Adélia Amal’ethar, flower of Luneder, dove of Gohenur, and hope of Anardes, fought with weapons too cruel in a valley too beautiful. Her spear and her sword skated and skimmed. She moved like a wind through trees. Scarlet more brilliant than blood, emerald more sparkling than the grass. Steel colder than ice. There were quiet prayers, broken hopes, and tears blacker than the night. And no starlight came to her aid.


    Where there should have been song, silence.


    Where there would have been flow, blockage.


    Adélia, you prefer knights … swordplay … you are an Amal’ethar.


    Mother.


    To aid you in that quest, I have something for you.


    Father.


    Their faces were impossibly lovely and kind, their voices infinitely sustaining. She was not a little girl anymore, playing at war games with a wooden spear, but her parents’ memory still nourished her, still drove her, still broke her.


    She ran onward now, not through flowers, not through welcoming city streets, but over bloodied land and dying men. And they parted before her, falling to the allure of her bladed arms, while others rallied around her, shouted her name, showered her with praises.


    Amarant. What did that mean? What did it bring?


    Though the mission before her was clear, she had never felt as in the dark before. Like a star that had forgotten how to spin, how to sail o’er the night sky. Adélia wished for the healing of the world. She still did. Stronger now than when she had been young. But it was so hard to hold on to that aching flame.


    And Asphales… where was Asphales Esélinor?


    There was no time to think. Fire dropped from the sky, a blaze that lit up and fed on grass and fallen flesh. The Order was desperate to halt the Empire’s advance, to try and trap them. A group of Fara’ethar’s men was scattered by a hail of burning arrows.


    Adélia gathered herself. She was needed here. Needed to take the western flank of the valley. She approached the fire.


    Along the way, she noticed Guldar. He was enmeshed in metal, his armour adding to his already sizeable form. His hammer routed those who dared to cross his path.


    ‘Guldar!’ she called out. The sub-commander turned after his foe collapsed.


    ‘My lady?’


    ‘Please, find Asphales. Find him, and take the east. I’ll hold them off here. Darius has already gone on ahead to the front.’


    Without complaint, Guldar nodded and trotted off, rounding up a few followers.


    Another wave of arrows fell, their shrill whistle rousing a company of shielded spearmen to gather about Adélia and put up a defensive wall. When their shields lowered, the hillside was almost engulfed in flames. Thick, scorching banners created a heated corridor. Disoriented, a few soldiers were caught off-guard by the Order’s forces emerging through the blaze. Adélia directed the spearmen towards the conflict. When they clashed, the heat drew out even more sweat and warmed their weapons.


    Fire. Like Feres. Like Luneder.


    Adélia gritted her teeth as Oneledim extinguished another life.


    Then one stood among the fire, untouched and unaffected. A shape far too familiar, a phantom in red and black.


    The battlefield fell away. Recognition pierced her like shards of glass, and the hooded man before shattered into focus. A quaint, quiet voice. A cold and deceptive veneer. Eyes like quartz.


    Umar he called himself. The assassin from the night of fire.


    ‘You,’ Adélia called out. She tried to summon the pent-up rage that had festered for years in the forest, biding. But she sounded weak. No different than the little girl who had stood powerless on those docks twelve years prior.


    Umar pushed over a freshly killed soldier, his twin daggers slicked with lifeblood. He eyed her, and if the assassin remembered, it did not show. Perhaps that angered Adélia even more. She approached, grabbing hold of a spear belonging to a fallen warrior. She hurled it towards the assassin like a javelin. He stepped aside.


    ‘Hello again, little dove,’ he said, dispassionate.


    So, he did remember.


    ‘Where is he?’ Adélia asked. She fought back heavy breaths. Here was a piece of the past, a bridge. Something within her seized and threatened to burst.


    ‘I don’t have time for you,’ came the dismissive reply, and he turned away. He began a slow walk into the flames.


    ‘No!’ Adélia screamed. She looked up. Above the rising smoke, a group of sentries were nocking bows, lighting flame, aiming. Soon, this area would be peppered with arrows. A platoon of the Order’s men lay in wait, ready to rush in after the volley.


    No. She would not lose him. She felt the decisive spring of her step as the whistling picked up overhead. The men behind her shouted incomprehensibly after her as shields went up again. But Adélia was gone. She leaped through flame in pursuit of the assassin. The smoke bit at her eyes, tested her nose, tempted her throat. Yet she ran on, spear in hand.


    Breaking through to the other side, she caught Umar’s fleeing shape. He was heading up a hillock towards the fortress itself. He cast a glance backwards and saw her. He broke into a run.


    Adélia followed and prepared for another throw. Oneledim was in position a second later, and with a stilled breath, she released the lance. It sailed true across the gap between her mound and his and landed. The assassin cried out and stumbled as the spear tore into his leg. Drawing out her shortsword, Adélia dashed ahead. Umar kicked free of the weapon, hopped away, and dragged himself across a cobblestone path and into a side chamber in the fortress, perhaps a storeroom of sorts.


    When she drew close to the path, Adélia retrieved her spear. Above, something caught her eye. Over the steep and crooked ramparts of the fortress, she beheld a strange patch of veiling grey above the fortress’ crown where a bizarre, solitary storm cloud was forming though all the sky was clear. But she paid it no further mind, as there was now a trail of blood to track. Coming up to the moss-covered wall, she pushed against a wooden door and barged inside.


    By the light streaming in through high openings, the speckled crimson trail running along the chipped and chiselled stone floor revealed the assassin had been heading towards the back of the enclosure. It wound through strewn crates and benches loaded with old kegs and over the threshold of another entrance. Adélia prowled low, tracing the path. It led her into a darker chamber, and here, the assassin had tried to shake his pursuer. The blood trail split erratically. No matter. She would find him.


    But in the end, it was Umar who found her. After a time with her ears perked for a hint of breath or shuffle, something other than the rushing blood within and the voices in her mind. Adélia dove for cover when she heard a light, feathery movement from the shadows. Umar had been in hiding, and perhaps because he realised he would not shake her, decided to launch an offensive first. His dagger bounced off the bricks.


    Then, Umar slinked out of the cramped rafters. She saw him up close now. He had aged. The edges of his face hardened and more lines criss-crossed his pale skin like splaying rivers. But that cold and careless look was the same.


    ‘You have me now,’ the assassin said, huffing, but with a dagger poised by his side. ‘What is it you want?’


    Adélia circled the room, making sure to block the exit. Umar kept his distance, taking light steps away from her. Before she spoke, she tried to silence the innumerable questions burning, racing, twisting in her head. But one came out nonetheless.


    ‘Did you kill her? Was it you?’


    ‘Yes,’ said Umar.


    The wild drumbeat of Adélia’s heart pounded faster. Her pulse throbbed. And while the echo of Umar’s answer lingered in the dark, she sprang towards him. Spear outheld, she aimed for his chest. Umar leant away from the blow and deflected it into the rafters with his one remaining dagger. With his other hand, he reached for a wine bottle from a nearby rack and threw it at the Amarant. Its effect was negligible, but in the distraction, he scrambled for the opposite wall and collected his other weapon.


    To his credit, the assassin did not run for the doorway. He faced his opponent, limping as he was, and fought back. He darted around the cellar, keeping out of the spearhead’s reach. In these confined quarters, perhaps Umar should have had the upper hand and been able to close the distance. But the fierceness of Adélia’s thrusts and parries kept him cornered and unable to capitalise on an opening.


    Adélia needed more. She tried to think of Lord Eltanin’s incantation to imbue starlight. Astera— But even attempting to invoke the words in her mind brought a numbness to her chest, a languor to her spear. She grimaced and kept up the barrage of strikes.


    The assassin took his chance—how he had spotted it, Adélia did not know—and used his daggers to trap Oneledim in the tangled wooden rafters. With a playful scrape along Adélia’s weapon, he approached now. The daggers glinted and Adélia could see their serpentine motifs. She released her hold on her spear, leaving it lodged in the wall, and brandished her shortsword. Her sidearm blocked the inbound daggers and Adélia sidestepped to safety. Bouncing right back into a strike, the Amarant swung for the assassin’s neck. Umar ducked, bowing under the suspended spear, and came around for another attempt.


    Adélia was already retaliating. Her shortsword came down in a silver blur. It crashed into one of Umar’s daggers and sent it careening to the floor, cutting into the man’s hand also. With his right hand disabled, Adélia grabbed hold of Umar’s left wrist and slammed her body into his. They thumped into a wall. A groan escaped Umar’s lips, and as he reeled from the impact, Adélia pinned his left arm against a wooden frame and drove her shortsword through his palm. It pierced flesh and frame and remained there, immovable. The assassin lost his grip on the dagger that had been in his left hand. Adélia grabbed hold of it before it hit the ground and thrust it through Umar’s other hand and into the wall panelling.


    The assassin choked back a cry. Spittle and blood sprayed between his clenched teeth as the Amarant stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. With arms outstretched. quivering, and leaking blood, Umar was flailing his legs, stamping the ground, twisting in his cloak.


    Adélia did not give him the chance to force his release. She scanned the cellar for something with which to immobilise the assassin, and happened upon some ropes. She ripped them free of their post and quickly secured Umar’s arms to the wooden beams in the wall. When Umar struggled against his restraints, she took hold of the dagger dropped in the melee and stuck it in the man’s thigh. With no further resistance, she tied the assassin’s legs together.


    Adélia breathed. She took another backwards step, dislodged her spear, and faced him down. The tip of the spear was aimed at the incapacitated assassin.


    No, Adélia was no longer a powerless child. How often that child had dreamed of standing face to face with the one who had taken her family. That girl was weak and wrapped in terror and tears, merely imagining what she might one day do. Adélia the Amarant was not that girl. She would not hesitate.


    The pain finally overcame the assassin. He squealed and thrashed about, looking towards the ceiling, begging for escape.


    No. You will not go easily. Not until you have felt the searing agony of the flames you lit.


    ‘Face me,’ Adélia said.


    With a groan, Umar lowered his gaze. His face, normally so easily uncaring and impassive, was strained. Sweat beaded off his unkempt hair. ‘What,’ he said, ‘will you do to me as Darius did to Nathariel?’ His words came in ragged spurts.


    ‘No. I will not be as merciful. And before my spear has pierced your heart and you learn why I am thus called, you will taste such pain as you have never known. You killed in the shadows, taken life without being seen. And now, no eye shall witness your death.’


    * * *


    The chime of a thousand death knells resounded beyond heartless, silent walls. They were not ringing for him, but just as those outside were dying, here too a life would be ended like the putting out of a candle. The sun barely dared to look through the high, slitted windows, barely braved the shadows encasing the tomb-still grimness of the cellar, barely caressed his gaunt and swollen face.


    And in this wistful light, the assassin knelt in blood.


    He hungered for that light, for that far-off air. For anything fresh to invade this crypt and give him rest. But no such charity was forthcoming.


    His tormentor stood above him, an angel garbed in silver and scarlet. Umariel supposed this was just punishment for his deeds. No penance would make up for a life that had been so committed to ending it. Since he had lived on the edge of a knife, it was only inevitable that he would eventually slip and be skewered by its blade.


    With each blow, each tear, each cut, he saw the names and faces of the dead condemning him. There was to be no redemption, only his judgment, delivered at the point of a merciless spear.


    Yet. No, there was one good thing he had done. There was one. He held on to it, long after he could no longer feel anything, long after the dove’s justice bled into vengeance.


    Then, in one moment of respite, the woman relented. She raised his head with her spear. Umariel could hardly see her now. She hissed at him. She accused. She questioned.


    He merely chuckled, and his body spasmed and sent waves of pain for his effort.


    ‘No, my lord didn’t kill you,’ he said. He forced out the words, his tongue numbed but able to taste unmistakeable globs of blood. ‘But I see now… I see what he’s done to you is worse than death.’


    ‘Who is your lord?’ she spat. Another crest of pain, unknown in origin, shot through him.


    He saw his face now. Bright, burning eyes. A ghastly face. And strength beyond reckoning. Beyond the seas, beyond the waves, he would wait. And even in death, Umariel would deliver this innocent dove to his master’s lair. A final act in defiance of their songs.


    The assassin parted his lips to speak. The woman leaned in close.


    ‘Lord… Despreaux…’ he said at last. Silence. Stillness.


    Umariel could no longer think, or speak, or hear. The visions of his mind were clearer than those of his eyes. But he held on, just enough to see her reaction, just to see the dread settle in.


    And as she stepped back, as she squeezed her weapon with shaking hands, as her brows creased in anger and anguish, Umariel shed a tear. For the one he would never see again and for a promise he would never be able to keep.


    His eyes threatened to close. He steadied himself for the end. The woman paused a moment, lifting her tool of judgment. Then she pushed through pain and conscience, and slammed her spear into a monster’s heart. And in his last, pitiful moments, he thought of her. As his life escaped and his breath caught, he thought of her. He thought of Frìri?l.


    I’m sorry.


    * * *


    As one who had never been wanted, the surge of attention given him by the Order brought Valinos to the brink of strange satisfaction. Abandoned by his parents and scorned by his adoptive father, connection to others was not a domain in which he felt well-endowed. True, there was Asphales. There had been, all-too-briefly, Fara’ethar’s company. And most recently, there looked to be Fen’asel’s mystifying companionship. Still, there were some links which he had never formed, some bonds of a type he had never—and perhaps would never—know.


    He doubted there was anything parental, or indeed well-intentioned, to be expected from the Order’s desire but he could not help being intrigued. He was wanted, that he understood. He just wished he knew what for.


    And what of Darius? Certainly, there was an unexpected kindness in the training the Amarant had offered and in the undeniable acts which spoke of a softer heart than the cold man would let on. Even on this day, moments before the fighting had begun, Darius had asked him if he truly wanted to go through with this. But it is exactly that which was most irksome. Darius tried to shelter him from realities Valinos knew he would have to face sooner or later. If Darius had his way, perhaps Valinos would never find out what he had so desperately wished for.


    No, the answers would come here and now.


    So Valinos continued his sweep of the Order’s upper fortress, not finding any such answers in the rotting sconces, the mouldy walls, or the derelict hallways. Echoes from below kept him moving at steady pace, heading for the alcoves and windows on the higher levels whence the archers laid waste to the army below. His two swords, light and dark, pointed ahead as he climbed another winding set of steps. Seeing Anfrìr made him think of Asphales. He had not renamed the weapon, in his friend’s honour, and he wondered now how Asphales fared among the chaos in the valley. He earnestly hoped that newfound strength in starlight would deliver him.


    There was light ahead. Valinos stepped out of the narrow stairway and into a sparsely-decorated foyer. Simple, tiled walls led to a gateless arch and beyond it, a balcony stretched on with many columns. The afternoon shone merrily on the smooth, grey stone tiles. However, it was not the architecture that was of import, but its occupants. Bowmen were positioned in a row along the railing, taking shots into the open.


    Valinos rushed to the nearest wall before any of the archers noticed him. He felt his heartbeat quicken pace and a tightness take hold of his throat. He stooped over the edge and spied out the enemy’s assemblage. At least seven foes. Valinos wondered what approach, if any, would be effective here.


    Could he perhaps take them out by stealth? No, they were not spread far enough apart from one another.


    Could his speed carry him up close in time to dispatch them all? Probably not, and at any rate, they seemed equipped with sidearms for close-quarter combat.


    Could he perhaps get near to one sentry unseen, and then use him as leverage to divert the others? Even if this worked, he had no exit strategy.


    Valinos took a deep breath and brought up his swords. It was better than nothing. He exhaled, and stepped out on the pavement.


    Hardly a footfall landed before someone spotted him. But it was not the archers, busy as they were with their support fire. In fact, it took the archers so long to respond, Valinos half-thought his plan would have worked, if not for this woman’s infernal timing.


    For it was, in fact, the woman who had pounced upon his approach as if she had been watching the whole time.


    ‘My, my, you are delectable,’ she said. Valinos spun. Her voice bounced and teased as she eyed him up and down with penetrating, sapphire eyes. ‘Who would have thought our secret weapon would be so scrumptious?’


    She was reclining on a dresser. He recognised her. She had been in the courtyard on Darius’ arrival at the fortress. A member of the Order, then. The brooch pinned to her leather jerkin confirmed her identity.


    ‘What do you want?’ Valinos spat.


    ‘Oh, come now. You is so impersonal.’ She hopped down and sauntered over, her boots clacking. ‘Call me Rubi.’


    One of the archers finally took notice. ‘You there!’ he shouted upon descrying Valinos. He signalled to the others and drew back his bowstring. ‘Intruder!’


    ‘Touch him,’ Rubi snapped, ‘and I shall have your manhood on a plate.’


    Credible threat or not, the archer lowered his weapon.


    ‘There’s a good boy. Run along now to the next platform, and take all your friends with you.’


    ‘Yes, my lady,’ the bowman said with a sycophantic bow. He promptly collected the others, and each in turn took up their equipment and disappeared. The woman named Rubi turned back to Valinos, hands on her hips.


    ‘Alone at last, lovely.’


    Valinos readied his weapons. He swallowed back the onsetting panic. Authority on display, and skill, no doubt. This woman, looking barely older than he, was dangerous. Valinos figured the casual nature of how she wore her weapon was deceiving. He recalled facing down Shurun’el, who had similarly emanated power with ease.


    ‘That Darius doesn’t let you have any fun, does he?’ She swayed toward Valinos, fingering the pommel of her weapon.


    ‘I have a job to do,’ Valinos said. ‘Stay out of my way.’


    Rubi lowered her eyes into a wolfish stare. ‘Oh, so do I, dear. Have at it. Let’s both do our best. The resulting friction should be marvellous.’ The woman flicked her hand and unsheathed her rapier, slow and sensuous. She seemed to savour the drawn-out sliding of steel on leather. Then, Valinos found himself facing its point as the woman took one step back into her stance.


    He gave both swords a practice swing and started circling the woman. But before Valinos could even catch her movements properly, Rubi’s blade was playing about his hand. In a blink, he lost Gulren, as a clang ten feet away told him. He stared at his now-empty left hand in disbelief.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ‘Now, you don’t need that, do you? How is it fair that your blades outnumber mine?’


    Anger and fear flashed in Valinos’ eyes.


    ‘Oh, not that one? Alright, how about the other?’ Another quick step. Another clang. Anfrìr fell to the pavement and slid away to his right, dangerously close to a gap in the balustrade to the sheer drop below.


    ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Take your pick.’


    Damn you.


    Valinos didn’t move.


    Rubi returned to her casual stance, rapier now pointed down. She tucked a wave of jet-black hair behind her ear and fanned her face in a mock gesture. ‘Oh, your stare does things to a girl.’


    Damn you!


    ‘Darling, would it make you feel better if you had both your toys? Go on, then.’


    Without taking his eyes off her, Valinos took careful steps, first to his right, collecting Anfrìr, and then to his left, retrieving Gulren.


    ‘So,’ she started up again conversationally, ‘your hands are no good. Let’s see if you’ve got other talents.’ Her rapier came up again.


    Valinos glowered. What is this distance between us? Why?


    He tightened his grip on both blades and stepped in to the duel. He had to remember Darius’ lessons on the placement of two swords as he needed to switch between defence and offence when circumstance and the enemy’s position demanded. Rubi lunged deftly in between his strikes. Valinos had a split second to read the direction of the incoming blow.


    There!


    Anfrìr answered Rubi’s attack and caught it in its guard. It was Gulren’s turn to speak. The light-coloured blade hewed at its target, but Rubi had merely feinted her charge. Before Gulren could connect, the woman was well out of reach.


    ‘Not bad, gorgeous,’ she said. Her riposte was vicious and it took both of Valinos’ swords to catch it. He was pushed back.


    Inwardly, Valinos wanted to scream, to rage. At this woman, at the Order, at the world. So weak. He let his swords express these things for him. Gulren and Anfrìr sang in tandem for the next attack, one’s voice rising while the other hushed, then swapping tones.


    Still, they proved fruitless against Rubi’s abilities. Her single weapon humiliated Valinos’ two straining swords. Why?


    He swung again. She stepped out of the way as easily as one would avoid a drunken sloth. She landed a few cuts on him, but they were playful, mere annoyances rather than real setbacks. Why?


    How would he get answers if he could not hold his own here?


    Another swing. Rubi went through his swords, as if their edge meant nothing, as if she were water over stone.


    Damn it!


    She was suddenly close and smiling. She reached over his tunic and dragged her hand across his chest. Her fragrance was noticeable; lavender and pine and citrus. She giggled as she pulled away out of reach.


    ‘You want to know, don’t you?’ she said.


    Valinos attacked. He thrust through empty air. Rubi was by his ear. Her voice sent tingles. ‘I know all about you, dear. Don’t you want to know?’


    Valinos roared and spun into a strike. Rubi was no longer there. Her feet tapped around the pavement and she skipped about lightly. She was no longer even facing him. She leaned over the balcony, taking in the battle below. Valinos rushed at her and attacked. His swords bounced off stone. He caught a glimpse of the clash playing out below, a hundred feet or more beneath him. From this height, there was a strange order to the anarchy, patterns of movements in the madness.


    Rubi appeared beside him. ‘You will one day command such a force, Valinos.’


    He started. How does she know my name? What does she mean? He turned to her. She was looking at him as though they were two friends on a stroll. Her deep eyes were esurient, longing for more, demanding more. Her arms were folded. Her rapier was not even drawn anymore.


    Her scent again. Overpowering. Her lips, ravenous when she spoke. Rubi was captivating, he could not deny it. But Valinos tried to hold on to the truth that all this beauty was meant as a distraction. How could he be so far behind? How could he be so easily manipulated?


    Damn! Damndamndamndamn!


    A creak. A crackle. A crack.


    A rumble.


    Then a sharp cyan light. A violent eruption in blues and greys. The lightning bolt, the bright flash out of darkness. The release of a pent-up storm. Rain over a desert.


    Valinos opened his eyes. Gulren and Anfrìr were there in his hands, but they seemed different. They were suffused with a blue-green glow and they let off sparks. He felt… light, yet full. Awake, and never needing rest. And free, as if he’d broken a yoke he had never known he carried.


    What is this?


    He rose up, feeling tall, as if he stood over the world. Something pure and violent coursed through him and out into his swords. He could hear their music more clearly now. How had he never noticed?


    Rubi looked on, awed but apparently having expected his transformation. ‘That’s better, dear.’


    ‘What am I?’ Valinos said, looking to her.


    ‘You… are the key to the Dragonking’s return.’


    What?


    ‘You lie!’ Valinos yelled. A thunderclap sounded.


    Rubi flinched. ‘The truth does not change, no matter how much you may wish otherwise.’


    ‘What am I?!’ he roared, and the storm within was alive. Rage. It was no longer a restricting, caged emotion that bound him. Now, it was a force freed of its reins.


    Rubi’s mischievous demeanour resurfaced. She ran in towards him. Her face was level with his. He could see the sparkle in her eyes.


    ‘Valinos, we are going to need to become much closer before I divulge more. Alas, that is all for now. It’s a good thing you’re so handsome.’


    Then she kissed him. Fire and ice flooded him. Her hands latched on to his shoulders. And while Valinos was still savouring the taste of her lips, she gave him a hard shove, and was gone.


    On his backside, Valinos twisted round to catch her, but she was nowhere to be seen. He rose and ran to the balcony railing. Perhaps she had leapt down to a lower level. She was gone. His opportunity was gone.


    Valinos screamed. Screamed with a voice that rent the heavens.


    You are the key to the Dragonking’s return.


    Before he knew it, Valinos was on the move. The storm turned to his next task. He eyed the stairway to the upper levels and took off after the earlier archers. Gathering clouds followed. His thoughts and his steps, his being, were all rumbling, all roiling.


    Then he was upon them. At the pinnacle of the fortress, nothing about them but the cooling air and the tip of mountains, he overtook them. The archers looked up at the unnatural clouds and then at him. Brief flashes of terrified faces before they fell to his blades. Something like sparks of lightning flew out in erratic patterns with each blow. Singed corpses fell among charring blood. The tempest rolled on, and all it touched was silenced.


    When the still came, Valinos was down on ground level by the fortress gate. He could not remember the descent, or how many he had met along his return. His head ached. He put a hand to his forehead and noticed dumbly that his swords were entirely red. Their light had extinguished. He wished now for another draught of that energy. He wished to become the storm again.


    What am I?


    As he dragged himself along the courtyard, not really heading for anywhere in particular, something caught his attention. Among the burning debris, among the scattered rubble and discarded weaponry, a body lay fallen on the cracked cobblestone. Something about it seemed familiar, yet it was not one that Valinos had eliminated, as far as he could recall.


    He stepped close to it. What was once a golden robe enveloped the bloody, mangled shape of a man. His face was unrecognisable, but his hair retained its old shape well enough. Shurun’el.


    Valinos looked up at the heights of the fortress. So. Darius had found the wretch and disposed of him.


    The thing on the ground moved, ever so slightly. Standing over Shurun’el’s body, Valinos felt something between pity and pride. The great Shurun’el, laid low. And as he lay there, blinded, barely breathing, broken, Valinos decided it would be a small catch to defeat Shurun’el, like merely grasping for a puff of cloud. He would have the sky.


    Valinos smiled.


    * * *


    ‘You shall go no further, child of starlight.’


    Asphales did not belong here. The woman’s address, delivered with such chilling confidence, singled him out like a prop out of place. Her eyes, the light and grainy brown of chrysanth-stone, saw through him. He clutched on to Nadorìl, invoking a strength not his own to carry him through.


    ‘Pay her no mind,’ Guldar said from beside him. ‘We’ll get past.’


    The girl gave the sub-commander a look of amusement, and though he was three times her size, somehow Asphales did not doubt her.


    Guldar stepped out on the grassy plateau in front of Asphales and the company. Asphales could not even see their opponent’s tiny frame behind the hulking mass of steel. But behind her, the parapet wound like a serpent, around to the base of the fortress itself and the barracks which surely house the Order’s reinforcements. By that structure, Asphales could also see a path descending into the valley of the battle. All that lay between them and their goal was a patch of yard and a girl.


    ‘So,’ Guldar said, ‘the Order lets even children in?’


    ‘And it would appear the Empire hires beasts,’ the woman said.


    Guldar gave a short laugh. ‘I would not think it fair for me and all my men to swarm you, but we need to get through. So, this is going to be between us two alone.’


    ‘You are welcome to try.’


    ‘If I prevail, my company will advance.’


    ‘And if I do, you will leave the child of starlight to me.’


    Guldar let out a groan. ‘Insolent brat. But I couldn’t bring myself to take your life so we’ll call it when you fall.’


    ‘And I will try not to kill you.’ The woman stepped out from the amassed corpses at her feet and raised her weapon.


    Asphales watched as Guldar readied himself, hoisting his warhammer. The other men of the Empire looked apprehensive, but they knew not to intervene. They settled into positions at ease around the wall. Asphales lowered his own sword, feeling uneasy.


    The combatants leapt into action as if on cue. Guldar approached with heavy steps and sent out a few testing hits with his hammer. The woman, nimble and light-footed despite her cloak, dashed around the incoming strikes and unleashed a few of her own. The nicks and cuts were absorbed by the hammer’s unyielding handle. Asphales flinched with each strike aimed at the subcommander.


    Then, Guldar pushed against the woman’s weapon with the bar of his warhammer. It sent her scampering backwards, and Guldar followed up with an overhead strike. He brought the hammer down with a force that split earth. The woman avoided it, and while the hammer was lodged in the dirt, she hopped on to the hammerhead itself and leapt toward the warrior’s face, bringing her knee up. She connected and then landed softly, while Guldar stumbled back. He wiped blood from his nose.


    The woman was already upon him. Before he could raise his hammer in response, the blade had launched for his chest. Asphales gasped. But the sound of scraping steel told him the attack was not successful. Guldar had lifted his arm and blocked it with his brace, which looked to have a ridged, reinforced plate.


    ‘A neat Eastern trick,’ the woman said.


    Guldar abandoned his main weapon and produced a small, spiked mace. He swung it with his free arm and the woman was forced to relinquish her thrust. The smaller weapon (which seemed a plaything in Guldar’s massive hand) was better suited to match the woman’s agility.


    And still, despite the combination of his armbrace as a shield and a nimbler weapon, Guldar did not make much progress. His movements seemed to be slowing. Asphales realised with dread that fatigue must have been settling in.


    And then it happened. The woman thrust at Guldar’s shoulder, and connected. Guldar held back a pained croak. The woman’s sword came back red, and Guldar’s left arm slumped. Asphales wanted to run in and help. But it all ensued too fast.


    Guldar wielded his mace slowly, much too slowly. Before the weapon was even fully raised, the woman was in again, and her sword pierced his other shoulder. The mace fell, and his arm hung useless. Trails of blood traced their way down his breastplate. She circled the burly warrior, her back to the company by the wall now.


    ‘I don’t need these to take you on!’ Guldar roared. And he charged. But whatever he intended to do, the woman was prepared for it. She spun around him as he barrelled ahead and directed the larger man’s momentum into the wall. Guldar crashed into the stones. And with a light touch, the woman toppled him over the perimeter wall into the ditch below. The crack of his landing resounded.


    ‘Guldar!’ yelled Asphales, and ran to the wall, heedless of the woman still present there. He peered over and saw the sub-commander’s twisted shape below.


    ‘Don’t worry,’ the woman said. ‘Your commander will live, but he’ll carry wounds of both body and pride after this.’


    The company sprang after Asphales and surrounded him for protection. Their weapons were brandished.


    ‘We won’t let you,’ one of them said defiantly.


    The woman sighed. ‘No honour.’ She whistled, and from somewhere beyond the wall, a band of masked warriors appeared. They stepped up to the woman in formation.


    ‘You have a choice now,’ she said. ‘You may go willingly and with dignity, leaving the child to me. Or you can be taken in despair.’


    Asphales looked around in panic. There were about ten men of Fara’ethar, and about as many of the Order had come out. He thought back to a similar situation in the forest, back to when it felt like he had lost everything. It was happening again. He knew he could not protect them all.


    ‘Go with them,’ Asphales said in a low voice.


    ‘Pardon, sir?’ one of the soldiers asked, turning to him with incredulity.


    ‘Go,’ Asphales said. ‘Leave me here. There is good you can do elsewhere. Leave me. Help the others.’


    ‘But sir,’ another protested.


    Asphales turned his gaze to the woman, who eyed him with approval. ‘You will let them live.’ The woman nodded.


    Turning back to the soldier who had seized his arm in protest, Asphales said, ‘Go, please. Tend to Guldar as well.’


    Reluctantly, the ten soldiers of Fara’ethar turned back, escorted to the lip of the hill by the masked warriors.


    ‘You will leave us now,’ the woman called out to her own band. Quick as they had come, the masked marauders vanished.


    A minute later, Asphales was alone with her on the grassy hill. A breeze from the mountains picked up, blowing their capes like flags of warring nations. Smoke from the ruins of the nearby battle formed blotches over the otherwise flawless, blue sky.


    ‘Let’s be acquainted properly,’ she said. ‘I am Frìri?l, Princess of Sheneh-Adrani, Tamer of Seas and Serpents.’


    ‘I do believe you made that up,’ Asphales said.


    ‘Perhaps I have, but it’s fun pretending, isn’t it? Like you, playing at the hero. You may wield real strength, but I can see your courage and will are false. Now, what is your true name?’


    ‘Asphales Esélinor,’ he said.


    ‘It’s nice to meet you, Asphales.’ Frìri?l bowed. This girl was strange. She was young, but her eyes were coloured with pain beyond her age, and her voice was rich and full as of one who had considered many things. The skin of her hands was smooth, but she held her weapon with the steadiness of a veteran. How many lives had she already taken in her brief life?


    ‘What is your blade’s name?’ she asked. Asphales questioned why it mattered to her. As if she had read his misgivings, she continued. ‘We are not crossing mere iron bars here. Our swords are beautiful and dreadful things, alive to starlight as much as we are.


    ‘Nadorìl. It was my father’s.’


    ‘A lovely name. This is Denethris, the Desire of Kings.’ She held up her sword with the pride of a parent showing off a particularly bright child.


    ‘You’re wrong, you know,’ Asphales said.


    ‘Hmm?’


    ‘About me. I may be scared, yes. But my desire to turn back the dark, my will to protect this world… they are not false. And if that means facing you here, I am ready.’


    ‘We shall see about that.’ Frìri?l raised Denethris, peering at Asphales over its edge. Her eyes were aflame. She took a step back.


    Asphales lifted Nadorìl up with both hands by his side and bent his knees slightly. His breathing echoed within his helmet.


    Starlight guide me.


    The tension broke like a crumbling dam. Asphales rushed in, barely able to hear anything over his heartbeat and his breaths. In his mind, he had been trying to hold pictures of those he cared for, but they all cleared out in a maddened gust when he took the first step forward. There was only this. There was only Nadorìl in his hands and Frìri?l before him.


    The first scintillating clash of blade and starlight came like the expected boom of a tidal wave. Then another followed. Before each connection, there was a brief moment of silence. Of nothing. Then the jolt of two colliding weapons reminded Asphales of what was at stake. If he lowered his sword here, the Dragonking would rear his head and devour all he knew.


    This tide of steel continued as Nadorìl and Denethris met, then retreated, then met again. What stories were they telling in their sharpened tongues? Asphales tried to keep in mind all he had learned, from Serìn, from Eltanin, from Adélia. He thanked them for each second of life their training were affording him.


    This deadly dance would have to go on, he knew. When he looked at Frìri?l, she was smiling. She was dominant and controlled the tempo, and she was doing this instinctively. There did not seem to be conscious thought or effort to her motions. Asphales wondered what heartbreaks had befallen this girl for conflict to come so naturally to her.


    Then, as he expected would happen eventually, he took a step out of time, sang a note out of tune. Frìri?l noticed this and spun into an attack. Asphales hurried back, leaning away from danger, out of her range. He thought the blade wouldn’t reach him. There was a metallic click, and then he was bleeding.


    Asphales regained his balance and put a hand to his shoulder. He winced. Frìri?l’s sword had definitely cut him. How?


    The mystery unveiled itself when he took a closer look at her weapon. Frìri?l herself had halted her own offence and held up her sword proudly. It was longer than before. Glancing along its length, Asphales noticed some grooves and notches in the steel. By some mechanism, Denethris could extend. It now resembled more of a full-length broadsword.


    ‘Impressed?’ said Frìri?l.


    Perhaps if he had not found himself at the wrong end of that sword, Asphales would have indeed thought this a wild, story-like curiosity from his books. But books don’t make one bleed. He nodded and then readied his weapon again. He had to be cautious.


    Astera iatemai, Asphales said to himself, touching the wound. Thankfully, the pain withdrew, and mobility in his arm returned.


    Frìri?l cocked her head. ‘Oh, it seems I am not the only one with surprises.’


    Asphales intoned another invocation. He tried to draw on that reserve he could feel when starlit words were spoken. He tried to reach in and take a drink from that lake of light. Nadorìl pulsed with a soft cerulean light. But will it be enough?


    In accord with starlight, Asphales flowed like a river along a well-marked course. Life and breath tasted more precious, more sustaining. It seemed so wrong, so debased, to use this strength to end another. He wished again to find a different way.


    ‘What is it you hope to achieve?’ Asphales asked after another round of trade-offs.


    Frìri?l stopped awhile, looking taken aback. ‘Freedom,’ she said at last.


    ‘Then, come with us. What stops you from turning back and taking a different road, Frìri?l?


    ‘No. You are ignorant of the shadow’s power. He is… invincible. No strength of song can hope to help you.’ She dashed in again, Denethris poised. ‘Or me.’


    Frìri?l attacked with renewed vigour, as if Asphales’ words had unsettled her. He struggled to return all her strikes, and more assaults were getting through, gnawing at his breastplate, biting at his resolve. Occasionally, he felt the prick of metal and a wetness slipping down within his armour. He was no match. His light waned.


    As his vision began to blur and the world darkened, Asphales could see that horrible face from his dreams which goaded his failure. He rebelled against its pull.


    I will not falter.


    I will not fall.


    Asphales found himself humming. A weak melody, a vessel barely afloat in the storm. He hoped to keep the song alive and fan the smouldering flame of his starlight.


    Astera endunemai. Nadorìl brightened.


    Astera balleis. Nadorìl sprang like a wave awakened.


    Blade locked against blade. Frìri?l grinned.


    ‘This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. Thank you, son of starlight. Anardes could have no finer champion.’


    ‘Anardes… would be better off with you still in it, Frìri?l.’


    Frìri?l shook her head. ‘You still do not understand. I am wholly his.’ She pushed. ‘And so I shall remain unless your light is ended here.’


    Out of her twisted stubbornness, Frìri?l lashed out and pressed back against Nadorìl’s light. The two repelled off each other, but then launched on to a collision course once more. Even with Asphales’ starlight flaring, Frìri?l met him blow for blow, as if every bit of energy radiating off Nadorìl was swallowed up by the girl’s sword.


    Asphales bellowed and struck with all the force he could muster, hoping to at least break Frìri?l’s defence. Mountain-hard was the answering block, and Denethris seemed unquenchable. The impact flung up rocks and dirt, and whipped Frìri?l’s hair about, but she remained unmoved.


    They both breathed hard. They glared at one another. Neither would capitulate, neither would back down. A boy, taken in with stories of heroics and determined to stand against darkness. And a girl, lost perhaps, bearing pain of her own and holding on to her desire before an overwhelming master. How cruel was the turning of fate, that both their hearts carried genuine love yet found themselves pitted against one other. In a different world, they might have clasped hands rather than crossed swords.


    The battle carried on as if in a trance. Asphales was hardly aware of anything beyond their rhythmic movements. Their blades continued striving untired, unabated.


    ‘Can you do it, Asphales?’ Frìri?l’s voice.


    He wouldn’t. Even if he prevailed. Not like this, not playing into the shadow’s hands.


    Be brave. Thalassia’s voice.


    There was a swell within Asphales, like the rising of a chorus. A song not complete, but vibrant and life-giving. A rush of words and music filled him. Far above, a single star shone.


    Asphales held out an empty hand. Frìri?l grunted, seeming offended. ‘I will not join you. I will not! I can never have him this way!’ She rushed forward at the inviting arm. Denethris soared toward him, gluttonous and greedy for the boy’s light.


    Be brave.


    The sword sliced into the back of Asphales’ wrist, tore into his elbow, and lodged itself in his shoulder. Sinews of pain fought against the flood which was feeding him. But the boy held on, and held tight.


    ‘What are you doing, you silly little boy?’ Frìri?l asked. She tried to pull her weapon out.


    Then Asphales raised Nadorìl with his spare, unharmed hand. Its glow was pure and right. He imagined holding it with the strength of his father and the support of his mother. Frìri?l’s eyes widened.


    The swing came with the might of summer. But Asphales would not do what was expected. He flipped Nadorìl’s edge around and struck with the flat side. Like a wind-driven wave, the blow crashed into Frìri?l’s body and sent her sailing. She tumbled backward over the grass. Denethris went with her, coming loose and clattering out of her reach.


    Asphales buckled and fell to one knee. As the vigour of his light subsided, his awareness of the blaring wound heightened. He placed his blade down and clutched his shoulder. Frìri?l did not get up. She lay sprawled, entangled in her cloak. She was breathing softly, facing the sky, her sanguine hair about her like a crown.


    Was it over?


    ‘Asphales, sir!’ someone called out from behind him. A company had returned. Asphales was glad to see friendly colours rush by his side.


    ‘Sir, the end of the battle is nigh,’ one of them announced. ‘There is but the eastern front left to take. The Order’s members are dead, though some have fled.’ He cheered, and smiles broke out over their tired, dirty faces.


    One of the soldiers hoisted Asphales up. He groaned. ‘We can take it from here, sir. Well done.’ They looked over the site of his battle with Frìri?l. She had not moved.


    Then the wind changed. The air turned stale and warm. Asphales felt his throat drying and he gasped for air. Somehow, he knew it was not simply his fatigue or his wounds causing this. He looked over to Frìri?l. The soldiers stopped smiling.


    ‘Dead?’ she said, in a voice unlike her own. The girl, who did not look like much of a girl any longer, rose. She lurched toward her sword. Denethris returned to her hand, having lost none of its eagerness for blood.


    ‘Is my Umariel… dead?’


    She turned to face them. It was like peering into the gaze of an inferno.


    ‘What is… happening?’ said one of Fara’ethar’s men.


    Frìri?l took a few staggering steps toward them, hunched over and dragging her sword along the ground.


    There was a bright flash and blaze of fire. Yellow-orange wisps sprang to life and licked at the girl’s blade. She held the weapon before her, trailing fire in the air with each motion.


    ‘IS HE DEAD?’ she screamed, and it was like the sound of a belching furnace. Her hair and cloaked whipped as if driven by some force within her. And brighter than her flaming sword, her eyes now burned and burned and burned.


    Asphales readied his weapon. He did not know what this was. He did not know what to expect. He feared for the safety of the men around him.


    Frìri?l took another step. The ground quaked.


    ‘Stand back, sir. We’ll take care of her,’ said one of the men.


    ‘No, don’t d—’ Asphales began to say. His weak voice was cut-off by a burst of flame. From behind and beneath and around the girl, fire spewed forth. Great arms of flame sprouted and thrashed about, setting fire to the grass, to the wall, to the men who were nearby.


    Three soldiers howled and ran, dropping their weapons and flailing their arms.


    No. Stop it.


    Frìri?l swung Denethris, its length now ablaze. Like a conductor of fire, she seemed to be directing the flame-curtains to do her bidding. Another man fell, screaming and scorched.


    Asphales tried to shield his eyes. Overtaking him was the sensation of burning up, as if he were standing face to face with the sun. The blistering heat threatened to cook him in his helmet. He slipped it off and threw it away. The blast now pecked at his face and hair and he found it difficult to look ahead.


    There was almost nothing left of the small, misguided girl he had fought earlier. Before him was a demon in the blaze.


    Asphales held on to Nadorìl and called on all the light he could manage.


    The remorseless heat kept on.


    Astera iatemai, he said to himself. Astera iatemai. The starlight welling within him kept each burn and blister at bay, but the force was unrelenting. The grass and dirt beneath his feet turned to coals.


    Frìri?l walked on through shrivelled, burning corpses. At some point, the masked men from earlier had appeared also, driven out by the consuming fire. Heedless of her targets, Frìri?l was committing all to the burning stake.


    The shadow of another guard scurried about nearby. ‘Help me, sir,’ is all he could say before the fire took him. He collapsed, hand out groping for Asphales.


    Stop this.


    ‘What do I do, father?’ Asphales found himself saying. ‘How do I face this?’


    The fire rose. Somewhere in the raging hell before him, there was a scared, screaming girl. Her flames threatened to swallow the battlefield. They spilled out over the encampment wall, and across onto the path leading into the Order’s battlements. Soon, there would be no eastern front left to advance upon. Asphales knew he had to end her rampage. And his heart sank, for he knew he could not do it without…


    Astera endunemai. Asphales held Nadorìl before him. Its green glow was a beacon in the red. He stepped into the heat, following the sound of Frìri?l’s voice.


    ‘Frìri?l?’ he called.


    ‘NO. DO NOT SAY MY NAME. HE IS DEAD.’


    Asphales did not know what she meant, could not understand any of what was happening. But he needed to act. On he walked in search of one he did not comprehend and could only hope to stop.


    He stepped on ash. Curlicues of smoke rose up around him. Nadorìl’s light and wind provided some relief in the blaze, but Asphales realised he could not keep this up for long.


    Be brave.


    Then she was there. In her hands, Denethris was a firebrand. And she… she was a princess wreathed in flame. Cloaked in splendid, burning garment. Hair of living fire blew behind her. Eyes like graceful embers locked on to him. She opened her mouth but there was no longer any voice. The crackling of fire about her was her scream and her scream was all there was.


    ‘Frìri?l! Stop this!’ Asphales could feel his shoulders start to burn and his wound from earlier found new ways to remind him of his pain. He held on to Nadorìl even more tightly.


    She stepped toward him. There was no recognition, no semblance of conscience. There was only fire. He screamed. He cried. He pleaded. But the fire would not listen. It would not stop.


    Be brave.


    Asphales ran at her. ‘I’m so sorry, Frìri?l.’


    He raised the blade, the heaviest it had ever been. Reluctant, saddened, howling, cursing. He pushed against the resistance in his heart and swung through the flames.


    Nadorìl found something living in the fire and severed it with a sharp, all-too-cruel light. Flame sizzled under the weight of the ocean.


    Something gave. Something caved. Something halted.


    The curtains of flame fell away, and Asphales could see the sky again. Everything around him was grey and charred.


    And he could see Frìri?l. She was a girl again, her face returned to its youthfulness, her eyes as innocent as they had been. The fire had died away. Denethris lay on the ground, still.


    Frìri?l was standing. She turned to face Asphales. He could tell she was bleeding, and would not last long.


    She stepped out toward him. ‘Mama tried to hide me,’ she said weakly. ‘But no, I was raised knowing I was to die.’


    Asphales huffed. He dropped his own sword.


    Frìri?l stumbled forward. Asphales retreated, listless. He felt burdened by all the world’s weight.


    ‘Son of starlight… you and all you hold dear… will die… just as within me… all is dead.’


    Asphales fell to the ground, exhausted. There was nowhere left to go. Nothing left to do.


    Frìri?l collapsed, too, and dragged herself toward him. ‘No… not quite everything… there is you… You always…’ She approached, and lay on top of him, nesting her head on his chest. Her eyes were distant and glassy. The faint smell and warmth of fire was fading.


    ‘Always you… You promised…’ She took a breath. ‘Say my name.’ Her voice was a dying flame in winter. ‘Say that silly name you have for me.’


    Then the quiet came and Asphales knew that she was dead. Helpless, he began to sob.


    Over the sound of his quiet tears, a clarion rang out.