35. Chapter 34
Chapter 34
W hen Daed and I emerge at dawn, Zyphoro waits for us on the rope bridge.
Or, more accurately, she waits for Daedalus.
I feel like an ant amongst giants as their gazes lock, sizing each other up with an intensity so thick you could choke on it. The air hums with tension, the weight of so many secrets and lies and heartbreaks bearing down on their shoulders.
“Sister,” Daed says, smoke curling ominously between his fingers. “It has been a long time.”
Zyphoro’s lips twist into a smirk, and with a flick of her wrist, a dagger shrouded in shadow manifests in her hand. She points it straight at him, her eyes gleaming. “Longer for me, brother.”
They stalk towards each other, these sleek predators, almost identical, even their halved moonstone necklaces seeming to sway in time around their necks. As Zyphoro conjures a second dagger, the smoke swirling around it like tendrils of darkness, Daed extends his hand, summoning Death Singer from the void, the moonstone in its hilt glinting, its silver blade shimmering in the morning light.
I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen, useless—what can an ant possibly hope to stop between these two forces of nature? My heart pounds in my chest, expecting the inevitable screech of their weapons colliding, bracing for the violence that is sure to follow.
But when they meet in the center of the bridge, instead of the clash of steel, they collapse into each other. Their weapons vanish as they grab with a fierceness that feels like both an embrace and a battle, gripping as if to hold on to something they’ve both lost.
“Zyphoro,” Daed murmurs, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
Zyphoro’s face remains hard for a beat longer, but then the sharp edge of her fury dulls when she buries her face in her brother’s shoulder. “You should be,” she mutters. “But you’re here now.” She pulls back slightly, her expression shifting into something more playful. “With the two of us, these humans might just win this war… against other humans.” Her brow furrows, confusion slipping into her voice. “Have I been absent so long that Fae fight human wars now?”
Daed shakes his head, his voice resigned. “No. This is recent.”
It’s impossible to look at them without seeing the startling similarities—not just in the way their dark hair curls in the same places or how their eyes churn with the same storm, but in the power they carry, the way they command those around them. Their very presence is overwhelming. I wonder, fleetingly, what a battle between them would look like—whether it would end in an instant with both of them destroyed or rage on for a thousand years.
Zyphoro’s gaze shifts to me over Daed’s shoulder. “I’ve met your wife,” she says. “It seems… complicated.”
“You have no idea,” he replies, a small smirk tugging at his lips, but it fades quickly when Zyphoro’s expression turns cold again.
“You must control yourself, brother,” she warns, her voice dropping low. “If you are to survive this.”
He looks at her, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand…”
“Gygarth sits within you, Daedalus, like a man sits in a chair. I see him in your eyes, staring back at me.” Her voice tightens. “He hungers. He always hungers. But now that I am free, I will make him starve.” She steps closer, her presence looming like a dark shadow over him. “Your complicated human wife is the one who freed me. Not a Fae, not a Mordorin, not you. Her. And because of that, I will not allow her to become meat for the beast, like our mother.”
For the first time, I see the cracks in Daed’s armor, his walls faltering under the weight of her words.
“If I sense, for even a moment, that you’ve lost control,” Zyphoro continues, her voice sharp, “I will free you from your curse. Permanently. Do you understand me now?”
Daed doesn’t flinch. His reply is steady, without fear or resistance, only calm acceptance. “Yes, Zyphoro. I understand.”
The village stirs, the cold air biting at our skin as we brace for what’s to come. The soft shuffle of feet and hushed whispers fills the morning, no one daring to speak above a whisper. An unsettling tension hangs in the air, pressing down on my chest and making it hard to breathe.
Elders and children are hidden away, their faces pale and eyes wide with fear as they are led into the underground shelter. They’re instructed to remain silent, no matter what sounds echo from above, no matter the chaos unfolding outside. It feels cruel, forcing them into silence while the world collapses around them. But it’s necessary; the den will protect them, and we will safeguard the den.
As I secure the entrance, I glance at the warriors preparing. Their faces are grim but determined. I spot Arax off to the side, his hands steady as he adjusts Solena’s grip on her sword, showing her how to hold it properly, his voice low and instructive.
Zyphoro, perched silently on a tree branch above them, watches with sharp eyes. Her dagger spins in her hand, waiting for the hunt to begin, her focus unshakable.
Then I feel Daed's presence long before I see him, like a cool shadow falling over me, consuming and inescapable. He crosses the distance between us in his leathers, embodying the dark with every movement, every look, every breath. When he reaches me he takes my hand, curling his around it, the runes tattooed on his knuckles pulsing.
“The Blades here are few, but they are loyal to me,” he says. “Arax and Zyphoro’s skill will be in our favor on the battlefield, and the warriors of The Grove are strong enough to hold the line.”
I force a smile, anything to distract me from my racing heart. “You speak as if we could win this.”
“We do not need to win,” Daed says, his voice the strength I need to keep my focus. “We just cannot let him win.” He pulls me closer. “I do not want you out there today.”
I shake my head. “I will not be herded into the shelter with the children, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, wife,” he says wryly. “I am simply stating the idea of you in danger fills me with irrationally violent thoughts.”
“Good,” I say, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Express those violent thoughts on the Legion.”
He grins, his eyes a paler gray than usual. “I have something that belongs to you.”
I raise a curious brow, watching as he summons plumes of smoke and tosses them in the air before they fall upon the ground with a splash of wafting mist.
My heart swells when the smoke takes form, and Ashen hisses angrily at Daed, his ears flat against his head, his teeth bared, as if he is still the massive lion he was the last time I saw him, not the little kitten before me now. Ashen swipes at Daed, sharp claws cutting through the air, but Daed doesn’t flinch. He only watches with calm annoyance.
Ashen slinks away, his body low to the ground, before he curls himself around my legs. I pick him up, rubbing my nose to his, then he leaps lightly onto my shoulder, his weight familiar and comforting as he settles into my hair.
“Thank you,” I say as Ashen’s soothing purr rumbles at my ear.
“I fear that creature will replace me,” he sighs.
I exhale. “Well, that all depends on how well he can fry an egg.”
Daed laughs, and the sound seems to startle him. “I will take you back to Pariseth after this is done.”
My chest heaves, my head dropping to look at my feet. I can’t think about this now, not with a million terrors screaming for attention. “Daed… please… I…”
“Forgive me,” he says. “If not for everything I’ve done, then just for that. We will talk after the battle, when we both survive, and you decide to let me love you for the rest of your life.”
A laugh escapes my chest, and I need it. I need to feel something other than fear right now. “Alright then.”
Before either of us can say more, the sound of horns cuts through the air.
The Legion is here.
We move silently through the forest, the leaves brushing against us as we pass. I can hear the whispers of the trees, the low hum of the Souls weaving through the earth beneath my feet. The forest feels alive, almost thrumming with the same tension that coils inside me.
We reach the edge of The Grove, where the dense trees thin out into the open plains, and there, on the horizon, the Legion of Saints wait. My stomach knots as I see them—an army in the hundreds, their gilded armor gleaming. The sun reflects off the polished steel, casting a blinding light that only makes their numbers seem greater.
“We are vulnerable in the open,” Daed says as we linger near the entrance to the forest. “If we confine the fight here, they will not be able to overwhelm us.”
“But then we risk them reaching The Grove,” I protest.
Daed nods his understanding. “Very well. The field it is.”
Our meager army of mismatched warriors passes the giant boulders, striding onto the grass with unbroken strides just as a rider breaks away from the Legion’s line, his horse snorting and stamping as he approaches us. The rider’s red cloak trails behind him like a banner, his face hard and unforgiving. He pulls his horse to a rough halt in front of me, his eyes filled with contempt.
“Turn back now,” I demand, my voice steady, though my heart races. “The Grove want no part of your war. Leave, and we’ll let you go in peace.”
The rider sneers, leaning forward in his saddle, his lips curling in disdain. “The Golden Son has already given you his answer. The negotiations are over. You can no longer claim neutrality.”
I swallow hard, anger flaring in my chest. “We have children in this forest.”
He chuckles darkly, straightening in his saddle. “Turn over your weapons and bend the knee, then perhaps The Golden Son will show mercy upon the children. But your head, Jewel of the Tenders…” His eyes flash with a cruel smile. “Your head will serve as a warning to any who dare defy the Legion.”
Before I can respond, before the fury bubbling in my throat can find words, Daed steps forward, his hand outstretched. A dark, smoky mist swirls around his fingers, and in a single, fluid motion, his sword manifests in his grip—Death Singer, gleaming and hungry for blood.
The rider stiffens, eyes widening as Daed's presence swells, his power rolling off him like a storm ready to break. He stands tall beside me, his cold gaze locked on the man before us.
“You would dare threaten her?” Daed’s voice is low, dangerous, the sound of it reverberating through the air. “You come into her land, seek to slaughter her people, and you think you will leave here alive?”
The rider shifts in his saddle, clearly unnerved, but he doesn’t back down. “Your Fae tricks don’t scare me,” he snarls, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “We will crush you just as we’ve crushed all who stood in our way.”
“Boring,” Zyphoro yawns, emerging from our numbers. “Kill him already, brother.”
Daed smiles, the smoke around him thickening, swirling like a living thing as his power surges. The rider’s mouth opens, but before he can speak, Daed lifts his sword, hovering the sharp point over the rider’s trembling throat.
Then, a new sound emerges from the ranks of the Legion—a steady rhythm of hooves. The soldiers part like a wave as a figure appears from their midst, and the sun catches him in such a way that at first, he is nothing but a blinding light in the distance. My eyes squint against the glare, heart thrumming in my chest as the new rider draws nearer.
The brightness lessens as he approaches, and I make out the details—long, flowing red cloak billowing behind him, shimmering golden armor that seems almost too pristine, marked with a pair of crossed swords, framed by praying hands. But all that pales compared to his golden mask.
The Golden Son tilts his head ever so slightly, his gaze landing on Daedalus first. His blue eyes burning with a quiet fury, cold and calculating.
“Prince Daedalus,” he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel. “I was not expecting to see you here.”
Daed stiffens beside me, his sword still poised, smoke curling from the blade as his power thrums in the air. “You threaten the sacred home of my wife. Where else would I be?” he bites back, his voice dripping with venom.
“Wife.” He looks at me and scoffs, his gaze intrusive, as if he can see my heart beating through my robes. “ Traitor, ” he hisses. “You have already wasted so much of my precious time. Perhaps I should have killed you when I had you all to myself the other day and saved my horse’s legs.”
Daed’s eyes snap to me, his brow furrowed. “You were alone with him? When?”
“I tried to negotiate,” I say bitterly, my eyes narrowing on The Golden Son. “But he refused.”
Daed continues to seethe even after my explanation, and I cannot reason why he would allow such a thing to bother him when nothing else seems to.
The Golden Son’s chestnut mare stamps her hooves, growing more irritable with each passing second. “You look upset, Prince Daedalus,” he says, and I can hear the smirk on his lips. “Perhaps you worry it is not only your head I will take from you.”
“You have lived too long, Golden Son,” Daed snarls, his anger building like the storm rolling over the sea. “You should have died in that pathetic hovel of piss and shit you called a village with the rest of your family when we burnt it to the ground.”
I freeze, words lost to me as if I can no longer recall the way my mouth should move or how they sound on my tongue. The only ones who do not look in shock are the Fae, and I realize this is no secret to them. More Fae deceptions.
But rather than retaliate with rage, The Golden Son only laughs.
“It is you who has lived too long. All of you. The time of the Fae is finished. Humans will take back the Sundered Kingdoms and our lands will be washed clean of your filth.”
Smoke swirls around Daed, wrapping him in a cloak of darkness. As it dissipates, he stands clad in sleek black armor, a shrouded helm concealing his face. The scaled plates glisten with a menacing sheen, while razor-sharp spikes line every hard edge of the steel. He grips Death Singer with two hands and raises it over his shoulder.
“Then let us begin.”
And with those words, the battle erupts.
The Golden Son’s horse rears into the air, then stamps its feet as it turns to rejoin the ranks. But the first rider does not escape so easily. As he turns, Daed releases a smoke tendril that lashes out and grabs the rider around his waist, dragging him from his horse and tossing him on the ground. The rider scrambles for his sword, but it is a wasted effort. Daed plunges his sword through the rider’s chest and as he sputters blood from his mouth, smoke envelops him, dragging him to the void.
The Legion surges forward like a wave, the ground trembling beneath the weight of their numbers, their swords raised, their shields gleaming in the dawn light. The air comes alive with the sound of clashing metal and the roars of men with more fight in them than sense.
I stand at the edge, watching as Daed rushes into the fray, his sword slicing through the first line of enemies like a reaper harvesting souls. Smoke curls from his blade, wrapping around the Legion soldiers, choking their screams from their lungs. Zyphoro follows close behind, her movements fluid and precise as her daggers flash. She conjures tendrils of smoke from the void, weaving them into deadly weapons that strike down men before they can reach her.
Arax is a wrecking ball of destruction, his sword heavy and relentless as he cuts through the Legion's ranks. There’s no grace in his movements—just raw, brutal force. He swings his blade with such power that it shatters shields, crushes armor, and leaves bodies crumpled in his wake. He roars with each swing, the sound primal, full of rage and grief that fuels him.
But the Legion is vast. Endless. For every man we cut down, three more take his place. They press in closer, relentless, and the battlefield becomes a sea of chaos—blood, steel, and screams.
Daed and Zyphoro are shadows in the fray, void-walking in and out of the battle like death itself. One moment, Daed is beside me, his sword cleaving through the neck of a Legion soldier, smoke curling from his blade as it absorbs the man’s last breath. The next, he’s gone, disappearing into the void, only to reappear behind a line of archers, slaughtering them before they can even register his presence. Zyphoro moves like a wraith, her daggers dripping with blood as she carves through the Legion's ranks. Her face is a mask of calm, her eyes alight with the same storm as Daed. Every flick of her wrist sends another man to the ground, gasping for his last breath.
The warriors of The Grove, brave and determined, fall faster than the Sisters and I can heal them. I press my hands to a man’s chest, feeling the rush of warmth as the Souls of the Forest flow through me, knitting his torn flesh back together. But even as he gasps back to life, more fall behind him, their blood soaking into the earth.
Overhead, the twenty Blades from Baev’kalath take to the skies, their wings stretching wide as they rain down strikes from above. But they, too, are falling. Legion archers aim their arrows high, and one by one, the Blades are shot from the sky, their bodies crumpling to the ground in twisted heaps.
I glimpse Arax as he collects Legion lives, his sword swinging in wide arcs, cutting down anyone in his path, his battle cry a guttural roar that sends chills down my spine. He fights with the rage of a man with nothing left to lose, his movements almost primal, and yet, even he is beginning to tire. I see him stagger, just for a moment, as another wave of Legion soldiers presses forward, and my stomach lurches with fear.
Zyphoro vanishes into the void once again, appearing in the midst of a group of Legion commanders, her smoke tendrils wrapping around their throats before she drags them to their knees. But even she cannot stop the endless tide of men. Her lips curl into a snarl as she slashes at them, her face splattered with blood, and still they keep coming.
I rush to another fallen warrior, my hands trembling as I press them to his wound, desperate to keep him alive. But I’m too late. His eyes, once filled with the spark of life, now stare blankly at the sky. I choke back a sob, pulling away as another soldier falls beside me, blood pouring from his mouth. I try to heal him, but the sheer number of the dying and wounded is too much.
“They’re too many,” I gasp, my voice cracking.
Suddenly an explosion of arrows rains down from above, and I scream as one grazes my arm, the sharp pain tearing through me. The world spins, but I fight to stay standing, to keep moving. Blood drips from the wound, warm and thick, but something else stirs inside me. I grip my rune necklace, feeling it pulse beneath my fingertips.
It’s as if the very earth hums in response to my pain. My veins throb with new life, a rush of energy coursing through me, stronger than before. I can almost taste it, the bitterness of the arrow’s cut transforming into power. A power I can use.
I look out onto the battlefield, the chaos consuming everything around me.
So much cruelty. So much death.
A warrior of The Grove stumbles, barely able to hold his sword, his face pale, his movements labored. A Legion soldier raises his blade to strike him down, but before I can think, before I can even cry out, the energy inside me snaps free.
A bolt of green lightning surges from my hand. It hits the soldier square in the chest, sending him flying back into a mass of his brethren, their armor clattering in the wake of the blast.
I press my hand to the wound on my arm, the blood flowing faster now, and I feel it—the power building, gathering, waiting for release. With a growl, I use it, my body trembling as another arrow strikes me in the leg. Instead of buckling, I channel it, using the searing pain as fuel. My vision blurs, but through it, I see everything with a clarity that terrifies me. The earth hums beneath me, alive, begging to be unleashed.
My veins pulse, the green light threading through my skin, snaking up my arms, my legs, my throat. I feel my hair lift, weightless in the air, carried by the surge of power that grows with every heartbeat. I stumble for a moment, my body fighting to contain the raw energy surging through me, but I give in, letting it take over.
I drive my fingers into the soil. The earth responds in kind, trembling beneath me as the green veins in my skin expand, my eyes glowing brighter, burning with the same furious energy. My breath comes in ragged bursts, each one carrying more power, more fury. I can feel the forest answering my call.
An army of creatures—wild, frenzied, their eyes glowing with the same green fire that burns within me. Wolves, bears, boars, stags. They charge forward, their roars deafening, and the Legion falters for a moment, confusion and fear rippling through their ranks.
The animals descend upon them, tearing through armor, trampling soldiers beneath their paws and hooves. The chaos intensifies, the battlefield erupting into a storm of violence as the creatures of the forest unleash their fury. I push my hands deeper into the soil, finding more beneath the surface, sleeping giants waiting to wake. With a loud crack, the boulders at the mouth of the forest transform, the stone creaking and groaning until they become massive rock golems dotted with moss, and when they join the battle, picking up men and crushing them to a bloody pulp, the Legion start to flee.
I scream again, but this time it’s not from pain. It’s from the sheer power that rips through me. My hands press deeper into the ground, and the earth obeys my command. Vines twist from beneath the soil, snaring Legion soldiers by their legs, dragging them down, crushing them in their grip. I can hear their screams, but the sound barely registers over the wild beating of my heart.
The power is consuming me, threading deeper into my skin, into my bones. My entire body pulses with the green glow, my vision blurring as the energy inside me grows, relentless and uncontrollable. I should be afraid, but I’m not.
I bury my hands deeper into the earth, the power overtaking every rational thought. The forest is alive with the spirits of the Souls, and I’m their vessel, their weapon.
The creatures fight with a madness I’ve never seen, tearing through the Legion’s forces as if driven by the same unrelenting force that consumes me. Blood splatters the ground, the air thick with the scent of iron and death. And still, I push the power further, deeper, my hands trembling as I channel it all.
But the more I give, the more it takes.
A sharp pain lances through me, but I don't stop. I can’t. The forest, the Grove, all of it—depends on me .
The green light pulses around me, wrapping me in its grip, pulling me deeper into the earth’s fury. But even as I fight, even as I hold the Legion at bay with everything I have, I know I’m losing myself. The pain I’ve drawn on burns through me, a fire I can’t control.
I am the forest. I am the fury of the earth. And I will not stop until the Legion is buried beneath my feet.
The Grove has the advantage, the tide of the battle shifting as Legion soldiers falter. They retreat, stumbling back from the onslaught of the forest’s creatures and the relentless force of the Fae and Grove warriors. The air is thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and dirt. Victory feels so close, I can taste it—within reach, a breath away.
But then, like a beam of righteous light tearing through the darkness, he appears.
The Golden Son charges toward me, a blur of gilded fury. Before I can react, his boot slams into my face, sending me sprawling backward. The sudden shock breaks my concentration, the power I’ve been channeling from the earth flickering and sputtering as I hit the ground hard. My vision blurs, stars exploding in the corners of my eyes as pain radiates from my skull.
He dismounts and looms over me, his golden mask glinting in the sunlight, the brilliance of his eyes cold and piercing beneath it. I try to reach for my power again, but I’m too weak, my connection to the earth severed by his brutal strike.
“You fight well, for a traitor,” he sneers, his voice low and venomous, dripping with contempt. His blade gleams as he presses it against my throat, the sharp edge biting into my skin just enough to draw blood. “But this is where your story ends, Amara of The Grove.”
My limbs feel heavy, useless as I struggle to lift my hands, to fight him off, but my strength is draining fast. I grit my teeth, the fury burning in my chest, but I can’t move, pinned beneath the weight of his blade, the taste of dirt and blood on my tongue.
Just as I’m about to give in to the darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision, a shout pierces through the haze.
“Get away from her!” Arax’s voice thunders, and in the blink of an eye, he is there.
Arax’s sword swings in a vicious arc, forcing The Golden Son back, his blade barely deflecting the strike in time. They clash with a resounding crash, steel meeting steel as sparks fly. I scramble to my feet, gasping for air as I watch them, my heart pounding in my ears.
Arax fights like a demon, his every strike powerful and precise, his body a blur of motion. But The Golden Son is just as fast, just as ruthless, and they move like two forces of nature, colliding with such intensity that it shakes the very ground beneath them.
For a moment, I think Arax might win, his sword cutting through the air with deadly precision. But then, The Golden Son feints, a quick flick of his wrist, and before I can even shout a warning, his blade finds its mark.
“No!” My scream tears from my throat as Arax stumbles, his sword slipping from his grasp as he falls to the ground, blood pouring from the wound in his abdomen. The sight of him crumpling, his strength fading, rips through me like a jagged knife.
The Golden Son stands over him, victorious, his blade slick with Arax’s blood. He turns his gaze to me and stalks forward, but my eyes are mesmerized by the sight of my friend’s life force staining the grass, turning the flowers red.
“Such a waste,” he mutters as he looms above me and raises his sword over his head.
Then suddenly Ashen leaps from within my tangled hair, transforming from a little bundle of paws to the giant, feral lion I know he can be. Tentacles shoot out from his back, ensnaring The Golden Son and tackling him to the ground.
The Golden Son calls out, slashing and stabbing at Ashen, but his blade simply glides through the smoky form of my protector.
I claw my way across the field, falling to my knees beside Arax, my hands trembling as I cradle his head in my lap. His face is pale, blood soaking through his tunic as his breathing comes in ragged gasps. “Arax, stay with me,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Stay with me.”
His eyes flutter open, just barely, and he looks at me, the pain etched in every line of his face. “I’m sorry… Princess…”
“No,” I choke, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I can save you.”
I press my hand to his wound, and the rune around my neck gives a faint glow.
He reaches up, his bloodstained fingers brushing against my cheek, his grip weak but steady. “Amara. Stop. I’m ready.”
“No,” I weep, “I will not lose you.”
Arax’s hand trails down my cheek, his knuckle wiping a tear from my jawline, and I’m so focused on his wound, I don’t notice when he grips my rune in his hand and it vanishes in a wisp of black smoke.
My eyes widen. “No! No! What have you done?” I grasp around my neck, but it’s gone. “Where is it! I can’t save you without the rune. Where is it!”
I plunge a hand into the soil, praying that the Souls will grant me the power to save him. But I have drained the earth completely. There is nothing left. I panic and suddenly I’m shaking Arax, my tears flowing without limits, my voice screaming into the air, unbridled and unchained and bursting with pain.
“Arax! Bring it back! Please bring it back!” Without my power, all I can do is push hard against his wound, trying to stop the blood. But there’s too much. There’s just too much. “You can’t leave me, not like this. You promised.”
He smiles as blood trickles from his mouth, his gray hair soaked through, the glint of his eyes fading. “Estra,” he murmurs.
My heart shatters as his smile fades, his eyes distant, focused on something beyond me, on someone I cannot see, and when his eyes close, the blood-soaked red ribbon slips from his sleeve as his hand falls limp on the grass.
“No… no, please.” My voice breaks, sobs wracking my body as I hold him close. “Don’t leave me.”
The battle rages on around us, the screams of dying men and the clash of steel a distant hum in my ears. The Golden Son frees himself from Ashen’s jaws and mounts his horse, and I glimpse his golden armor retreating into the distance. But here, in this moment, everything else fades away. The Grove, the Legion, the Fae.
Arax of House Mordorin, Reaper of the Ebon Flight, the man who stood by my side, who protected me when I couldn’t protect myself—who I brought back to life twice—now lies dead in my arms.
In the place he chose. With the name of the daughter he lost on his lips.