Thalia swayed on her knees, vision swimming. Her axe slid from her grasp, the steel clattering against the stone. She forced her head up, her eyes fixed upon the walls of Yainna. For a fleeting moment, the din of war receded, and she saw only one face.
Her lips parted. Her voice was scarcely more than breath."Father…"
And then her strength gave way.
She fell — but she never touched the ground.
Anisda moved with a swiftness no mortal eye could follow. One moment he stood a dozen paces away, the next his palm pressed gently against her chest, halting her fall. He shifted, gathering her into his arms as though she weighed nothing. Her red hair clung damp to her temple, her skin pale with exhaustion, glistening with sweat. Moonlight draped itself across her like a veil, turning her into something fragile, almost otherworldly.
Anisda's gaze lingered upon her, dark eyes unreadable. His back arched, and with a low, shuddering crack, wings erupted from beneath his cloak — vast, black, each feather shimmering with a sheen like polished obsidian. They unfurled wider than any banner, blotting half the moon from sight.
And then, with a single beat, they rose.
Air rushed around them. The battlefield dwindled below — torches now embers, screams now echoes. Thalia stirred faintly against him, but unconsciousness claimed her, and she surrendered to it.
Below, Virvo lay in ruin, breath ragged. But not broken.
He rolled onto his side, bracing against the earth, rising with effort until he stood. He looked not at Anisda soaring into the night, but at Yainna itself. His grin widened. Flames licked the rooftops, smoke coiled skyward. The cries of women and children carried through the air, their terror a hymn to his ears. Blood painted the courtyards, bodies strewn like castoff dolls.
But not all were dead. Not all.
Virvo had seen to that. He wanted survivors. Enough to crawl from the ashes. Enough to whisper his name to their children, and their children after them.
So that even when his body failed, the world would not forget.
The Castle Halls
Elsewhere, within the crumbling halls of the keep, footsteps thundered.
William rounded a corner at full sprint, sword in hand, just as another figure barreled from the opposite passage. They collided with bone jarring force, both men sprawling hard onto the stones.
"By the gods!" William cursed, scrambling to his elbows. His head throbbed from the impact. "What lunatic runs through a besieged castle like a drunken boar?"
"Drunken boar?" the other man snapped, rolling onto his side. His accent was heavier, his tone dripping with annoyance. "You're the one who steered your skull into mine like a bloody battering ram."
Their eyes met recognition dawning.
Vincent.
The half smile on his lips came even in chaos. "Well. Seems fate has a sense of humor."
William scowled, brushing dust from his tunic. "Fate or folly, I care little for either. These halls are crawling with Venomids. If you've any sense, you'll keep out of my way."
A screech tore through the corridor inhuman and close. Shadows slithered along the walls.
Vincent cocked a brow. "Oh, I've sense enough. And I've sense enough to know you'll be dead inside three turns if I do leave you to it." He rose, offering William a hand. "So… what say we die together instead? Seems sporting."
William hesitated, then grasped his hand, hauling himself upright. "Fine. But keep your tongue as quick as your blade."
"Ha. That would be cruel to ask," Vincent quipped. "My tongue is far quicker."
Another screech — closer. Both men glanced toward the shadows. No more time for banter.
"Come," William hissed, pointing down a narrow stairwell. "There are old passages beneath the keep. Forgotten ways, built for kings who feared assassins."
"Or for cowards who feared battle," Vincent said with a smirk, though he followed without hesitation.
Through twisting tunnels they ran, ducking low beams, their boots splashing through water where the stones had long flooded. Venomid screeches echoed faintly behind them, but the creatures did not follow far — as though even they feared the buried dark.
At last, the passage opened into a low stable hidden beyond the outer walls. The smell of hay and horseflesh struck them, sharp but welcome.
Two steeds remained, restless, stamping at the smoke drifting in.
William vaulted into the saddle of the first. "We ride east. To the river. Once across, they cannot track us."
Vincent mounted the other with practiced ease, stroking the horse's mane. "East, then. Unless, of course, we decide to ride west, straight into the horde, and end this night with a story worth telling."
William shot him a glare.
Vincent grinned wider. "East it is."
The gates burst open, and together they spurred the horses into the night. Behind them, Yainna burned. Ahead, only darkness and uncertainty awaited.
But for the first time, they did not ride alone.