The throne hall had become a battlefield.
The stone that had once echoed with music now thundered with boots and the clash of steel. Torches guttered and threw long, hungry shadows. The robed warriors fanned out like a net, their strange weapons humming with a cold, biting light. The three generals closest to the throne—Darius, Cedric, and Magnus—moved with terrible skill. Against them stood Garrick, Seraphine, and Roland, shields raised, axes and spears ready. The air tasted of smoke and metal.
Kael stood between them all, small and raw, his palms still warm with the afterglow of the blood pact. Sparks clung to his skin. He had not slept. He had not eaten. He had only anger, grief, and a flicker of power he could barely control.
Steel rang. The first robed warrior surged forward, sending a wave of blade-energy that shimmered like cracked glass. Sir Garrick slammed his shield down, taking the blow. The force rattled his bones, but the Ironwall did not fall. He pushed back, heavy and solid, driving the attacker against the marble floor.
From the left, Lord Darius moved like a shadow. He raised a short blade that spilled out tendrils of darkness—small knives of night that darted like insects. Seraphine danced aside, her own blade singing. She struck quick, precise, and one of the tendrils hissed and fell away.
Sir Roland answered with a roar, his axe sweeping the air; the force it made tore a hole in a robed man's cloak. Sparks flew and a shoulder was shattered. Yet for every robed attacker felled, two more took his place.
Kael darted between men—small, fast, driven by panic. He used his Flame Step to blur his motion: a burst, then a blink, then a strike. The Ember Guard flared up when a spear glanced his chest and it held—just long enough—but every move left him weaker. He had no time to think of form or posture. He lived by instinct and by the hot, red light in his hands.
"Maverick! Help us!" Kael cried, ducking as a scythe-like weapon sliced through the air above him. The cat on his shoulder stared up, whiskers trembling.
"No," Maverick said, his voice a brittle whisper only Kael could hear. The cat's golden eyes were wide, but there was no movement in his body to match the urgency.
Kael's heart thudded. "You must! You saved me once—please!"
Maverick's voice was steady, sad. "I cannot. I am not recovered. The power I used before took everything I had. I cannot fight now. If I push, I will burn out. I will not be of use to you afterwards."
Kael stared, disbelief and desperation raging inside him. "Then take my power. Just like before. Take what you need and fight with me!"
Maverick's ears flattened. "No. Not again. Taking from you will take pieces of your mind each time. It will steal your calm, your softness—tiny bits until a madness grows. You will become a weapon that remembers nothing but rage." He swallowed, tiny throat moving. "I will not do that. Not to you."
The words landed like a blow. Kael's hands shook. "Then… then do something! Anything!"
Maverick closed his eyes a fraction. "Give me time," he said finally. "Make them keep moving. Draw their eyes. Do not let them strike true. Give me—just—time." His tail flicked, a whisper on Kael's neck. "I can prepare. I need to gather what's left. I need a moment."
Kael wanted to scream. He wanted to hand over his blood, to risk everything for one chance to cut the king down. But the cat's warning—about madness—hung between them like a cold blade. He swallowed the urge.
He lunged forward again. His strikes were fierce but raw. Against trained strange robed warriors, raw was not enough. A robed man stabbed with a spear that burst into shards of black ice. The shards gouged at Kael's forearm; blood welled. He stumbled.
"Child—run!" Garrick barked, shield raised as he and Seraphine pushed forward in a savage flurry to hold the robed line. "We will stop them here!"
"No!" Kael shouted. "I will not run."
Seraphine's eyes flashed at him, Live to fight another day." She parried a blow that would have struck Kael; the force buckled her knees. Roland roared and waded into two robed attackers, his axe splitting metal like wood.
They fought as one—three generals holding fast against a web of silent, practiced death. But the robed force kept coming, endless and cruel. Cedric moved with the speed of a wolf, spear thrusts that found gaps between armor joints. Magnus, old but deadly, moved with a slow certainty, each strike sacred and final.
Darius circled, eyes cold, his dark attacks probing for weakness. He found one. A moment's distraction, Kael's Ember Guard flickering out for lack of breath. Darius lunged—and for a flash he was at Kael. The boy's panic surged like a tide; he twisted and swung, flaming fist meeting dark blade. The blade bit, and blood spattered. Kael's vision blurred.
Maverick's small voice threaded through the chaos. "Hold. Just a little longer."
"How much longer?" Kael gasped, breath coming short, his legs trembling with fatigue. Sweat and blood stung his eyes. "They are too many."
At the edge of the hall, King Alden watched with a cold amusement. He sat like a storm at rest, circlet catching sparks. His mouth curled into that same thin smile. "Ha!" he cried out, loud enough to cut through the clash. "You will die, boy. Your line will end in these halls. You will learn your place."
The king's laughter rang, cruel and final. It was the sound of a verdict, and it landed like a stone on Kael's chest. Around him men bled and fell. Garrick's shield took another blow and splintered at the rim. Seraphine's breath hitched; a red line cut her arm. Roland's axe flew from his hands in a strike that only barely missed a robed warrior's throat.
Kael pushed forward, ignoring the pain. Each step was harder than the last. A robed man's scythe nicked his leg; his training blade clattered from numb fingers. He fell to one knee, then another man's spear struck his shoulder and pinned him to the floor for a heartbeat.
Maverick's cat form watched, eyes burning, yet he did not move. He whispered as if to himself, "Time… just time."
Kael's vision tunneled; he tasted metal in his mouth. He thought of his mother's hands, of the plum tree, of the way her voice had said, "Don't let anger rule you." The words were flint against the roaring flame inside him.
Around him the conflict swelled. The three loyal generals fought like beasts cornered; the robed warriors pressed like a flood. Blood slicked the marble. Screams rose and fell like ragged lungs.
The king rose from his throne, his hands folded calmly. "Finish them," he ordered, his voice velvet over steel.
For a fraction of a second, the hall seemed to hold its breath. Then, like an answering storm, the robed warriors surged forward, weapons raised.
Kael tried to stand. He could not. He could only watch as shields rose and axes swung and a world he thought he knew shattered into steel and shadow.
The king laughed again—soft, inevitable, merciless—"You will die."
And the fight rolled on. The hall became a red river of motion, and Kael, small and burning, felt himself sinking beneath it.
The battle had not ended. It had only tightened its noose.