Page 128 of The Oracle of Dusk

As the dust settled, palace soldiers rushed into the plaza, headed by General Stentor, adding more bodies to the confused mess. If Theron and Aurora went into the plaza, they risked getting caught between the furious paladins and soldiers. But if they stayed within the temple, there was a good chance it would come crumbling down on their heads. Who knew what other attacks the dualists had planned? Anyone not associated with either the temples or the palace was quickly fleeing the scene, ordinary citizens and likely some of the dualists mixed in.

“There, on the roof!” a paladin cried.

On top of the splintered entrance lintel of Knowledge’s temple stood a lone figure. With a blast of wind, he sailed from the wreckage of one temple onto the roof of another. Passion’s paladins raised a war cry as he touched down on their temple, scrambling to climb the temple or shoot him full of arrows. Just before he was overrun, another blast of air allowed him to land on Justice’s temple roof.

“Shit,” Theron cursed, dragging Aurora away from the temple entrance, covering her with his body as soldiers and paladins streamed back into the temple.

The dualist played with the enraged paladins and soldiers a few more times, leading them by their noses, expertly dodging every missile sent his way. This was a distraction, plain and simple, but the paladins and soldiers were too angry to realise. It still wasn’t safe to flee the temple, and so he shielded Aurora against one of the entrance pillars of the temple of Justice. When at last the dualist began blasting himself away from the temple plaza and across the roofs of nearby homes, Stentor seemed to regain the barest hint of sense.

“Secure the gates! Archers to the walls! Don’t let him escape!”

Anyone with a modicum of strategic thinking could see the dualist was the bait. No doubt his comrades were headed in the opposite direction, fleeing the city from one of the lesser gates, where soldiers were less likely to care about thorough inspections. If they hadn’t already left, treasure in tow, hours prior.

But like an angry bee’s nest, the paladins and soldiers followed the dualist, never considering that the real thieves might have been less brash than the man pirouetting across the roofs of the city towards the main gate. He had another sinking feeling in his gut.

“Aurora?”

“Yes?”

“Which gate is the princess escaping through?”

Her eyes widened with alarm as she realised the path the mob had taken. She swallowed nervously and looked away. He gripped her jaw in his hand and forced her to face him, his temper barely repressed. If Epicasta died in the brawl to come, he might be saddled with an even worse bride who wasn’t wise enough to know she should stay quiet and out of sight. One who might foolishly demand he lay with her, one who would be inclined to meddle in his affairs more than strictly necessary—one whose weakness he didn’t know. Or worse, Orithyia would take out her fury on him. It was her temple that had been attacked, after all.

“Which. Gate.”

“The main gate.”

“Stay here,” he ordered her, about to race after the mob.

“Theron, wait!”

She grabbed for his robe. He snatched it from her grip, levelling her with an accusatory glare.

“Pray your foolish pity hasn’t gotten the woman killed!”

She glared in return.

“Follow the West wall. It’s faster. Help her escape if you can.”

Theron took off at a sprint. He made it to the West wall and followed it without hindrance to the main gate. The mob had chased the dualist through the busiest thoroughfare, trampling carts and stalls and citizens alike. They were finally closing in as the dualist landed from the nearest roof onto the ground just inside the city gate, landing on top of a group of travellers. Stentor was screaming for the guards to close the gate, to no avail. Panicked citizens raced to and fro, desperate to escape being caught between the half-closed gate and the weapons wielded by the paladins and soldiers alike. Inside the gate, travellers dispersed as the dualist was surrounded by the guards and a familiar group—soldiers wearing the colours of Aureum and paladins wearing the reds of Passion.

His people were cut in half, some trapped outside, some inside. In the din, they wouldn’t hear his orders, wouldn’t know Epicasta’s face even if he ordered them to protect her. No one but him knew she was likely to be here.

In every frightened face, he sought the princess’ but she was nowhere to be seen in the melee. Theron pushed passed the fleeing people and the soldier manning the staircase to the top of the defensive wall. Racing to the top in spite of the shouts, he surveyed the scene from above. Then, as his eyes met those of his people inside and outside the gate, he caught sight of the princess, crawling away from the dualist who had used her as a cushion to break his fall. If he didn’t move quickly, she was likely to be trampled in the fighting. His people would follow him wherever he went, hopefully providing the protection they would need from the mob.

From his position on the top of the wall, he jumped, bracing for an impact that would break his bones. Severing his sensation of pain just before he hit the ground, his landing pushed fractured bones through skin and burst organs. He willed his magic to make him whole and was on his feet, blood soaking his clothes as he rushed into the tightening knot of soldiers and paladins. As the mob closed in, the dualist kept them at bay with powerful blasts and whips of air made into razor-sharp blades. Blood, limbs and soldiers went flying, but more and more rushed into the fray, replacing the fallen.

“Your Majesty!”

“His Majesty is injured!”

“Kill the dualist!”

“Tear him to pieces!”

Theron ignored their cries and dove into the middle of the melee, landing atop the princess. He grabbed her around her middle and rolled to his feet as she shrieked in pain. Theron shouldered through the onslaught of frenzied soldiers and paladins, letting their weapons cut him to ribbons, shielding the princess as best he could. When at last he’d made it outside the vicious huddle, a bloodcurdling, triumphant cry went up. Someone raised the dualist’s head high.

“Your Majesty!” one of his people cried.

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