Page 88 of The Sundered Blade

And then there was nothing left but silence.

The two armies regarded one another across the gap, and the few who had been caught by the enchantment stood in the bottom of the trench, looking up in confusion, as if uncertain how to proceed.

And in that moment of uncertainty, Vaniell stepped back, looked to Danric, and nodded.

And after only a moment’s pause, Danric moved forward, striding resolutely to the edge of the trench before addressing the imperial troops. His face was set, his shoulders square, and his tone rang with implacable resolve.

“I am Danric, former Prince of Garimore, now King of Farhall and duly appointed representative of the Five Thrones of Abreia. You have invaded our lands, destroyed homes, crops, and lives, and threatened the peace of our continent without provocation. But whatever your aims, you have failed. Your dragons have fallen, and your leader has been defeated.” He lifted the sword in his hand and Vaniell watched as recognition dawned on the enemies’ faces. “Your General Urquadi was honorably vanquished in single combat and this blade is now mine, along with the leadership of the troops under his command. Surrender, and we will return you to your home as a show of mercy.”

Vaniell expected them to either drop their weapons or defy Danric’s order, but every remaining imperial soldier dropped to one knee, bowed their heads, and raised their weapons in salute.

Only one remained standing, and he walked to the edge of the trench opposite Danric before following suit, his clenched fist tapping his chest as he took a knee. “By right of honorable victory, we are indeed yours to command, Your Majesty. But we beg you to show mercy and allow us to fall on our swords rather than return in disgrace.”

Shock and revulsion shook Vaniell to his core, but he was ruler of himself once more and no hint of that unease showed on his face as Danric answered.

“You will live,” he said grimly. “My first decree is that every one of you will live. Whether it is here or there, I will not presume to choose, but for as long as I have the power to decide, no one else will die for the sake of this senseless war.”

Vaniell turned away then, searching the crowd for familiar faces, and found them. Commander Ibbley, Lord Kellan, Jacek, and then the black wyvern, who touched down gracefully and transformed into the tall, white-haired form of Kyrion. He was clearly weary, but as his gray eyes met Vaniell’s, there was nothing to be seen but relief. Approval. And understanding.

A nod passed between them, and it felt oddly like more than friendship.

It felt like… brotherhood.

But Vaniell could not yet allow himself to feel the warmth of it, or the relief of knowing that the battle was over.

“Karreya,” he said. “I have to find her. I have to know…”

“Go,” Danric said, his eyes filled with compassion. “Find Lythienne. We will take care of everything.”

And so he went. Kyrion walked beside him, too weary to transform again, but catching him every time he stumbled. Leisa walked on his other side, her expression fierce, her eyes still as bright as the silver markings on her skin that had yet to fade.

“My mother is a healer without peer,” Kyrion said firmly. “If anyone can save Karreya, she can.”

But Vaniell had seen the blade that pierced her. Had felt her blood pouring out onto the ground and seen her eyes close. Held her as her body went limp. It was difficult to imagine that even night elf magic would be enough. Not when he’d looked inside himself, and found that the bright warmth of the beacon was gone. He could no longer feel which direction to go, and the loss terrified him.

They found Lythienne beyond the walls, on the last bit of unstained grass beneath an oak tree that had somehow survived destruction. The sun seemed ignorant of the ugliness it had witnessed, and now shone down brightly from a sky marred only by the last rising plumes of smoke.

In a patch of shade beneath the tree, Vaniell dropped to his knees beside Karreya where she lay on the grass, a bandage wrapped around her torso. Her limbs were still, her clothing was torn and stained with blood, and those bright golden eyes were closed in her deathly pale face.

“Is she…” He took her hand in trembling fingers and choked on everything he’d never said to her, everything he wished he’d done to protect her, every feeling of unworthiness that wondered why, out of everyone in this world, she’d chosen him. That choice had cost her, just as it had cost everyone who’d ever loved him.

“I don’t know what you are imagining,” Lythienne said tartly from above him, “but I am not one of your incompetent human healers.”

Vaniell blinked up at her in confusion.

“Her wounds were deep and messy, but nothing beyond my skill,” the night elf said, her tone gentling with compassion. “She will sleep for some time, but she will recover.”

She would recover.

Karreya would live. Hanselm was safe. Modrevin was dead, and the Empress hadlost.

It was more than he could take in. More than his heart could safely contain. Vaniell allowed himself to fall back and sit on the grass, turning his face up to the sky and watching as the smoke gradually cleared and the world grew brighter, one moment at a time.

The world would continue to grow brighter.

There was so much left to do, and the days to come would hold little time to rest or reflect on how the devil he’d gotten to this moment, where he was surrounded by such an unforeseen group of friends and allies. Where Danric embraced him as a friend, and he counted a night elf as his brother. Where he’d defeated a pair of imperial battle mages and laid claim to the Throne of Garimore. And most important of all, where he held the hand of a beautiful assassin and waited for the moment she would wake up so he could tell her how much he loved her.

A strange warmth and lightness spread from his chest to his limbs and he closed his eyes, trying to identify it. It was strangely unfamiliar, and yet…

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