Chapter 73 Not Again
Chapter seventy-three
Not Again
-Alarik-
He saw the arrow before he saw her.
A glint of twisted glass. A whisper of death through the smoke.
And Maris, frozen for just a moment, her sword still raised, her eyes locked with the thing that wore Elenwe’s face.
Too far.
He was too godsdamned far.
But he ran anyway.
The world blurred.
Lightning roared in his blood.
He couldn’t be too late to save another from a blow, they didn’t deserve.
Every part of him knew he wouldn’t reach her in time.
Not again.
Not again.
Not again.
He slammed into her side at the exact moment the arrow found its mark.
Not in her chest.
In his shoulder.
Pain ripped through him like fire hot, fast, wrong. The Veil-glass burned under his skin, pulsing with corrupted magic. His knees hit the ground hard. Maris stumbled with him, her hands catching his arm, his chest.
“No,” she gasped, voice breaking as she saw the arrow.
But he was already gripping her tighter.
Still standing between her and the next shot.
He looked up, at Elenwe.
At what remained of her.
And for the first time since she’d stepped onto the field, his voice found her.
“Don’t do this.”
Elenwe didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
“You already did.”
Her voice was hollow, echoing with ancient venom.
She nocked another arrow.
And Alarik, bleeding, bracing, still shielding the woman he loved said nothing.
Because what could he say?
She was right.
But that didn’t matter anymore.
He wasn’t here to make it right.
He was here to end it.
Maris shifted beside him, her arm sliding under his to keep him upright. Her magic flickered against his side, warm, wild, too powerful to control.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
But he smiled blood in his teeth, fire in his chest.
“I’d do it again.”
-Maris-
Her hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From fury.
The moment Alarik stumbled, arrow lodged in his shoulder, blood soaking his armor, something inside Maris snapped.
She didn’t think. Didn’t speak.
She simply let go a roar in her bones.
Light exploded from her chest, racing down her arms, her legs, her spine. Her vision whitewashed with flame and fury. The Crown of Bones, once pale and silent, ignited, glowing like a fallen star above her brow.
The ground beneath her shattered as magic burst from her like a tidal wave.
Elenwe didn’t have time to move.
The force hit her, an unrelenting blast of divine power. She flew backward across the battlefield, crashing through spawn, stone, and flame until she slammed into the cliffside behind her with a sound like a thunderclap.
The impact carved a crater where she landed.
Smoke billowed.
Silence followed.
Maris stood panting, her magic still crackling across her skin in spiderweb arcs of light. Her eyes shimmered, nearly glowing. The gods behind her stood still, watching, waiting.
And Alarik… stepped forward.
Pain in every breath.
Blood trailing from his shoulder.
But he walked. Sword drawn.
Toward the crater.
Toward Elenwe.
She was still alive, barely. Crumpled in the stone, body broken, one wing of her armor twisted, bow shattered.
Her eyes met his.
And for just a breath something in them changed.
Recognition.
The smallest, most fragile sliver of what had once been.
Alarik knelt before her.
She tried to speak, but blood dripped from her lips.
He reached for her face, cupped it gently.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
And with that, still gentle, still reverent, he drove his blade through her heart.
She exhaled once. A shudder. A release.
And then Elenwe the peace-bringer, the fallen princess was no more.
Alarik pulled the sword free and lowered her to the ground, cradling her as the last light faded from her eyes.
Maris stood frozen, breath shaking, the storm of power still humming around her.
Alarik looked up at her bloodied, ruined, eyes shining.
And bowed his head.
Not to a goddess.
Not to a queen.
But to her.
To the one who would finish this war.