CHAPTER 27
Damon watched his army spill over the rise with cold satisfaction. From atop his war-steed—an obsidian-coated brute with eyes like dark voids—he surveyed the open field below, the tree line where the elves waited, still as carved statues.
The wind carried the scent of pine and old magic, and the amulet pulsed stronger than ever under his armor. Aelthrys was calling to him.
From beneath the Tree of Life, from the ancient prison the elves had forged centuries ago—sacrificing their magic, their longevity, their very essence to bind him.
But Damon’s gaze fixed only on the tree line.
On her.
Faelith stood among the bowmen, framed by the forest’s gloom. Even from this distance, he felt the amulet single her out—bright, defiant, maddening.
She was the fulcrum. The hinge upon which the world would burn. Whether she understood that or not didn’t matter. He would show her soon enough when he used her blood to unlock the prison and control a god.
He was glad he didn’t kill her all those years ago; otherwise, none of this would have been possible.
He lifted a hand, and silence fell across his army like a decree. The elves shifted in the shadows, preparing.
The amulet pulsed again, a violent jolt that made him grimace.
Aelthrys wanted her.
Damon did too. She had defied him, defied the natural order of their realm. She would not escape the prophecy
But she would not defy him today.
He lowered his hand.
The first line of his army surged forward with thunderous crashes.
And beneath the Tree of Life, in the prison the elves had built with their own dying magic, Aelthrys screamed against his chains as the war he had waited centuries to ignite finally began to fan. His presence scraped along Damon’s senses like claws on stone.
Damon watched the first wave of his soldiers crash into the tree line.
The elves moved with infuriating precision—vanishing between the trunks, reappearing only long enough to strike.
They used the forest as a weapon, funneling Damon’s forces into narrow paths, thinning his forces with every retreating step.
Steel slammed against steel, shields shuddered, spears splintered.
Shouts echoed throughout the forest. Damon felt the shockwaves ripple through the front ranks as his soldiers collided with the elven vanguard—silver flashing, the ground trembling beneath the weight of two worlds striking each other.
The elves may have their clever tactics, but he had the numbers.
Already he saw the signs: the elves’ movements slowing, their formations thinning, their retreating steps growing just a fraction too long. Their bodies, already weakened by centuries of shortened lives, could not endure a prolonged clash.
Soon he would press his advantage.
Damon leaned forward in the saddle; eyes fixed on the tree line where silver armor flickered between branches. Looking for a familiar figure.
A burst of fire tore through the front lines, bright enough to cut through the forest’s gloom. Damon’s gaze snapped toward it.
Found him.
The lone human fighting alongside the elves sat astride his stallion like a creature forged from flame, heat rippling off him in waves.
Fire coiled around his blade; it coiled around the very air he moved through.
Every strike sent a blast of searing light across the battlefield, forcing Damon’s soldiers back and carving open pockets of space the elves immediately exploited.
His knight training hadn’t gone to waste.
Cian raised his sword, flames spiraling upward, forming a wall that forced Damon’s soldiers to scatter. Shields warped under the heat. War-horses shrieked and veered sideways. The elves surged forward, striking with renewed ferocity.
For a moment, the forest belonged to them.
Damon felt the echo of the blade sliding between his ribs and could see the shock on Cian’s face as he hovered over Damon. He felt the hatred flare inside of him when Cian had left him for dead.
Hatred that flared hot and blinding. Pure, reckless fire.
And Damon snapped.
He dug his heels into his war-steed’s sides, the brute launching forward with a snort. Dirt flew around Damon’s boots, answering his fury. He didn’t wait for his generals. He had been waiting for this moment. He would do this on his own.
He charged straight towards Cian.
Branches whipped past him as he plunged into the tree line, soldiers shouting behind him, scrambling to keep up, thinking he was there to lead them. They were quickly surrounded by elves, their desperate fight snuffed out quickly as Damon left them behind.
Cian saw him coming.
There was no shock this time. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt. He stood fast in the chaos, fire curling around him like a living mantle, his resolve cutting through the battlefield with the same clarity it once carried in the training yards of their youth.
He knew exactly what was coming.
And he welcomed it.
Damon smiled, cold and menacing; this was the moment he would get his retribution.
He spurred his horse faster, straight to the man who had once been his brother.
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Fire roared up Damon’s blade as he charged, but Cian didn’t flinch. He had seen that fury before—felt it, trained beside it, survived it. The forest shook beneath Damon’s war-steed, shadows curling at his boots, the amulet’s pulse warping the air around him.
Cian held his ground.
The moment Damon’s sword met his, the impact rattled through Cian’s bones. Sparks burst outward, flames colliding in a shockwave that sent leaves spiraling and soldiers stumbling back from the force. Heat seared his cheek, but he didn’t retreat. He pressed forward, meeting Damon strike for strike.
Every blow carried years of history.
Eighteen years of silence. Eighteen years of guilt.
Since the jail cell in the capital, Cian knew this moment would come.
Damon’s hatred was a living thing—Cian could feel it in every swing, every burst of fire, every reckless lunge. The man he had once trained beside, laughed with, bled with, had become something twisted by ambition and a darker hand behind his shoulder.
Cian’s stallion reared as Damon struck again, the force of the blow startling his horse, knocking him from the saddle. He steadied himself, runes spiraling up his sword, as fire pulsed through his veins and into the blade in a familiar, dangerous rhythm.
Years of discipline. Years of learning to control the fire instead of letting it consume him.
Damon had never grasped that principle.
“You’re reckless,” Cian growled, parrying a strike that sent embers scattering across the forest floor. “You always were.”
Damon’s answering snarl was pure fury. “And you should have died with the rest of them.”
Cian didn’t let the words sink in. He couldn’t. Not now.
Damon swung again—hard, wild, powerful. Cian met the blow, their swords locking, flames snarling against each other. Damon leaned in, eyes burning with something more than fire.
That was when he understood: the boy he once knew was gone, replaced by a man with only malice, spite, and power hunger.
Damon would never stop.
“You left me for dead,” Damon hissed, pushing harder, the heat between them rising to blistering levels.
“You were going to kill her,” Cian shot back, shoving him off with a burst of flame that forced Damon to stagger back. “I wasn’t going to let you.”
Damon shot out a fireball in response. Cian sent up a column of fire to dissipate the flames.
The forest around them trembled as their fire clashed again, each strike carving open the battlefield.
Cian’s blade locked with Damon’s, fire snarling against fire. Every strike rattled through Cian’s arms. Damon fought like a man possessed—reckless, wild, driven by eighteen years of festering hatred.
And Cian matched him.
But matching Damon meant he wasn’t doing what he had been doing moments before—holding back the tide.
He saw the effects almost immediately.
Without his help sweeping the front lines, Damon’s soldiers surged in like a flood breaking through a dam. The elves, already strained and thinning, struggled to compensate. Their formation wavered. Their retreating steps grew longer. Their silver armor flickered desperately between the trees.
They were losing ground.
He shoved Damon back with his sword; he raised his arm to create a ring of fire around the invading soldiers, but the effort cost him. Fire magic drained strength quickly, and Damon’s recklessness meant Cian had to burn hotter, faster, harder just to keep pace.
Cian’s muscles burned. His breath came sharp, but he held on, refusing to yield, refusing to let Damon reach Faelith.
“You can’t protect them and fight me,” Damon hissed, eyes blazing with triumph. “You never could.”
Cian gritted his teeth, pushing back with everything he had. “I don’t need to protect them from you,” he growled. “I just need to buy them time.”
Damon lunged, reckless and consumed.
Cian met him head-on. If Damon wanted a confrontation—if he wanted the man who betrayed him—
Cian would give it to him.