53. Broken
Broken
Faren
With Lord Haron defeated, Heris wasted no time in heading for the ledgermasters.
In the chaos of the fight, Faren had strayed farther afield, and now Warner alone stood between the Valiant onslaught and the future of Fenrir.
The backs of his legs had nearly met the toppled throne, but Warner refused to fall back, fending off two knights and one former Morta with wild, brutal cleaves of his sword.
His nose was broken. His armor was splattered with blood.
His teeth were bared with fury and exertion.
This wasn’t the Warner the Faren had sparred with every week for the past ten years, playful and relaxed; this was someone holding on for dear life.
Faren broke into a sprint, racing to rejoin the melee and assist his friend. But before he reached the battle, a roar thundered through the Great Hall, so loud it made his armor vibrate.
Faren’s steps faltered, and he wheeled around in time to watch—helplessly—as the Morta slammed Mariana in the breastplate. She was thrown violently backward, her body smacking into a pillar before flopping limply on the floor.
Faren felt the impact in his own body; it stopped his heart. For three savage seconds—four—five—she did not stir.
Terror ripped from his throat. “Mariana!”
The Morta advanced. Her head rolled to one side as she came-to. Faren started toward her—then one of the ledgermasters yelped, and his Oath tattoo tingled with warning, and he stopped short.
Castor and Brom had seized Warner by the arms. A former Morta held the ledgermasters at sword point. Heris was kneeling in front of them with a maniacal grin, cradling the Ledger of the Sovereign in his bloodied hands. And from somewhere far behind Faren, Oderin was screaming for him to intervene.
Faren looked between Mariana and the stolen Ledger, weighing his choice.
Except it didn’t feel like a choice. He’d promised his life to his charge. To defend his duty with blade and body. He’d sworn an Oath to hold nothing in higher regard than the realm, and he was determined to see that through.
Mariana meant the realm to him.
She was his realm.
And therefore, his choice was simple. He could think of nothing more meaningful than saving the woman he loved.
Without second thought, Faren darted for Mariana—and was snared almost immediately by a searing pain around his throat.
The Oath magic was formidable, a tangle of thorny vines rooted deep in his stomach, coiled around his lungs, wrapped around his neck.
It strangled him with a choking force, trying to yank him back, bidding him to save the Ledger of the Sovereign instead. To choose duty over love.
But there was no contest.
Without remorse, without mercy, Faren wielded own magic against his Oath, dulling the pain of its thorns and threats.
He couldn’t imagine this pain without his ability to smother the sensation—it was excruciating.
He gasped. He gagged. He clenched his teeth and growled from the torment, straining until finally he felt a snap.
His Oath didn’t just break—it tore through him like the crack of a whip.
A wave of dizziness hit him, followed by a flood of nausea.
Saliva filled his mouth and Faren stumbled—but he did not succumb.
He dulled his senses with more power, numbing himself until he could barely feel the swords in his hands or his own staggering legs.
He fought his way forward, determined to reach Mariana in time.
But he was too clumsy. Too numb.
The Morta was upon her, raising one sinewy arm. As it did, Mariana roused, reached back, and tossed a pillow into the air. Black claws slashed it open in a burst of white feathers.
The abomination flailed in surprise, slashing at Mariana’s face—but then Faren was there, shielding her from its violence.
The Morta struck Faren’s crossed swords instead, knocking the unlit blades from his grasp, sending them skittering.
With nothing left but his armor, Faren positioned himself between the monster and Mariana, protecting her with his body.
“You will not harm her,” Faren seethed.
The Morta cocked its head, then plucked Honor up from the floor. Faren recognized its line of thinking, the cruel twist of its corrupted mind. It was—through and through—a product of Lord Haron’s creation.
Taking in the creature’s too-long arms and pointed black teeth, Faren braced for what he knew would come next.
Windthorn protruded from its side, the wound oozing rancid ichor.
The Morta raised Faren’s own sword above his head, and Faren didn’t wait—he lunged, yanking Windthorn free.
He managed to block the monster’s first strike with a sluggish parry, but that was all the speed he could muster.
Dazed by his broken Oath and numbed by his own magic, his reactions were catastrophically delayed, and almost as soon as he’d evaded one blow, he found himself in perfect alignment with the next.
The moment came as he’d always seen it: the glide of steel under the bottom edge of his golden breastplate. The shower of red onto the marble floor.
What Faren wasn’t prepared for was the sudden chill in his abdomen, the agony of sliced muscle.
His magic flared as if to smother the pain, but the pain was too much.
Struck by its reality, Faren was reduced to it.
The only thing that remained of him beyond the pain was the only thing that mattered.
Not glory or legacy, but the love in his heart.
He would not die before Mariana was safe.
So Faren straightened his spine. Lifted his sword.
And hacked at the Morta with all his might.
His clothes were sticky with too much blood, his body felt wobbly and cold, but he did as he must, expelling every ounce of his dulling magic until, at last, he thrust his sword deep into the monster’s chest and it fell, defeated.
Faren fell shortly thereafter—caught not by the marble tile, but strong arms and a soft lap.
Mariana’s face came into view, blood-streaked and stricken and terrified. “Faren.” Her voice was hoarse with terror. “Faren, stay with me.” She sounded far away, but she was here, and she was safe, and he was glad.
He’d saved his realm.
His duty was done.