35. Chapter 35
AMARIA
Three days of nothing.
That's what the road gave us. Three days of hooves on packed earth, of cold camps and colder shoulders, of words exchanged only when absolutely necessary. Pass the waterskin. Your watch. We ride at dawn.
The forest had thickened around us as we pushed deeper into Velmyran territory.
Ancient oaks gave way to darker pines, their branches knitting together overhead until only thin seams of sky broke through.
The air tasted different here—heavier, laced with the darkness of a kingdom that had forgotten what sunlight felt like.
Eryndor rode in the center of our formation, wrists bound, saying nothing as the rope worked his skin raw.
Maxx rode close to Serenya, one eye always on her face, watching for the flicker that meant another memory was slipping.
He'd taken to quizzing her—casual questions about what they'd eaten for breakfast, what color Dreadscale's horse was, what song she'd hummed the night before.
She answered each one with growing irritation, which seemed to reassure him.
What I hadn't expected was Dreadscale. Twice now I'd caught him listening to the quizzes from the rear—adjusting his pace so the distance between his horse and Serenya's shrank whenever she took too long to answer.
As if he'd appointed himself the second line of defense for a war Maxx was fighting on the front.
We rode in formation through the grey morning light, the only sounds hoofbeats and the creak of leather.
So,” Maxx said, apparently unable to coexist with silence. “When we arrive at the palace—and I’m assuming we’ll be received as dignitaries—what are the odds I can request the gold guest wing?”
He tapped his buttons.
“I don’t want to clash.”
"There isn't a gold guest wing," The Crownforged said. His first words in hours.
"How disappointing. What about the silver wing? I'm flexible."
"There's a dungeon. Several, actually."
"Ah." Maxx nodded sagely. "The iron guest wing. Very exclusive."
Serenya snorted despite herself. Even Dreadscale's mouth twitched.
"When we storm the throne room," Serenya said,"I'm demanding full access to the royal archives. Non-negotiable."
Maxx raised an eyebrow. "That's your demand? Books?"
"The royal archives contain texts that haven't been copied in three centuries. Scrolls the King's family hoarded while the rest of us scraped by on secondhand translations." She sniffed. "Also, an unlimited supply of candied plums."
"Now we're talking."
"And a personal scribe. My hand cramps."
"You are a scribe."
"Exactly. I know how much work it is." She turned, smirking to Maxx. "What are you demanding, Maxx? A room full of mirrors?"
"Oh, the usual. Pardon for my crimes. A chest of gold. The King's personal apology for making me ride through this miserable forest."
"Ambitious."
"I'm an ambitious male."
Maxx leaned over his saddle. "And what about you, Flameheart? Top of your demand list?"
"His head," I said.
Maxx sighed. "Practical. Boring. But practical."
There was a rustle of leaves overhead. A sharp rush of air.
Then a body plummeted from the sky.
Straight down—dropping with the precision of a released weapon. He landed in the center of the road, three feet from my horse's nose, and the impact didn't even make him stumble.
The Hunter.
My horse reared. I threw myself from the saddle, blades already free—Voidbringer and Dawnrender catching the grey light as I dropped into stance.
He didn't move.
Just raised one gloved palm. Stop.
I didn't.
He pointed upward.
I tilted my head.
The trees were full of archers. Ten of them. Arrows drawn. Every single one aimed at Serenya's heart.
The world stopped.
Fear burst through me, annihilating every rational thought. White noise filled my mind, my body was paralyzed. It was erasing reason and sound and everything except the arrows and Serenya and the space between them.
Serenya. Serenya. SERENYA!
The word pulsed through me like a hammer. My vision narrowed dangerously, the world getting dark around the edges. My grip loosening on my blades.
Then the tether tugged gently. The Crownforged. Remember. It whispered. He was sending an anchor. A massive, heavy weight dropping through the chaos, holding me fast. Breathe, the bond commanded. I sucked in a jagged breath. The whiteout cleared. The paralysis broke.
Thessaly's voice. Calm. Steady. The river does not fight the stone. It remembers they were never separate.
I inhaled again. Slower.
The blinding fear receded. The world sharpened.
Maxx's hand moved toward his blade. Dreadscale shifted. I felt Serenya's fear spike.
One breath. That's all Serenya had left.
I raised my palm.
To the Hunter and the archers it looked like surrender. A signal to halt.
It wasn't.
I focused on the arrows. There was unease in focusing on the fae holding them, how many had the command rune, how many followed the King freely?
Just the arrows.
Wood and iron and fletching and threat.
I unmade them.
Cries of shock wrenched the air from the archers. Dust drifted down, catching what little sun filtered through. Ten archers holding empty strings, fingers still curled around shafts that no longer existed.
The Hunter's head tilted. Just slightly.
I smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"My turn."
I twisted. His blade kissed the air where my throat had been. Voidbringer caught his second strike. Dawnrender answered with a slash that drove him back a step.
No more time for thought.
Only violence.
The archers dropped from the trees—ten of them, drawing swords mid-fall, hitting the ground running. They came at us like a wave.
The first soldier died before he finished his charge.
Voidbringer took him through the chest. Dawnrender opened the throat of the one behind him.
My elbow blade finished a third on the backswing.
Blood sprayed hot across my face, and release flooded through me—the Fury, rising like a tide, washing away everything that wasn't blade and breath and the dance of death.
More.
Two coming from the left. I spun, blades crossing, catching one sword between them and wrenching. His wrist snapped. He screamed. I silenced him.
More.
A third came from behind—I felt him before I saw him.
I dropped my weight and turned, hips driving the rotation, every strapped edge on my body becoming one continuous cut.
Elbow across his ribs. Knee through his thigh as I swept his legs.
Shoulder catching his jaw on the rise. One revolution.
Less than a breath. He hit the ground in pieces and I was already moving on, daggers still wet in my hands.
The tether flared—Eryndor, still bound, struggling against the rope. Useless. I didn't need him. I didn't need anyone.
A soldier grabbed Serenya. She screamed. Maxx's arm swung—and from nowhere, a flail materialized in his grip. The spiked ball caught the soldier square in the face. No longer glamour but solid mass.
The male's skull caved inward. He dropped without a sound.
“Serenya! Get high so you can use your mirror!” I barked. “Maxx—shield!”
Maxx grabbed Serenya's reins and yanked her horse toward the nearest oak. A soldier lunged for them—Maxx's flail caught him in the sternum without breaking stride. Serenya was already standing in the saddle, reaching for the lowest branch.
Another soldier. Maxx spun, blocked, drove his blade through the soldier's gut.
Serenya hauled herself up. Branch to branch. Fast. Terrified. Alive.
A flash of light from above—her mirror catching the sun, angled and ready.
I turned back to the bloodshed.
Dreadscale was a wall of controlled violence, his blade methodical, efficient. He moved with a terrible rhythm, leaving a wake of discarded husks in his path.
But there were too many. And the Hunter—
The Hunter was coming for me.
He moved through the chaos like a closing vice, untouched, untouchable. His blade was everywhere and nowhere. Every time I turned to face him, he was already somewhere else, herding me, separating me from the others.
I fought harder. Faster. But the soldiers kept coming, and I was running out of space, running out of options—
"AMARIA!"
Eryndor. Still tied. Fighting the ropes like an animal.
I glanced back. He was straining against his bonds, the rope cutting into his wrists, blood running down his hands.
And for one stupid, reckless moment, I hesitated.
The Hunter's blade came for my head.
I dropped.
The sword whistled over me. I rolled, came up fast—and drove Voidbringer straight at Eryndor.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
The blade parted the rope at his wrists. He grabbed a fallen soldier's sword and turned to face the Hunter.
And the world shifted.
Back to back.
His shoulder blades aligned with mine. His breathing synced with my breathing. The tether between us stopped screaming and started singing.
No.
I tried to pull away—
The first soldier came. Eryndor dropped him with a sweeping kick. I struck.
The second soldier came. I drove him back. Eryndor finished him.
We moved like one creature. One weapon.
No no no—
But my body didn't care what my mind wanted.
You are dancing with the prince who ate at the table of the man who put children underground.
The thought landed like a slap. My body kept moving.
Serenya was in that tree with nothing but a mirror and a prayer.
Maxx and Dreadscale were still fighting somewhere behind me.
And this—this awful, perfect harmony—was the only thing keeping them breathing.
So I swallowed it. Let his rhythm answer mine.
Let the tether sing its sick lullaby. If fighting beside the son of the worst male alive was what got us to the castle doors, then I'd dance with the devil and hate myself later.
Get to the King. End it at the source. Everything else was a price I could pay.
I let go and my Fury recognized his rage and answered in harmony.
Driving. Our strikes in beat.
Strike. Bind.
Turn. Cut.
Driving. Our grief fueling our violence.
Cut. Turn.
A driving force that could not be undone.
Bind. Strike.