Page 164 of Kissed By the Gods
Ahead, Aruveth finishes conferring with the other leaders—including Ryot and the Elder. One by one, they nod, grim-faced. The Steward urges his beast high into the sky, rising above the Aishan Altor army spread out like a thin shield between the draegoths and the fragile city of Amarune. His faravar’s wings beat slowly, holding them aloft. As Aruveth turns to address the army, Ryot’s gaze catches mine, and the world narrows to the two of us. Grief burns in my chest, hot and raw, leaking into my eyes. I can feel it settling into my bones, the weight of everything we’re about to lose—everything we just now found.
But Ryot looks at me like the end of the world doesn’t matter. There’s no fear in his eyes, no hesitation—unbreakable resolve. The kind of resolve that can hold a crumbling wall with nothing but sheer will. The kind of resolve that says: I know what I’m giving. And I give it gladly.I cling to that. It anchors me even as everything else is falling apart.
“Warriors—I will not lie to you. The truth stands before us as plainly as the enemy on the horizon,” Aruveth shouts. “We are woefully outnumbered. This is not a battle we can win. But it is a battle we cannot forsake. Beyond these walls our mothers, our fathers, our wives, our children—they flee for safety. They dream of a tomorrow that is ours to give. They will yet live because we do not yield.”
The men raised their weapons in the air and a shout erupts as one. It is born, not of hope, but of resolve. As Aruveth is speaking, Drennek launches five larklings into the air, each of them heading for specific men—the commander of the second line, the center commander, the wings commander, the flank commander, and to the rearguard.
“We are the line!” Aruveth shouts. “We fight not for victory, but for purpose. Every moment we stand, we defy the darkness. Every breath we take, we steal those we love from the enemy’s grasp.”
Goosebumps prickle across my skin at the roar that rises from the men—a sound not of survival, but of love weaponized into unbreakable adamas.
This is the true power the Synod tried to breed out in favor of one loyalty.
These men will not falter. They will not break. They will hold the line.
The draegoths are drawing closer. We can make out the ghostly looking Kher’zenn on their backs now. The Aishan archers in the front—row after row of them—take to the skies, arrows nocked and at the ready. Faelon is with them, his bow pulled tight.
A larkling lands nearby, at the rearguard tower. We are the last line of defense for Amarune—a line made up of wards and their masters. An officer opens the scroll clenched in its talons, reading it quickly.
“Leina and Leif of Stormriven,” he calls out and my heart sinks in my chest. He turns toward us, though we don’t say a word.
“The Elder has demanded you make for the Synod, to alert Faraengard of the Kher’zenn attack. You are to evacuate Princess Rissa with you, to warn of the Kher’zenn attack.”
The denial tearing itself from my throat. “No,” I whisper raggedly.
I want to fight.
Ineedto fight.
I can’t be the only one to survive this. I can’t survive when Ryot doesn’t. I turn pleading eyes to Thalric. I know he’ll understand. He’d never leave Nyrica to this.
But Thalric’s shoulders sag in stark relief. He turns hard eyes on us.
“Go. Now,” he orders.
Leif is a better soldier than I. He turns his faravar and launches off the opposite side of the wall without question, toward Amarune. His beast flies low, sand billowing up in his wake, until he spots Princess Rissa. She’s running with the others, holding a small child against her chest. When Leif lands, Rissa turns to pass the child back to an elderly woman, a grandmother, maybe, but the woman shoves the baby back into Rissa’s arms. The grandmother drops to her knees, hands clasped together. Begging—begging for this life to be saved.
Rissa doesn’t hesitate, taking the child with her as she mounts in front of Leif, clutching the screaming babe to her chest. The girl’s tiny arms reach desperately for the grandmother as Leif’s faravar lifts into the sky, carrying them toward the Valespire Peaks. I watch them climb higher and higher, two tiny figures against a pale pink sky. That is one Aishan who will survive today’s slaughter.
One.
“Leina!” Thalric shouts to be heard over the beat of the draegoths’ wings. They’re so close.
I pivot away from the devastation unfolding beyond the walls—the civilian evacuation is collapsing into chaos. The very young, the very old, already stumbling, already staggering, even though they have leagues and leagues of brutal desert before them. Their chances shrink with every breath.
“Now, Leina!” Those words—they take me back, but I’m not sure where. I’ve heard them before.
“Leina!" Thalric roars, urgency ripping from his throat.
I’m frozen, caught between duty and despair. In a daze, my eyes sweep the battlefield. The first wave of Aishan archers loose their arrows, and a handful of draegoths scream silently as they tumble from the sky, crashing into the ocean with thunderous splashes. Another wave flies forward—another scatter of kills.
But it's not enough—not nearly enough.
They still come—an endless tide of wings and death.
My gaze snaps to the v-formation—the center of our defense. I find Aruveth, the Elder, Nyrica. And Ryot.
Ryot twists in his saddle, locking eyes with me across the chaos. His face is twisted in fury, in a silent, brutal command—GO.
