

They continued through the echoing halls of the palace, past the ballroom and finally took a right into a short hallway that ended at the imposing double doors of the audience chamber.

Kyrion did not so much as pause, but hit them with his shoulder, once, twice, then a third time, and the third hit broke through whatever barricade had been placed to bar the way.

Vaniell stepped forward, and they moved through the doorway, where they found themselves facing Modrevin’s final desperate attempt to hide from the consequences of his unspeakable tyranny.

The chamber was not large, but it was built to impress, with tall ceilings, polished marble floors, gilt wall sconces, and red velvet curtains. The dais at the head of the room was reached by a dozen steps, leaving the petitioners on the floor at a level well below that of the golden throne at its center.

But that very height meant that Vaniell had a clear view of the man who waited beside the glittering chair, eyes wild and hair askew, his grip on the back of the throne white-knuckled in its intensity.

And standing between them? Instead of guards, Modrevin had gathered a crowd of palace staff—maids, footmen, gardeners, cooks, and even the steward, Unger. All of them huddled together in a terrified mass, facing Vaniell and Kyrion, and all of them held some form of weapon in trembling hands. There were swords, daggers, axes, even a kitchen knife, all either borrowed from the castle armory or simply taken up along the way.

A snarled oath ripped from Kyrion’s throat as he stalked forward, looking as if he intended to charge right through the crowd.

“You will have to kill them to reach me.” Modrevin’s voice was fierce and almost shrill. “They are loyal to me above all, and they will never allow me to fall while they yet live.”

He’d probably given them some unspeakable choice. Defend their king, or go beyond the walls as bait for the dragon that awaited there. Or perhaps he’d threatened their families. With Modrevin, there was always some trick of control through fear. Some leverage that allowed him to bend and twist and manipulate.

“You assume that I care whether a handful of pitiful humans live or die,” Kyrion responded harshly. “You are the one who made a monster of me, so why would you test the strength of my thirst for your blood?”

“You are mistaken,” Modrevin said, beginning to sound more sure of himself. “They are not a test for you, my Raven, but for my son.”

At the sound of those words on Modrevin’s lips, Vaniell flinched. How could this man continue to pretend that they were related? How could he think Vaniell would still value his esteem?

“To what lengths will the boy go to save them, I wonder?” Modrevin’s voice grew smooth and mocking. “Will he choose to spare them at the cost of his own desires? Value their pitiful lives above his own? Or will he choose to take his revenge for the wrongs he imagines I have dealt him, thereby proving himself the same heedless wastrel he has always been?”

The imposter was desperate indeed if he no longer cared who might discover what a monster he was.

And then Modrevin turned his attention towards Kyrion. “And if he does choose to spare them, I wonder how my son will react when you give in to your hatred and kill them in order to reach me? Because you will, Raven. You see, I know you. I know your mind, and I know your soul, and in the end?” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “You will kill them all.”

Vaniell expected his friend to react with denial. With cold anger. Even with violence. But not with fear.

As Modrevin’s last words fell into silence, Kyrion’s eyes flew wide. A cry ripped from his throat—perhaps the most pained and desperate sound Vaniell had ever heard. Slowly—ever so slowly—the broadsword in Kyrion’s hand rose through the air, gripped by fingers that shook with the strain. The tendons in his wrists and his neck stood out from his skin, and his teeth bared as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“No!” It was a sound of purest agony and despair, and when Vaniell turned towards Modrevin in confusion, he saw understanding blossom on the imposter’s face.

Understanding, along with a vicious sense of satisfaction and anticipation.

“Oh, but this is delightful,” the king murmured. “I don’t know how, but you, my darling son, have finally justified every moment of heartache you have ever caused me.”

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