37. Chapter 37 #4
Eryndor turned and strode straight for the King.
The bastard was still trying to regenerate, still dragging himself back together through sheer malice and void-wrought hunger. He lifted one sword. Eryndor kicked it from his hand. He lifted the other. Eryndor cut clean through the wrist and sent that blade spinning too.
Then he reached for the clasps at the King’s breastplate—snapped them off—and wrenched the armor off with enough force that the King staggered. Metal hit the dirt.
The King’s chest was exposed.
Eryndor looked at me again.
A single nod.
I rose.
Every part of me hurt. My throat burned. My vision still pulsed at the edges. None of it mattered.
I crossed the space between us and stood before the King’s vulnerable heart.
Eryndor caught him from behind, locking his arms back, holding him upright with brutal finality. His eyes found mine over the King's shoulder. Steady. Certain. Offering me the kill the way another male might offer a ring.
I stepped in close enough to feel the heat of his ruined body.
I lifted my hand. Heard the cry of Griffins and the roar of dragons at my back.
And punched my fist straight through his chest.
Flesh split. Ribs resisted for half a heartbeat, then broke under the force with a sick, splintering give. My arm sank into heat and blood and slick ruin until my fingers closed around the hard, pumping weight buried inside him.
His heart.
It thrashed once in my grip—one last ugly beat.
Then I ripped it out.
Blood ran in thick streams down my arm as I lifted it high above my head and roared my victory.
Our dragons answered the call. Their cries split the sky apart. Around us, the nearest Dragonborn warriors responded, steel raised high, voices crashing together into one brutal, exultant wave.
Next, I strode to where his head had landed in the dirt.
It had rolled faceup. Grey eyes wide. Mouth slack. The expression on it almost offended. Like even now he couldn’t quite believe the world had dared to end him.
It’s about time, you insufferable bastard.
I grabbed it by the hair and lifted his head into the air. Blood ran over my wrist, down my elbow, falling silently onto the ground.
Then I turned to Umbra and the Mirror-Fire with my gifts.
They were waiting. Massive. Silent. Terrible.
I threw the heart down first. Then the head. They hit the earth in a wet, final thud.
“Let’s get rid of this asshole once and for all,” I snarled.
They reared back and released. Red-gold fire and silver-white flame crashed down together in a violent torrent, swallowing the heart and head whole.
I threw the Fury into it—golden power surging from my chest, feeding the blaze, driving it hotter, brighter, deeper.
The flames roared high enough to turn the air white.
Flesh blackened. Bone cracked. The smell hit a second later—burning meat, scorched blood, and something fouler underneath.
Old corruption finally meeting something stronger than itself.
Ferus and Flame in the form of Red Wolf’s daughter.
Behind me, Eryndor and Caden dragged the rest of the King’s body forward.
Or what was left of it.
They hauled the twitching corpse through the mud and blood and cast it into the inferno.
The body hit the fire and convulsed once.
Twice.
Then Pyrrath swept through the smoke overhead and loosed his own ember-bright flame into the pyre. The impact exploded outward in a shower of sparks and molten ruin. Fire layered over fire, three dragons’ wrath collapsing into one impossible furnace.
From Pyrrath’s back, Maxx started laughing manically. He popped over the side yelling:
“WELL. I’D SAY HE’S DEAD, BUT AT THIS POINT WE HAVE INVENTED A NEW CATEGORY!”
I barked out a laugh, half wild and half disbelieving, blood still drying on my teeth.
Then Pyrrath whipped around again—full circle—Maxx half bent out of the saddle and still grinning like the apocalypse had finally decided to entertain him.
“AND TEN OUT OF TEN FOR THE HEART-RIPPING, FLAMEHEART!” he shouted. “A BIT GORY FOR brUNCH, BUT ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL FOR A CORONATION!”
“SHUT UP, MAXX,” I yelled back, grinning.
Pyrrath wheeled past again so fast I barely caught the flash of Maxx’s teeth.
“NEVER!” he shouted.
Around us, Dragonborn warriors raised their weapons and roared. More dragons took it up overhead, flame pouring down in savage bursts, each one adding to the pyre until there was nothing left beneath it but fire. Just fire and ash and obliteration.
Eryndor came to me then and took my hand. Blood slicked between our palms, but he only gripped me tighter, as if after everything we had survived, he needed the proof of me still standing.
I stood there with blood drying on my skin, dragons at my back, griffins at my brow, and watched the King burn until there was nothing left but the absence he deserved.
Above us, the griffins circled. Maintaining their vigil. Immemorial eyes fixed on the female who'd walked unarmed into death and trusted that love would be enough.
The crowning and the killing in the same breath.