Chapter 62
Chapter Sixty-Two
U nsheathing my sword with a hiss of steel, I faced the oncoming threat.
Twelve armed men.
Three of us.
My uncle.
Maalikai.
Me.
“You should’ve gone with them,” Thrainn growled, stepping beside me.
I met his gaze, fire in mine. “And leave you two to die?” I raised my sword. “Not a fucking chance.”
My blade cleaved through the air, catching one warrior mid-strike. Another came low, aiming for my legs. I barely twisted in time—his blade kissed fabric, not flesh. I didn’t hesitate. I yanked a second dagger free and hurled it. It buried itself cleanly between a woman’s eyes.
She dropped. I didn’t look back.
There wasn’t time to care.
Only time to kill.
Maalikai and I got lucky—if anything at this stage could be called luck.
Two came for me, three for him.
We moved like fire and shadow—silent, swift, lethal.
The other seven went for my uncle.
They never stood a chance.
Thrainn was a storm—an ancient, blood-drenched force, forged in violence. A warrior carved from chaos. He met the attack like he’d been waiting for it his entire life. Blades flashed. Blood sprayed. Flesh tore.
He laughed.
Gods, he laughed—a sound so unhinged it sent some of the warriors stumbling back.
“You will not escape my wrath!” he bellowed. “I will end you all!” Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed, his face slicked with blood that wasn’t his.
He was terrifying.
Glorious.
Unstoppable.
Until the bowstrings sang.
The sound came sharp and sure—one, two, three. A cruel symphony. I heard it even before I saw the arrows.
And then—impact.
All three of them.
They struck my uncle mid-kill. He was still gutting a man when they sank into him—his shoulder, his gut, his thigh. His body jerked, blood pouring like wine from punctured skin.
“Uncle!” My scream tore itself from my throat as I sprinted forward.
Too slow.
He faltered just enough.
A warrior slipped in. Then another.
Steel flashed.
Blood gushed.
One sliced his side open. The other drove a blade through his chest. His blood came fast now—thick and furious, pouring over his armor, the ground, their boots.
But Thrainn wasn’t done.
He roared, rising like a dying God, and in one sweeping arc, took both their heads.
This wasn’t his end.
Not yet.
His eyes snapped open. Fire blazed where there had been only fading dusk.
“No.” The word wasn’t meant for me. Thrainn growled it like a curse spat into the face of death. “I’m not done.”
With a snarl that defied reason, he shoved me back—blood spurting anew from his gut. He rose. Gods, he rose. Legs shaking. Armor cracked. One arm hanging useless. But his sword—his sword was still in his hand.
“Uncle—!”
“Get behind me,” he barked.
I didn’t move.
He didn’t wait.
He staggered forward, half limping, half dragging his ruined body toward the sound—because there was sound now. Boots. Steel. War cries. Shadows.
More were coming.
Dozens.
An entire platoon poured into the street like a wave of obsidian—black-armored warriors, fresh and hungry for slaughter.
Thrainn stood in the center of the blood-soaked square like a monument to carnage.
And laughed.
He laughed.
“You want me?” he roared, lifting his sword in a single brutal arc. “Come and take me, cowards!”
The first men reached him.
He met them with the wrath of the Gods.
His blade became a blur—desperation and rage woven into every swing. He didn’t block. He didn’t defend. He attacked. Like his body wasn’t failing. Like pain didn’t exist.
One fell.
Then two.
A third.
He roared as he carved through them, blood flying in crimson arcs.
“THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT?” he bellowed, a savage smile breaking through bloodstained teeth.
But then—twang.
The symphony came again.
Arrows.
So many arrows.
A dozen whistled through the air in unison.
I screamed–raw, feral–a sound torn from the hollow place where fear met fury. But it didn’t stop them.
Three struck.
Then five.
One embedded in his chest.
One in his throat.
One—Gods—through his eye.
He stumbled—but he didn’t fall.
I tried to reach him but warriors closed in, steel flashing in every direction, blood soaking the dirt at my feet.
I was surrounded–trapped in my own carnage. Bodies lay crumpled around me, but more kept coming, stepping over their fallen like they didn’t matter, like death was the goal.
Too many
Too fast.
My arms ached, breath burned, legs staggered beneath the weight of blood–some of it was mine, most of it was theirs.
I twisted. Parried. Slashed. But I couldn’t reach him–couldn’t save my uncle.
His body was failing. I saw it.
And I was helpless.
Gods I was helpless.
Another scream tore from his chest as he kept fighting. Pulling arrows free like thorns, hacking blindly, grunting, snarling like a feral beast.
It took the rest of them to bring him down.
Not one man.
Not ten.
But an army.
They swarmed him like vultures—steel flashing, blood splashing, screams tearing the sky apart. His body buckled. His sword fell. But even as he collapsed to his knees, he tried to rise again.
It took a final blow—clean and cruel—straight through his back to the heart to put him down.
Silence fell.
His body slumped. Face to the dirt. Collapsed at his feet.
My fury imploded.
It wasn’t emotion anymore—it was force.
Pure annihilation.
Magik flared, molten and immediate, tearing through me like a second heartbeat.
My rage wasn’t a feeling. It was a weapon.
A storm.
A reckoning.
Flames erupted across my skin, dancing up my arms like they knew exactly what I wanted—who deserved to burn.
I didn’t hesitate.
I hurled the fire.
Three warriors vanished in a single flash—screams ripped from their throats, then cut short as flesh liquefied, bone turned to ash, and cinders scattered in the air.
The air reeked of scorched blood and vengeance.
This wasn’t fire.
It was retribution.
It licked across my fingers, coiled around my limbs, devouring blood and steel alike.
It didn’t ask.
It answered.
I hurled another wave of destruction. Three warriors disintegrated in a breath—flesh peeled from bone. Embers churned in the air like scarlet-black snow, blown apart by the force of my scream.
Maalikai had already finished his last two. But there were more.
Gods, there were so many more.
The archers had drawn again.
Drawn. Aimed. Loosed.
A succession of them.
Aimed at me.
At Maalikai.
No I refused to lose him.
I didn’t summon fire this time.
I became it.
There was no spell. No chant. Just a single, perfect thought.
I didn’t dodge.
I didn’t blink.
I looked at them.
And they ignited.
Burned.
Fire was not summoned.
Fire obeyed.
All four archers erupted into flame—not burned, not singed—consumed. Their bodies erupting in pillars of flame so violent the night itself recoiled.
Their screams split the sky, high and unholy. A twisted symphony of agony that bloomed like music in my ears.
I didn’t flinch.
I smiled.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then I turned.
The army circled. Dozens—closing in. Blades drawn. Shields raised. Eyes wide with a terror they never expected to feel.
They thought I was a girl.
They thought they could break me.
Kill me.
Cage me.
They were wrong.
I lifted my hands—slow, sovereign—heat blistering the earth beneath me.
Blood steamed from my skin.
My voice was barely a whisper.
And still, it shook the world.
“You took my home,” I said. “You took my kin. You tried to take me. Take the man I love.”
Flames howled in response, swirling into a cyclone of wrath.
Fire licked the sky. Wind screamed around me, wild and feral, like it knew war had come.
I stepped forward.
And the earth answered.
Everything burned.
Flame exploded from my chest in a shockwave of blinding light and agony.
Warriors screamed. Horses reared. Armor melted to flesh. Eyes boiled. Skin split open like fruit beneath a blade.
They ran—some of them.
Not fast enough.
Some didn’t even get the chance to scream.
They died on their knees. Or standing. Or already on fire.
I was not merciful.
I was not human.
I was wrath incarnate.
And I smiled.
Because deep in my soul, I knew—this was only the beginning.
I would bring armies to their knees.
I would turn empires to ash.
And when I was done—the Gods themselves would weep.
But for now, I wouldn’t stop until the world remembered—Agertheria did not fall without fire.