25. Esme
ESME
The sharp, ringing shriek of Zatori’s agony tears through the smoke-filled master suite.
The elder lord’s iron-clad fingers spasm, releasing their vice grip. Kalan plummets.
I do not think. I let go of the jagged mirror shard embedded in the thick emerald scales of Zatori’s tail, ignoring the dark blood spraying across my knuckles. I launch myself forward, throwing my battered body across the debris-strewn rug.
My arms slide under Kalan’s small frame a fraction of a second before he hits the marble.
The momentum carries us across the floorboards.
I twist my shoulder, absorbing the brutal impact against the stone to shield the boy.
My back screams in protest, the embedded glass shards driving deeper into the flesh.
A wet, tearing pain ignites in my side, but I do not stop.
I pull Kalan tightly against my chest, curling my body into a tight, protective shell around him.
The room erupts.
A concussive shockwave of pure, untethered magic detonates above us. The force of it rattles the remaining glass in the window frames and sends a shower of plaster raining down on my head.
I crack my eyes open, peering through the settling dust.
The twelve illusions of Zuirvih vanish, dissolving into purple mist. The true master of Vhoig crosses the room in a blinding, terrifying blur of midnight-blue armor and silver hair. He does not use his longsword. He discards the steel, dropping the weapon onto the rug.
Zuirvih slams into Lord Zatori with the force of a collapsing mountain.
The elder dark elf attempts to raise a shield of sickly green magic, a frantic, desperate barrier to block the incoming assault.
Zuirvih does not bypass the shield. He reaches out with both hands, his leather-clad fingers sinking directly into the toxic green light. The purple static of his magic flares, burning with the heat of a dying star. With a guttural, feral roar, Zuirvih rips his hands apart.
The magical ward shatters like brittle ice.
Zatori stumbles backward, his massive serpentine tail thrashing wildly against the ruined furniture, but there is nowhere to run.
Zuirvih descends on him. The civilized, calculating Khuzuth lord is entirely gone.
The primal beast takes over. He grabs the front of Zatori’s iron breastplate, lifting the elder lord off the ground.
A sickening crunch echoes through the suite as Zuirvih drives his armored fist into Zatori’s face.
Once. Twice. The sickening sound of breaking bone and tearing flesh drowns out the storm winds howling outside.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing Kalan’s face into my shoulder. "Don't look, sweet boy. Keep your eyes closed."
"Mama," Kalan whimpers, his small hands clutching the ruined, blood-soaked collar of my leather tunic.
I push my boots into the rug, dragging us backward.
Inch by agonizing inch, I crawl toward the corner of the room, putting distance between us and the epicenter of the violence.
The adrenaline keeping me upright begins to fray, shredding at the edges.
A profound, bone-deep cold creeps up from my toes, freezing the blood in my veins.
The gash on my temple continues to bleed, a warm, steady stream dripping down my jawline. My vision tunnels, the edges bleeding into a fuzzy, gray static. The room spins, a dizzying tilt that makes my stomach heave.
A final, devastating crack rings out.
The chaotic flashes of purple and green magic abruptly cease.
I force my eyes open, blinking through the blood and sweat stinging my lashes.
Zuirvih stands in the ruined master suite. His chest heaves, the midnight-blue armor dented and scored with fresh scratches. The skin of his face is splattered with dark, almost black blood. His silver braids hang loose, a wild halo around his head.
At his feet, Lord Zatori lies broken. The elder lord’s massive tail twitches once, a final, involuntary spasm, before going entirely still. The architect of a ten-year death sentence, the master of the Serpent faction, reduced to a broken heap on the marble floor.
Zuirvih drops his fists. The feral, blinding light in his eyes dims, the glowing rings receding as the primal rage burns itself out.
He turns his head, his gaze sweeping the wreckage of the room. He searches the shadows.
He finds us huddled in the corner.
The last traces of the warlord vanish. The absolute, unyielding terror of Vhoig breaks, replaced by a sudden, devastating panic.
"Esmeralda!"
The name tears from his throat, a raw, desperate sound that cracks in the middle.
He abandons the corpse. He crosses the room in two long strides, dropping to his knees on the glass-strewn floor beside us.
He does not care about the sharp shards digging into his armor.
His massive, leather-clad hands reach out, trembling violently as they hover over my battered body, terrified to touch the wounds.
"Kalan," I whisper, my voice a dry, reedy rasp. My tongue feels like sand. "Take him."
Zuirvih reaches down, gently lifting the sobbing child from my arms. Kalan clings to the dark elf’s gold epaulets, burying his face in the crook of Zuirvih’s neck. The warlord holds the boy securely with one arm, using his free hand to cup my face.
The leather glove is warm against my freezing skin. He wipes the blood from my cheek, his thumb smearing the crimson across his own palm.
"I have him," Zuirvih says, his voice dropping to a frantic, pleading hum. The purple static of his magic flares, a desperate attempt to push healing energy into my failing system. "I have the boy. He is safe. You are safe. Stay with me."
The magic washes over me, a warm, humming current, but it slips through my veins like water through a sieve. The trauma is too vast. The human shell is too fragile. The silver Wildspont magic that usually answers his call remains dormant, exhausted by the blood loss.
I lean my head into his palm, the rough leather offering a strange, profound comfort. The pain in my back and my ribs begins to recede, replaced by a floating, weightless sensation. The cold is no longer biting; it is a soft, creeping blanket pulling me downward.
"It's over," I manage to whisper, my field of vision collapsing into a narrow pinprick of light.
I look up into his eyes. They are wide, frantic, the glowing rings shining with unshed moisture. The Deceiver. The monster of the high-tier courts. The warlord who terrified the entire continent of Oshta.
He looks so incredibly human.
I raise my right hand, my fingers weak and trembling. Reaching up, I brush the knuckles of his blood-splattered cheek. The skin is warm.
"I kept him safe," I murmur, my hand slipping from his face, dropping limply to the rug.
"Esme. No. Open your eyes." The panic in his voice escalates, vibrating through the floorboards. He presses his hand harder against my cheek, pulling my head into his lap. "You do not have permission to leave. I command you to stay!"
The order is a desperate, broken plea.
I try to smile, to tell him the monster in the dark turned out to be the only sanctuary I ever knew. But my lips will not move. The gray static consumes the last sliver of light.
The final sound I hear is the master of Vhoig screaming my name, a devastating, shattered roar that echoes into the dark before the silence claims me entirely.