Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
Rylan
The North Tower’s courtyard is a deafening symphony of sound and motion. The guards are holding formation in a perfect shield wall, their bodies pressed tightly together, shields overlapping like scales to block the relentless push of the rebels. Sweat and blood glisten on their faces, resolve etched into every tense muscle.
But when they see me and my assembled group of Strength wielders, they part, making way for us to push to the front lines where the fiercest fighting rages. My heart thunders in my chest, the weight of command settling like iron in my veins. Bodies are scattered across the stone, some still, some writhing in pain. Eirabella makes a small, involuntary sound—a mixture of horror and despair—but when I look at her, there is no fear, only resolute determination.
“Remember, stay with me,” I say, my voice sharp over the noise. “With you and Doran here, concentrating on water wielding, I’m going to concentrate on my other Strengths.”
Eirabella’s jaw tightens. “You should’ve brought the Terranir instead of Thynara and Gelfroy.”
“Trust me,” I say, meeting her eyes for a fleeting second before turning back to the battle. I raise my sword, flames licking along the blade, and shout, “For Celador!” The cry is echoed by the soldiers around us, a rallying call that charges the air with undeniable energy.
I surge forward, sword blazing, and unleash a torrent of fire into the mass of insurgents. They stagger back, shields raised too late as the searing heat scatters their formation. One soldier charges at me, a battle axe lifted high, eyes wild with fury. I parry his strike, the force jolting up my arm, and pivot, sweeping my leg out to knock him off balance. Before he can recover, I drive my sword into his side, the flames searing through his armour. He crumples, and I turn, just in time to see another assailant rushing at me with a spear.
I step aside, grabbing the shaft and yanking it forward. He stumbles, and I release a blast of flame that sends him reeling. Behind me, I hear Thynara’s voice, low and commanding. She stands back, eyes narrowed and lips moving as she murmurs incantations. The attackers closest to her falter, their eyes glazing over as if they’re caught in a trance, compelled by her sentient powers to turn on their own comrades. It gives us a precious few moments of respite.
The push and pull of battle is relentless. An insurgent with a scarred face lunges at me, blade swinging, and I sidestep, slicing through his defence with a quick pivot and thrust. The coppery scent of blood fills the air as another one charges, only to be met by a burst of flame that sends him sprawling.
Eirabella catches my eye for a heartbeat, her expression fierce as she ducks under a swinging blade, disarming her attacker with a well-placed kick and using a stream of water to shove him back into the fray. Amidst the chaos, I watch her pause, just for a moment, to help a wounded guard struggling to his feet. She whispers something—words I can’t hear but that I know are laced with compassion—and I see the spark of hope in the man’s eyes before she turns back to the fight. That spark reminds me why we’re here, why we fight.
The battle surges again, and Doran yells something, his focus split as a barrage of arrows rains down from above. I lift my free hand, flames roaring up to meet the arrows, turning them to ash before they can pierce our ranks. But the effort costs me a second too long, and an insurgent wielding a wicked curved blade charges at my flank. Before I can react, Eirabella is there, water coiling around her like a living thing as she drives it into the enemy’s chest, sending him sprawling.
“You’re welcome, Celestaris,” she shouts over the noise, an obvious smirk on her lips.
Brat.
“Doran, hold the line!” I shout. Doran moves with muscle memory, water weaving in intricate, deadly patterns around him. He pushes back a cluster of enemy soldiers with a wave that crashes into them, sending bodies sprawling like ragdolls. But their numbers keep coming, a relentless tide of aggression.
Suddenly, I see another group surge towards him from the left, and my heart seizes. I’m about to move, flames surging at my fingertips, when Eirabella steps in. With a shout that rings clear and strong, she channels her power, a towering wall of water sweeping over the attackers and smashing them against the stone courtyard with unrelenting force. “Not today, pickledicks!” she yells, her voice carrying the conviction of a hundred warriors.
Doran’s eyes widen for a split second, and he shoots her a quick grin, nodding his thanks. Eirabella turns, meeting my gaze, panting but grinning, and gives me a nonchalant shrug. I shake my head, unable to keep the surge of pride and surprise from showing on my face.
This woman. I’d fucking kiss her breathless right now if we weren’t in the middle of a battlefield.
The fighting is a raging storm, ebbing and flowing. We gain ground, only to be driven back as more attackers swarm from the side alleys. The smell of smoke thickens, stinging my eyes, and I blink it away, searching for gaps in their formation, strategies to exploit. Where did they come from? How did they breach the north so fast? Where did the command to attack come from? The questions churn in my mind, but there’s no time for answers now.
A pained shout from Thynara draws my attention. She’s fending off three attackers, her agility unmatched but her strength flagging. Without hesitation, I surge forward, a wall of fire erupting between her and the insurgents. She nods, gratitude in her eyes, before diving back into the fray.
Through it all, I remain hyper-aware of Eirabella. She fights with a blend of raw determination and heart, even here, amidst death and chaos. But she’s still new to battle, and there are things she’ll only learn from surviving today. I watch her step between a fallen assailant and a Celadorn soldier, sparing the enemy’s life and earning a puzzled glance from the soldier. Compassion, even in battle—it’s who she is. And it is both her strength and her vulnerability.
Another wave of enemy soldiers crashes into our line, their Strength wielders smashing through the shield wall with terrifying force. The impact sends some of our men sprawling, and I grit my teeth, focusing every ounce of energy into a sweeping arc of fire that blazes across the ground, cutting a line that forces the rebels to halt or risk being engulfed.
“They’re so strong!” Doran shouts, his voice raw, sweat streaming down his face. He shifts his water barriers, redirecting streams that douse fires and sweep attackers off their feet.
“Keep pushing forward!” I command, and our line surges with renewed energy. The battle swings back in our favour, but I can feel the cost—see it in the weary eyes of the soldiers, the bodies littering the ground, the ragged breaths of the guards beside me. My mind races, calculating our next move. We have to end this soon. If they breach any further, the castle’s heart will be vulnerable.
Eirabella’s voice rings out as she stands firm, hands raised, manipulating a torrent of water to sweep away the oncoming attackers. The sight is awe-inspiring, a reminder of who she truly is: pure power and might, bound by an incomparably courageous heart. Mea valora.
And I know, just watching her, that she is everything this kingdom needs.
“Hold the line!” I shout, lifting my sword high, its flames blazing like a beacon against the darkening sky.
The battle is far from over, but we will not fall.
Not today.