The rain beat against the broken forge like a shower of daggers, hissing against stone and steel. Thunder rolled overhead, deep and slow, like groans from the mountains. Luenor stood alone on the broken stone trail leading away from the forge, his chest heaving. Blood and rain ran together across his skin, the remains of a battle running down to his boots. His shirt, ripped, clinging to his bruised body, offered little protection from the cuts beneath.
In his right hand, the skyshard blade pulsed softly--a crystal heart marked into the hilt beating in time with his own. The mana contained sang through his bones, a soft steady whisper: Get up. Keep going. You are not done yet.
A moment ago, Hunter ordered Chote into the forest and left Luenor alone.
Now Luenor was about to face what no boy his age should: an army.
Down the embankment beyond the clearing, lines of soldiers in armor were gathering. The chainmail glimmered beneath drenched capes, and their war banners hung like wet clothes on the wash line. The soldiers moved with an uncomfortable discipline, like gears in a machine fueled by oath and fear.
The mages continued to chant. From back to front, and mouth to ear, they stood in tight formation. They were summoning the difference forces of nature into the palms of their hands: fire flashed, lightning pulsed, and the wind blew steadily in rhythmic waves.
The commander raised his hand. "There! The intruder!"
The silence was no longer.
His feet stamped forward, raising the blade.
A roar never came, no silly posture needed, only action: with only the acceptance of pain.
He let his mana erupt from his body as if released by a tempest.
All at once, a wave of raw blue-white energy exploded forth, annihilating the front half of the vanguard. Horses screamed, shields shattered, men were flung from the saddles of their mounts, and thrown from the ground like tumbling sacks of meat. Trees bowed under the magic; the earth itself cracked under the strain.
And then through the smoke and debris came Luenor.
Like cutting paper, he cleaved through the steel of the people before him. Steel screeched from the violin quality of the sword singing as it sliced. A knight advanced to put a shield up—but he was gone. An armed knight lunging with a pike, who Luenor flung a sword to, dropped it as Luenor spun then ran him through.
Upon the pressures of the magic, trees bent, and the very ground was cracking.
Then, through the smoke, Luenor charged.
He sliced and diced through steel like paper, his sword sang as it sliced. One knight held up a shield—gone in a second. Another knight ran at him with a pike—Luenor parried, spun, and ran the knight through. He danced through the chaos, instinct guiding him but also the echo of something deeper. Not training. Not rage.
Legacy.
But there were too many.
A blade skated along his ribs, taking flesh and blood. He stumbled against a tree. A fireball grazed his shoulder, blistering the skin beneath his armor. His muscles began to fail him—one step slow, one parry sluggish. The haze of the adrenaline was passing, become a fog, and doubt whispered its darkly kin tone at the edge of this veil.
Why am I here?
What do I think I am doing?
What would Father do?
There was no time to answer these questions. Just move. Just swing. Just survive.
Elsewhere, steel met steel on the storm-torn battlefield.
Bobby Venhart, the commander of Carrowhelm's elite city guard, was engaging a man he had not known, and did not want to know.
Hunter flowed a battle way Bobby had never seen a soldier flow grace, brutality, efficiency. Every slash was set, every bait was instantaneous, and behind those silver orbs smoldered something primitive and fierce.
"You are no mercenary." Bobby spat, locking blades with him.
Hunter tilted his head. "And you are no danger."
Once again their swords met, an eruption of sparks bursting between them.
Bobby clenched his teeth. "You think you're special?"
"I'm not thinking," Hunter said, stomping his boot into Bobby's chest and sending him whirling back. "I'm saving him."
They crashed together, and this time Bobby felt more sure than ever that he was in trouble.
Marquess Maxim Mellon stood in the nearby woods, watching the chaos unfold beneath his black hood. Rain streamed down his armor, and he remained silent, lips pressed together as if lost in some grave calculation.
He was losing men. His lines were breaking. Something was going wrong.
"Elves," he muttered.
His lieutenant blinked. "Elves, my lord?"
"They're in the trees," he replied, gesturing overhead, "look."
From above, from the trees, there came a rain of arrows. Silent death. Precise. The high-born knights of Carrowhelm began to fall, horses reared, and mages stumbled mid-chant.
Mellon growled. "The fools think they can hide in the trees and gain some power."
He turned to his fiery mages. "Burn it to the ground."
"But the rain--" One began to say.
"I said burn it."
They obeyed.
palms upward, fire was forming. Yet the rain was too heavy and besides the flaming rain, every ember died against the ceiling of leaves.
"Use Ashen Ember," Mellon snapped.
There was an alarmed murmur around him. The forbidden spell. The unwashable fire.
They obeyed.
Blue fire rolled out across the trees. It was ghost-like. Unnatural. The fire clung, refusing to be put out, refusing to go away, to stop.
The elves screamed.
In the branches above, Faren swore.
"You defile the trees?" he hissed, eyes alight with rage. "You want war?"
He leapt.
Twin daggers drawn, he fell upon the burning forest like vengeance made flesh.
Back in the clearing, chaos deepened even further.
The Fangbangs— inexperienced, poorly armed, a collection of rebels and smugglers—entered the fray. Blood mixed with rain. Mud swallowed men whole. The knights, experienced and armored, split through them with ease. Bodies dropped. They screamed.
Dion led the group, an expression of rage pressed hard against his features. He took a spear to one side, defended another, and shoved his blade into a knight's neck. But then a blade struck him in his ribs. He stumbled. Still up. Still fighting.
"We hold!" he yelled. "With the boy! For the flame!"
Beside him, Faren was like a spinning top, cutting down three knights in moments. An arrow whizzed past him. A fire spell nipped at his elbow. He kept on dancing.
But it wasn't enough.
They were losing.
And then. Another figure appeared.
The Grey Hand.
The assassin mage flowed around the shadows like smoke. Hood pulled up, cloak soaking down, eyes narrowed.
He scanned the war-torn field.
Hunter versus Bobby.
Elves falling.
Fangbangs failing.
Luenor... still standing.
Then he spotted the skyshard blade.
He frowned. "He's not a merchant."
Then went away, into the mist.
Meanwhile, on the field, Marquess Mellon still watched it all unfold, and his fury increased. His fists tightened about the reins of his warhorse.
Enough.
He took a long, glistening silver spear from his saddle, and turned toward the inundated battlefield.
"Clear a path," he said.
The knights parted.
He pushed his horse ahead.
Dion was the first to see it.
"No—NO! The Marquess! He's after the boy!"
He started to run, but two knights knocked him down.
Faren nocked an arrow and shot—but the storm swerved it wide.
Hunter saw it too—but Bobby hit him again, pinning him down. And Luenor… Luenor turned just in time.
Thunder cracked.
Glaring brightness split the sky.
The horse galloped.
The spear lowered.
And, in that last moment of flashes, Mellon saw Luenor's face.
The boy's eyes. The clench of his jaw. The blade in his hand.
Recognition hit the Marquess like a mountain.
He yanked the reins. The horse whinnied then turned hard. The spear dropped from his grip. And then—he dropped from the saddle.
The armor splashed down into the mud of the street as the Marquess swiftly knelt.
"Arhenius?" he breathlessly croaked.
Rain ignited in the mud above the boulevard and came pouring down his thick hair. Rain fluttered his cloak flat, but he remained kneeling.
"Arhenius Sureva?"
Horizontal gasps ran from knight to knight.
And then—louder, a voice emerging from the storm—Marquess Mellon yelled:
"I beg forgiveness. I had no idea. I beg you, Lord Luenor, son of Arhenius Sureva!"
The battlefield froze.
Blades hung unchecked. Mages stopped casting. Even the elves stopped moving.
Luenor stood still, panting. Blood made its way into his eye. His blade sagged just a bit.
He watched the man kneeling before him.
Around him, men began to whisper.
"Sureva...?"
"Impossible..."
"I thought he was dead."
Hunter stepped away from Bobby, his face a mask of disbelief.
Dion broke free from the knights pinning him and stood up.
Even Faren forgot to breathe for a moment.
And high above, hidden in the rain, the Grey Hand clenched his fists.
"So it has to be true," he said. "The flame did not die with the father."
He melted into shadow again, and now he knew he had work to do.