As the forge's heat faded from their skin, Luenor, Hunter, and Chote rushed out of the secret passage—into the malevolent glint of armor and billowing of banners out in the clear.
A host of knights stood already waiting for them. The instant their eyes caught the trio, they snapped to their attention.
"Hunter," Luenor muttered through heavy breaths, his sweat streaked soot-covered face shining under the blue skies. "Take Chote, run. Hide him somewhere safe. I'll hold them back."
Hunter's head snapped to him. "What?"
"You heard me. That's an order. From a Sureva."
The name hung in the air like old loyalty and myth in one. Hunter's lips wanted to twist in protest, but he nodded. "I can take us both. All three if I push—"
"No." Luenor's voice cut through him. He locked his eyes onto Hunter's; a glimmer of crystal clear resolution alight in them. "This sword… this skyshard blade. I need to test it. Against something real."
Hunter's growled low, held Chote in one arm and said only, "Don't die."
"I don't plan to."
And then—boom.
With a sound like cracking thunder, Hunter vanished, taking Chote with him and leaving a rush of displaced air that ripped leaves and drew audible gasps from the knights. Their gaze flickered just enough for Luenor to move—stance lowered, knuckles tightening around the hilt of the glowing blade.
Sir Halrex, as loyal a commander under Bobby Venhart as one could hope for, pointed his lance from the ranks of the mounted. "There! One of them! A cultist perhaps! Charge!"
Heard above the forces, the sound of thunderous hooves. It met the sound of boots plodding through mud. Knights and mages surged forward, galvanized together, like a wall of steel and fire.
Luenor breathed in, low and deep.
The gemstone in the sword boiled with raw mana, lulling against him in the voice of mountain storms and molten iron. He could feel it boiling in his veins, pouring from that forge long ago. He could hear it too, junctions of power not given, but inherited.
He screamed.
Mana surged through him, jacked up by the skyshard. A glowing wave, blue and white, poured from him, sending riders from mount and tossing their front lines like leaves in the wind.
The ground shook. Trees splintered. The ground exploded.
Then—silence. For one breath.
And Luenor ran.
His boots crashed over raw earth as raindrops began to fall, first in spots, then heavier. His muscles screamed. Each step was pain, every breath a struggle. But the voice in his head screamed louder than the pain.
You are a boy. Just a boy. And yet, you are Arhenius Sureva's heir. You do not fall. Not yet.
Knights were regrouping. Spells filled the air.
A fireball passed by, close enough to singe the edge of his cloak. He went low, slid through the mud, then sprang up like a blur, blade cutting through a knight's shield, which split apart in two.
Blood soaked across his face.
Still moving.
A lance struck at his ribs—he twisted, barely escaping it, and struck hard with the pommel, shattering a knight's jaw.
More mages. More steel. More shouting.
You're outnumbered.
So what.
You're tired.
I'm still breathing.
You're bleeding.
I'm not dead.
He roared the cry more fury than voice and slashed the air again. A crescent of shimmering energy ripped through two more knights. But it was not enough. The breath left his body. A concussive force knocked him flat. He rolled, slammed into a tree trunk, and lay stunned.
His vision swam.
Through the haze, a golden banner rose.
Marquess Mellon had arrived.
Mellon peered over the chaos from the back of his massive black steed. The knights surrounding him were trying to regroup.
"Another cultist?" he muttered.
Bobby Venhart leaned in beside him. Through the misty rain, he could see in a haze the glowing blue sword. "Doesn't look like it. That blade... it's a skyshard weapon."
Mellon's voice turned to ice. "Then this cultist is not here just for skyshard."
A long way off, in Carrowhelm, Linlin was sipping her tea when she received the news.
"The Marquess has sent an army into the mountains," reported her aide. "The city is on tumult. Some say the cult of Alofonso has returned."
Linlin laughed. "Alofonso? I haven't heard that name in years." She swirled her tea in her cup. "I thought little Alfrenzo was brave... now, that's just delusion."
She leaned back and sighed. "Send the Grey Hand."
The figure behind Linlin, silent and masked, nodded.
"Delay. Do not destroy."
Then snif snif.
Linlin turned.
"Tofu?"
Her dog was gone.
Her teacup clattered on the floor.
"TOFU?!"
Back in the forest, Hunter stepped back onto the mossy clearing. He set Chote down, next to a fallen log.
"Wait right there. Don't move."
The dwarf made sounds intended to be words, but Hunter had already disappeared again—another explosion shook the trees.
At the center of the carnage, Luenor was still there—barely. His weapon shook and he was bleeding from a gash above his brow. There was an obvious quiver in his knees.
And he was still smiling.
"Who are you?" a knight yelled.
Luenor spit out blood and his grin expanded further. "Now you're new master."
Then, a whistle—a very sharp and high whistle.
Arrows.
From above, death came crashing down. Elves. Camouflaged archers revealed only by their arrows ripping into the pervasive fog. Knights fell downwards. Marquess Mellon's knights scrambled, shields raised, lost, and scattered formations. Bobby was shouting orders, small and insignificant in the roar of the chaos.
Then, the sky broke again.
Hunter was back.
The last echoes of the above detonations ended. He landed beside Luenor like a meteor, dirt and energy blasting around him.
The knights had frozen.
Hunter cracked his neck. "You done playing hero?"
Luenor, bloodied and wild-eyed, laughed. "Let's make it flashy."
Together, they charged.
Hunter's fists became hammers, bones snapping under each blow. Luenor's blade gleamed with skyfire, cleaving through steel and spell alike. Every motion was desperation turned into dance—violence and beauty entwined.
The battlefield ignited into chaos once more.