Chapter Twenty-Five
ChApter
Twenty-Five
Asharp, blaring horn shatters the stillness of the night.
I jolt upright in bed, heart pounding, the distant sound cutting through the stone walls like a blade.
For a breath, I wonder if I imagined it, until it comes again, long and urgent, followed by the rapid clang of bells. Not just an alert. An alarm.
Something is wrong.
I throw the covers aside and scramble to my feet, my pulse quickening.
Across the room, the moonlight spills in thin, silver streaks through the tall windows.
The walls, so still and austere during the day, seem to hum with unseen tension now.
The steady rhythm of boots hitting stone grows louder as I snatch my dagger from the belt I left on the chair.
My fingers curl tightly around the hilt as another horn blast shudders through the air.
The full moon casts a cold, silver glow over the palace grounds, where torchlight flickers wildly against the stone walls. Beyond the towering gates, dark figures race through the fields, their movements swift and unnatural.
Carnoraxis.
I yank on my trousers and boots, my hands trembling as the horn wails again. Outside my door, the sounds of footsteps echo in the corridor—Ironshield soldiers, judging by their brisk, measured cadence.
By the time I step into the hallway, Nadya bursts out of her room, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders. “What is that sound?” she hisses, wide-eyed.
“Trouble.” I grab her arm, pulling her along. “We need to find out what’s happening.”
The marble floors are cold beneath my boots as we hurry toward the grand staircase.
More guards flood the halls, stern-faced men in their crimson uniforms, their hands on the hilts of their swords.
Each of them moves with practiced precision, their formation perfectly aligned, even in the chaos.
It would almost be impressive if the air weren’t thick with tension.
As we reach the grand foyer, the towering double doors stand open.
The Podrosan king and queen emerge from a side chamber.
King Harold’s broad frame is stiff with authority, his dark hair gleaming beneath the light of the chandeliers.
Queen Agatha glides beside him, her expression composed but her knuckles white where they clutch the folds of her ivory robe.
A guard bows low before them, his voice taut. “Your Majesties, the western perimeter has been breached. Creatures—dozens—advancing toward the city.” He swallows hard, his composure cracking. “They are unlike anything our forces have faced.”
Behind them, Hederan soldiers pour in from their quarters, swords drawn, their heavy boots clattering over the polished stone.
My pulse quickens as I search the crowd. Where is Dante?
I push closer, my robe slipping off my shoulders as I strain to hear the guard’s next words.
“They move fast,” he continues, his voice faltering. “Too fast. And the way they tear through flesh—” His words cut off with a shudder.
The king’s jaw tightens. “Sound the second alarm. Mobilize the outer guard and reinforce the gates. Nothing gets through.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The guard spins on his heel, but I step forward before I can think better of it.
“Let me fight,” I say, my voice steady despite the icy dread curling through my chest.
Every head turns toward me. The king’s mouth pulls into a frown, his disapproval palpable. “You are a guest of this kingdom. And a mourning one, at that.”
Before I can reply, another voice cuts in.
“Celeste, no.” Marcos steps into my path, his brow furrowed beneath tousled, dark hair, his red cloak hanging open at his shoulders. He looks equal parts horrified and perplexed. “You can’t mean to go out there. It’s not your place. Not now.”
I lift my chin. “My place is at the front of the line, defending the people.”
He shakes his head, glancing toward the king and queen as if to appeal to their reason. “You’ll be breaking every rule of this court. You’re in mourning. It’s forbidden. The consequences—”
“Rules don’t save lives,” I snap. “I’ve seen what those things can do. If I stand by and watch more innocents die, then what good are any of your precious rules?”
The king’s face darkens, but I don’t wait for his retort. Because for all his rigid adherence to protocol, even he can’t deny the truth: neither he nor his soldiers have seen what’s coming.
I turn back to Marcos, whose jaw hangs open. “You’ve always been kind to me,” I say quietly, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Please. Don’t stop now.”
He swallows, clearly torn, but he steps aside.
I don’t waste another second. I let my robe drop, draw my dagger from its sheath, the weight of it familiar in my grip, and bolt into the night.
As I force my way past the soldiers at the gate, a shadow falls over me. I turn my head to find Dante charging beside me. We don’t break our stride as we hold our weapons in our grasps.
“You didn’t think you were going to face this horde without me, did you?” he asks.
“What took you so long?” I tease.
He moves with easy confidence, but I see the flicker of worry in his storm-grey eyes when they meet mine. He’s already dressed for battle—black leather fitted to his frame, the hilt of his falchion gleaming at his side.
The cool, night air brushes against my skin, thick with the scent of rain on distant earth. The smell of smoke drifts faintly on the breeze, but there’s something else beneath it: an acrid, coppery scent that makes my stomach twist. I know that smell. Blood.
In the field between the castle and the oncoming carnoraxis, orderly rows of Podrosan soldiers flood into formation. Every movement is precise, mechanical. Nothing like the easy, fluid readiness of my own regiment. Dante and I push our way through, rushing out in front of the troops.
A deep, thunderous bellow rolls over the plains—a sound I know too well. The open fields stretch toward the dark treeline, but even from here, I see the shadowed figures moving—too fast, too many.
The guard captain—an older man with greying hair beneath his helmet—calls out orders. His voice is clear, cutting through the din. “Archers, take position!”
Dante curses under his breath. “Let’s move.”
The horde descends, and the battlefield is chaos.
Shadows twist through the moonlit fields, monstrous and fast. The shriek of a carnoraxis splits the night, sending a chill through my blood as I sprint toward the thick of the fight, my dagger already slick with blackened gore.
The Ironshields are holding their line—rigid and precise, as expected—but the sheer number of beasts is threatening to break through.
I cut down one lunging for a wounded soldier, the blade slicing clean through its neck.
My heart hammers in my chest as I scan the field.
I’ve fought these creatures before—too many times—but this is different.
I am not with my squad. With them at my side, our defense would be well coordinated, a dance so well-rehearsed, there would be no question of the steps we needed to take.
But these soldiers, to their credit, are disciplined, moving with impressive coordination. One to my left reloads his crossbow faster than I’ve ever seen—his aim nearly as sharp as Isaac’s—as he releases a bolt that takes down a beast mid-leap.
A shout pulls my attention across the battlefield.
A Podrosan soldier, his leg pinned under the weight of a fallen carnoraxis, struggles against the creature’s last death throes.
His sword lies inches beyond his reach, his face pale as the beast’s claws twitch closer to his throat.
None of the other soldiers are close enough to help.
I don’t think. I move.
I dart across the blood-soaked ground, knees bending low as I drive my blade into the beast’s side. The creature howls in agony, but I twist the blade deeper, feeling the sickening give of its ribs before it collapses, still.
The soldier gasps, pulling his leg free with a wince. Blood streaks his cheek, but his eyes widen when he sees me. “Your Highness!” His breath stutters. “You… You saved me.”
“Get back to the line,” I order, keeping my tone firm as I offer him a hand. He grips it tightly, hauling himself upright with a hiss of pain. “And next time, don’t let them get that close.”
He nods quickly, still looking at me like I’ve sprouted wings. “Thank you,” he says, his voice raw.
“Go!” I bark, pushing him toward his comrades.
I pivot back to the battle, but his words linger in my mind. He’ll report what happened, I know it. And I almost wish I could see the look on the Podrosan king’s face when he learns that an outsider—a woman—was the one to save one of his men.
Another beast lurches toward me. I raise my dagger again, the blood pounding in my ears as I meet it head-on.
A final carnoraxis lunges from the treeline, its jagged teeth bared as it charges the remaining guards.
One soldier is too slow to raise his sword.
I sprint forward, and with a sharp twist, I drive my blade into the beast’s exposed throat.
It collapses, twitching as black blood pools beneath its heavy frame.
The guard stares at me in wide-eyed disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as if words have abandoned him.
“You’re welcome,” I say breathlessly, yanking my dagger free.
The air is thick with the acrid stench of blood and burnt flesh, but the sounds of snarls and screams have faded. All that remains are the distant crackles of dying fires and the sharp orders of Podrosan captains calling their soldiers to regroup.
I wipe my blade against my thigh, scanning the battlefield for any remaining threats.
The ground is littered with carnoraxis corpses, their twisted forms steaming in the cool, night air.
Bodies of soldiers—Podrosan and Hederan alike—are scattered between them.
My pulse thunders in my ears, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins begins to ebb, leaving behind a sharp ache in my limbs.
I turn, searching, until finally I see him.
Dante’s hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, but it’s his eyes—stormy and fierce—that hold me captive. His falchion hangs loosely at his side, the silver blade slick with carnoraxis blood.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The world narrows to the space between us—every breath we take and every bruise we’ll feel tomorrow.