24. Chapter 24
AMARIA
Light pried at my eyelids, pulling me slowly to the surface.
The cold had seeped into my bones overnight, stiffening my neck and leaving a deep ache where the tree trunk had dug into my spine.
I blinked against the morning brightness, looking down to find something rough still gripped tightly in my numb fingers.
The willow branch.
My gaze followed its length across the space between us, tracing the wood all the way to his hand. His grip had gone loose in sleep, but his fingers were still curled around his end. His head had tipped sideways against the rock, hair falling across his forehead as he breathed, slow and even.
We'd slept here. All night. On a freezing ledge. Holding a stick. A laugh bubbled up in my chest, but I choked it down.
Eryndor stirred. His eyes opened, following the makeshift tether between us to find my hand, and finally, my face. We lay there in silence, separated by cold stone yet bound by the willow and the fading night, until a smile broke across his face. It was small, private, and entirely mine.
"Morning."
"Morning."
I sat up slowly, joints protesting, and stretched the stiffness from my shoulders.
Today. It wasn't just a date anymore; it was a verdict. Today we kill the King. I stared out at the mist clinging to the peaks and the dragons stretching their wings in the gray light, struck by the cruelty of a world that could look so peaceful mere hours before we set it on fire.
"We should go." I released the branch. Let it fall to the stone between us. "The others will be preparing."
Eryndor sat up. Rolled his neck. Winced.
"Probably already wondering where we are."
"Maxx is definitely composing jokes as we speak."
"At least twelve, by my count."
I stood. Offered him my hand instinctively—then pulled it back. Right. The armor had kept us safe all night, but let’s not push it.
He got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothes before methodically checking his armor straps and the weapons at his belt.
When he looked up again, the change was there—his spine straightened, his gaze went flat and assessing.
The male from last night had stepped back. The CrownForged stood in his place.
"Ready?"
I looked at him. At the mountains. At the sun rising over a world we were about to try to save.
"Ready."
We walked back together. Side by side. Not touching.
Somewhere behind us, a dragon screamed—high and sharp and hungry for war.
The armory was chaos.
Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Warriors moved between weapon racks, checking blades, testing bowstrings. The clang of metal echoed off stone walls. Someone shouted orders in the back. Dragons rumbled outside, restless, sensing what was coming.
We'd claimed a corner near the eastern wall. Our corner. The five of us—six, counting Caden, who wouldn't be flying but refused to leave our side.
Maxx stood behind Serenya, working the straps of her armor. His fingers moved quickly, efficiently, buckling leather and tightening scales-cloth without hesitation.
Serenya stared at the wall.
"This one next?" She touched a strap on her left side. Uncertain. Lost.
"Already did that one." Maxx's voice was gentle. "This one goes across, then under."
She nodded. Didn't ask how he knew. Didn't ask why she couldn't remember.
He finished the last buckle and squeezed her shoulder. Brief. Solid.
"There. Battle-ready."
"Thank you." She turned to look at him. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably walk into battle with your armor on backwards." The joke was automatic, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Can't have that. You'd make us all look bad."
I looked away. Gave them the moment.
Across the armory, Eryndor checked his blades. He slid one into the sheath at his hip, tested the draw, adjusted the angle.
His eyes lifted. Found mine and held for as long as we could bear.
Then back to work.
I turned to my own gear, letting the familiar ritual of preparing for a bloodbath center me.
I picked up my throwing stars, wiping the polished steel clean before hovering them over my wrists.
The sharp, satisfying click of the magnetized vambraces snatching the metal into place grounded my racing thoughts.
Next came the joint blades. I pulled the heavy leather straps tight, testing the security of the steel anchored to my wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, and shoulders. No slipping. No give. Every point of articulation on my body was a weapon.
I reached back and braided my hair tight. My fingers found the small razors threaded through it—familiar, deadly, and sharp enough to turn a simple pivot into a killing blow.
Finally, I reached for Dawnrender and Voidbringer. I ran my thumbs over the pommels of my twin short swords, feeling the perfect, deadly balance of the blades before sliding them smoothly into their scabbards.
The heavy weight of the armor settled against my chest—familiar now, after days of wearing it. The wards hummed quietly, keeping the Marks contained.
Dreadscale moved through the space like a general surveying troops. He stopped at each of us, checking weapons, adjusting straps, delivering tactical information in clipped words.
"The King's carriage will be in the valley by midday. We strike from the eastern ridge—Umbra and Pyrrath from above, the ground team through the tree line." He paused at my shoulder. "You and Eryndor take the King directly. The rest of us handle his guard."
"And if the binding activates?" My voice was steady. Calm. "If he starts siphoning the moment we get close?"
"Then you kill him fast." Dreadscale's eyes held mine. "Before he can take enough to matter."
I nodded. Simple. Clean. Kill him before he kills us.
Easy.
Caden appeared at my other side. The mechanical rigidity was gone from his stride—he was still scarred, still healing, but his stance was grounded and sure.
"I should be going with you." His voice was quiet. Just for me.
"You should be getting stronger." I turned to face him. "So that when we come back, you're ready for what comes next."
"And if you don't come back?"
The question hung between us.
"Then you live." I reached out, gripping his shoulders. "You live, and you find whatever peace the Mirror-Fire is showing you, and you don't waste a single second feeling guilty about it."
He pressed his lips together. "Amaria—"
"I didn't drag you out of that hell so you could follow me into another one." I squeezed his arm. Hard. "I dragged you out so you could have a life. Promise me you'll take it."
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice cracked.
"You're a terrible sister."
"I know."
"Bossy. Stubborn. Absolutely convinced you're always right."
"Also true."
"I love you anyway." He pulled me into a hug. "Come back. That's an order."
"Since when do you give orders?"
"Since now." He released me and stepped back. His eyes were wet, but there was absolute iron in his voice. "Come back, Amaria. Or I swear I'll find a way to follow you into whatever afterlife exists just to yell at you."
I laughed. It came out broken.
"Deal."
A sound from outside. A dragon's cry—familiar, mournful. Veyra.
Serenya's head turned toward the entrance. Her brow furrowed.
"That's..." She trailed off.
"Veyra," Maxx said quietly. "Your dragon."
"I know." Serenya's tone was carefully controlled. Not defensive—just fact. "You've told me. I believe you." She looked toward the entrance, toward the cry still echoing off stone. "I just can't feel it."
She looked at me. At Maxx. At Dreadscale.
"I'm going." Her chin lifted—the priestess steel surfacing through the fog. "I just need someone to tell me how."
My chest tightened. Not whether she would fight. She'd already decided that. Just the mechanics of fighting without memory.
Dreadscale stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was gentler than I'd ever heard it.
"The bond lives in the body, not just the mind. Your hands will remember the grips. Your weight will find the balance." His voice was matter-of-fact. Respecting her enough not to coddle. "And Veyra remembers everything. She'll carry what you've lost."
Serenya gave a single nod, taking what she needed from the blunt reassurance. She didn't ask anything else. She just turned and walked toward the entrance, leaving us to follow in her wake.
Outside, Veyra waited on the stone landing platform. The morning light gleamed off her storm-grey scales, and those silver eyes locked onto Serenya with an intensity so profound it made my throat tight.
The dragon crooned. Reaching for a rider who couldn't reach back.
Serenya stopped at the platform's edge. Looked up at the storm-grey scales, the silver eyes fixed on her with patient intensity.
"I'm told you chose me." Her voice was quiet but not apologetic. "I don't remember. But I'm here anyway."
Veyra lowered her head. Pressed her snout against Serenya's chest. Gentle and steadfast.
A sound escaped Serenya. Half sob, half laugh.
"But, you know me." Her hands came up, trembling, and pressed against the dragon's scales. "Even if I don't."
Veyra's eyes closed. A rumble moved through her chest. Agreement. Reassurance.
Serenya climbed onto her back. She moved awkwardly at first—uncertain, feeling her way. But her body remembered what her mind had lost. She settled in her seat, her hands found the right ridges. Her weight shifted into alignment with the dragon beneath her.
"Okay." Her voice shook but held. "Okay. I'm ready."
She wasn't ready. None of us were.
But we mounted anyway.
**
We flew for hours.
The mountains gave way to foothills, the foothills to forest, the forest to the scarred lowlands where the void had already begun its slow consumption. From above, I could see it—the grey spread like infection across the green, villages reduced to outlines, rivers running silver instead of blue.
The King's work. His harvest.
We stayed high. Above the clouds when we could, hidden from scouts and soldiers and anyone who might look up and see death coming on dragon wings.
I kept Umbra at the head of the formation, the solid weight of Eryndor an anchor behind me.
Pyrrath flanked us—bone and ember, weathered and lethal—carrying the dark silhouettes of Dreadscale and Maxx against the pale skies.
Veyra flew steady at the rear, with Serenya perched confidently on her back.
The sun crested and dipped. And then we saw it.
The King's carriage crawled through the Greymarch pass like a gilded beetle, surrounded by soldiers in Crown armor, mages in ceremonial robes.
Heading toward the rupture. Heading toward more death to feed his hunger.
We hovered above the eastern ridge.
The dragons held steady in the air, wings beating slow and silent, hidden in the shadow of the clouds. The armor sat heavy on my chest, the Marks quiet beneath its wards. Wind whipped past my face, cold and cutting. Umbra's muscles bunched beneath me, ready, waiting for the signal.
I drew Voidbringer. Raised it toward the sky.
"Let's go kill a king."
Beside us, Pyrrath dove.