Chapter 37 #2
His armor melts. Not slowly—instantly, flowing down his body like water, and the flesh beneath doesn't burn, it vanishes. The flames devour him. Consume him. In the space of a heartbeat he goes from a man to a shape to nothing at all.
The fire spreads.
It doesn't discriminate. It doesn't slow.
It flows through the columns like a living thing, hungry and patient and utterly unstoppable.
Soldiers try to run—the fire follows. They try to form shield walls—the flames flow around the barriers and take them from behind.
The war mages throw up wards that shimmer gold in the morning light, powerful magic that should stop anything—
The demon-fire flows around their defenses like they're not even there and devours them anyway.
The screaming is everywhere now. Ten thousand voices raised in terror and agony. I watch men claw at their own faces as the flames take them. Watch officers try to rally troops that are already gone. Watch horses bolt with riders who are burning, burning, gone.
Two minutes. Maybe less.
Then silence.
Ash drifts down from the ridge. Soft. Gentle. A grey snow falling on the battlefield. That's all that remains of ten thousand soldiers. Ash and the faint smell of burnt metal.
Yasar lowers his hands. The shadow-fire around his arms dims but doesn't go out. He's still smiling that too-wide smile.
"Excessive," Kaan says quietly. There's something in his voice I've never heard before. Not fear—Kaan doesn't fear anything. But close. Wariness, maybe. Recognition of something that might be beyond even his control.
"Efficient." Yasar turns those black, empty eyes toward us. "And I'm just getting started."
I believe him. That's the worst part. Looking at this thing Kaan’s cousin has become, I believe every word.
The battle breaks.
Not a retreat—a rout. Light Court soldiers throw down weapons and run. Golden banners fall into the mud and are trampled by fleeing boots. Officers scream orders no one obeys. The Fae hunt them through the valley, picking off runners with terrible patience.
I don't watch the fleeing soldiers. My eyes are fixed on the command pavilion at the valley's center, where golden standards still fly. A knot of fighters in elaborate armor has formed a defensive circle there.
Father's personal guard. They won't run.
And somewhere among them—
"There." I point with my sword. "That's where we need to go."
Kaan follows my gaze. His shadows coil tighter. "His guard won't break easily."
"I know."
The fighting has become too dense for mounted combat.
I dismount, letting my horse bolt toward the rear lines.
We push forward through the chaos on foot.
A straggler lunges at me from behind a fallen horse—I spin, open his belly, keep moving before he hits the ground.
Another comes at Kaan with a spear—his shadows catch the shaft, snap it, catch the man, snap him too.
We move together without speaking, covering each other's blind spots, our rhythms matched from months of fighting side by side.
Near a collapsed supply wagon, I see Zoran.
He's fighting someone in gold commander's armor. Their blades meet, separate, meet again. Light magic flares with each strike. I know the way Zoran moves—I taught him half those forms. But the man he's fighting—
General Altin.
My chest seizes. Altin taught us swordplay when we were children. He brought sweets after difficult lessons.
He disowned my brother the day Zoran chose the Shadow Court.
"Traitor!" Altin's voice carries over the noise of battle. His blade weaves complex patterns—technical, precise, the forms he taught us. "Betrayer of everything your family stands for!"
"I chose my family." Zoran deflects a strike that should have killed him. His technique has changed—fluid now, unpredictable. "You chose your illusions."
They circle each other. Altin's armor shows deep cuts. Blood soaks Zoran's left sleeve, dripping from his fingertips.
I start toward them.
Kaan's hand closes on my wrist. "Don't."
"He's hurt—"
"It's his fight. Interfering dishonors them both."
I know he's right. The knowledge doesn't help.
Altin lunges—a killing thrust. The form is perfect. Years ago, he used that exact strike to demonstrate technique to two children who thought swords were toys.
Zoran doesn't block. He flows sideways, letting the blade pass, and drives his sword into the gap between breastplate and shoulder.
Light-crystal steel punches through and emerges from Altin's back.
"I'm sorry." Zoran catches him as he falls, lowering him to the mud. "I'm sorry it came to this."
Altin looks up. Blood froths at his lips. "You... chose correctly." The words come wet and slow. "Your father... he's become something... something that would make your mother weep."
Then his eyes go empty, and Zoran is kneeling in the mud beside the body of a man who helped raise us.
Something cracks in my chest. Not grief—not exactly. Something bigger. The world we grew up in is gone. Every bond, every certainty, every familiar thing—gone. Bleeding out in the mud of this valley.
A roar from the command pavilion snaps my attention back.
Father.
His armor blazes with light magic—so bright it washes out everything around him. He's fighting Morwenna's commander, and their battle sends shockwaves across the field, flattening anyone too close. Light and wild magic tear at the air, opening rips that show glimpses of somewhere else.
"We need to end this," I say.
I look at my sword. The twilight magic pulses through it, light and shadow finally working together instead of fighting. The pressure in my chest has become something else—not pain, not fear. Power. Mine.
I glance at Kaan, he arches his sword, a smirk spread across his face. “Let’s do this then.”
We charge.
Father's elite guard meets us at the edge of the pavilion. These aren't conscripts or frightened soldiers—these are the Light Court's best, hand-picked and battle-hardened. They move in perfect coordination, shields locking together, blades finding every gap.
It doesn't matter.
My twilight magic and Kaan's shadows weave together. I strike and darkness follows, amplifying every blow. He attacks and light flares along the edges, burning where shadow cuts. We've never fought like this before—never trusted each other enough to let our magic merge completely.
The elite guards fall. One. Three. Seven. Their perfect coordination shatters against something they've never faced—something they have no training for.
And then we're through, and Father is turning away from the commander to face us.
He looks at me.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The battle rages around us—screaming, steel, dying men—but here, in this small circle of trampled mud and fallen bodies, there is only my father and me.
"Daughter." His voice cuts through the chaos. "You came after all." His gaze darts to one of his guards who has stumbled out of the fight and towards him. He reaches for the guard, touching his shoulder, like it gives him strength. “You wouldn’t hurt your own father, you’re too good for that.”
I force my voice to stay steady. "You're wrong."
I raise my sword. The twilight magic responds, flaring bright enough to throw shadows even against his blazing light. My hands are trembling. I tighten my grip until they stop.
Father studies me. The armor I'm wearing—shadow-steel and leather. The weapon in my hands—both light and dark forged together. The way I stand beside Kaan, shoulder to shoulder. Not behind him. Not apart from him.
Equal.
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment? Grief? It's gone before I can name it, replaced by the cold certainty I've known my entire life.
“Please, Nesilhan don’t force me to raise my hand.”
I snort. “Fucking raise it, so I can cut it off.”
His gaze narrows and he raises one hand.
His remaining guards—fifty at least, maybe more—surge forward in perfect formation.
They flow around the commander, shields slamming together, forcing the Fae commander back.
More pour in from the sides, from behind, forming a wall of golden armor and blazing weapons.
A wall between Kaan and me.
"No—" I reach for him, but guards are already filling the gap, shields locking, cutting us off from each other. "KAAN!"
"NESILHAN!" His shadows lash out, tearing through the first rank of guards, but more replace them. Always more. The golden wall holds.
Father's sword descends.
I try to block. I bring my blade up, call on the twilight magic, pour everything I have into the defense—
Not enough.
The impact explodes through my shoulder. White-hot pain. The crack of bone. My sword flies from fingers that have stopped working, spinning away into the mud. My knees hit the ground before I realize I'm falling.
Father stands over me, his light blazing so bright I can barely look at him. Blood runs down my arm, dripping from my useless fingers. The twilight magic gutters in my chest like a candle in a storm.
"You were always too idealistic." His voice is gentle. Patient. The voice he used when I was a child and he was explaining why the world didn't work the way I wanted it to. "Too willing to believe in fairy tales about love conquering all."
Behind the golden wall, I can hear Kaan fighting. Shadows screaming. Steel clashing. His voice raw with fury, with desperation. "NESILHAN!"
Every guard he kills is replaced by another. And another. And another. The wall holds.
"But this is the real world, daughter." Father crouches before me, and up close I can see the lines around his eyes, the grey in his hair. When did he get old? When did either of us? "Power is the only truth that matters."
"You're wrong." The words scrape out of my throat. "You've always been wrong."
"Perhaps." He stands, raising his sword. "But I'm the one still standing."