The severed head of the Royal Guard lay motionless upon the marble floor. For several seconds, no one moved. The eleven remaining guards stood frozen around Valak, their emerald blades still raised and their bodies locked in the positions they had occupied before their brother-in-arms had fallen. Blood continued spreading across the polished stone between them, slowly filling the cracks that ran through the ancient floor. The distant thunder of war still shook the palace walls, and alarms continued sounding somewhere beyond the throne room, but none of them seemed to hear it anymore. Their attention remained fixed upon the man standing at the center of their formation. Valak had not moved.
The captain's sword remained raised between them, though the certainty behind it had disappeared. Moments earlier, he had believed the twelve greatest warriors in Arcadia could at least slow the Orion down. He had never expected victory, but he had believed their years of training, their experience, and their willingness to die might be enough to buy King Azarel the time he needed. Now he understood the truth. They had never been fighting the same battle.
Valak looked around the circle, his crimson eyes settling upon each guard in turn. Fear had entered their formation, spreading silently from one warrior to the next as they struggled to understand what they had witnessed. One of their own had been killed without any of them seeing the attack. There had been no flash of crimson energy, no visible movement, and no warning. One moment, their brother had been alive. The next, his head had been lying upon the floor. Valak's faint smile remained as he repeated the question.
"Do you believe now?" he asked.
The captain tightened his grip around his sword. He could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath his armor. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to retreat, yet his feet remained planted against the marble. Behind him were the great doors through which his king had escaped. Beyond them were the corridors leading toward the royal chambers, the shelters, and the people he had sworn his life to protect. Retreat had never been an option. The captain slowly raised his sword again.
"Formation," the command was quiet.
Yet every surviving guard heard it. Fear did not disappear from their hearts. None of them suddenly believed they could win. They simply remembered why they had stayed. The remaining warriors moved at once. Six stepped backward while four spread toward the edges of the throne room, their boots moving across the bloodstained marble with the precision of men who had performed the same maneuver thousands of times. The final guard remained beside the captain as emerald energy intensified around their weapons. Valak watched them without moving. The captain lifted his blade.
"Royal Formation Twelve," he commanded.
The throne room erupted with light. Emerald energy surged through the floor as the guards drove their swords into the stone. Ancient markings hidden beneath the marble awakened one after another, spreading outward in perfect lines until a massive Arcadian symbol surrounded Valak. The air changed immediately. Chains of concentrated arcane energy erupted from the floor. They wrapped around Valak's arms before he could move, followed by another pair that locked around his legs. More appeared from behind him, binding his shoulders and waist as the emerald light surrounding the formation grew brighter.
The guards moved instantly. Four attacked from the front as three attacked from behind and two from above. The captain remained where he stood, watching every angle as his soldiers closed in. For the first time since the battle had begun, Valak's smile disappeared. The first blade came toward his neck. Valak leaned backward, allowing it to pass less than an inch from his skin before twisting his wrist. The arcane chain around his arm shattered instantly. He caught the attacking guard by the wrist and redirected his momentum into another warrior approaching from the opposite direction.
The two collided violently. Before either could recover, Valak turned. A blade came toward his back. He lowered his shoulder, the weapon passed above him as another guard attacked from the left. Valak stepped aside which made the strike miss. A third blade descended from above, Valak raised his hand. Crimson energy erupted from his palm.
The attacking guard was thrown across the throne room with enough force to smash through one of the towering stone pillars. The ancient structure exploded around him as his body disappeared beneath the falling debris. The remaining guards did not stop, that was what separated them from ordinary soldiers. They had seen Valak's power, they had watched one of their brothers die without understanding how. Yet they continued attacking. The captain moved forward.
"Second formation!" he yelled.
The warriors immediately changed their approach. The four guards closest to Valak disengaged as those positioned farther away raised their free hands. Emerald energy gathered between their palms before erupting across the chamber. Valak looked up. A web of arcane energy descended upon him while the remaining chains tightened. For the briefest moment, his body became completely still. The captain saw his opportunity.
"Now!" he commanded.
Every surviving guard attacked, they came from every direction. Eleven blades, eleven warriors and one target. Valak closed his eyes as the world slowed. He heard every footstep striking the marble. He felt every movement in the air as the guards approached. He saw the tension forming within their muscles before their bodies completed the attacks they had already chosen. To the Royal Guard, they were moving together but to Valak, they were barely moving at all. His eyes opened, crimson light consumed them. The first guard reached him, Valak turned his head which allow the blade to pass beside his face.
He moved one step forward and placed his palm against the warrior's chest. A pulse of chaos energy travelled through the armor before erupting from the guard's back. The warrior was launched across the chamber. Valak turned to see another blade approach. He caught the guard's arm, twisted it until bone shattered beneath the armor, and pulled him directly into the path of the next attack. The emerald sword passed through his body which made the attacking guard freeze. His eyes widened as he realized what he had done, however Valak did not give him time to react. A crimson fist struck his stomach. The impact lifted him from the floor before sending him crashing into the wall beside the throne.
Two more attacked from behind but Valak disappeared. Their swords struck nothing. For a heartbeat, neither understood where he had gone. Then one of them felt a hand resting upon his shoulder, he slowly turned his head to see Valak standing behind him.
"Too slow," whispered Valak.
Crimson energy erupted, the guard disappeared within the explosion. The force of the blast sent the other warrior tumbling across the chamber while fragments of broken armor scattered against the walls. The formation collapsed. The surviving guards desperately attempted to regroup, but Valak was already among them. The battle became impossible to follow. A flash of crimson crossed the throne room. One guard fell, another was thrown through a pillar, a third raised his sword only for the weapon to shatter in his hands before Valak's elbow struck him across the face.
Every movement was precise, there was no rage, no desperation or wasted energy. Valak dismantled the greatest warriors in Arcadia with the same calmness he had shown while standing before their king. The captain watched helplessly as his formation disappeared around him. These men had fought beside him for decades. He knew their families. He knew their victories. He knew the names of the children waiting for some of them to return home. One by one, they fell, yet not one begged for mercy. The final three guards gathered beside their captain.
All four were wounded. One could barely stand, another held his sword with a broken arm while the third struggled to breathe through blood filling his lungs. Still, they raised their weapons. Valak stood across from them, his crimson aura had faded, not because he was weakened, he no longer needed it. The captain looked toward the doors behind him. Azarel was gone, yhey had succeeded. Perhaps only by minutes, perhaps only by seconds but their king had escaped and that was enough. The captain slowly smiled which Valak noticed.
"You find something amusing?" Valak questioned.
"You," the captain coughed, blood escaping between his lips.
Valak tilted his head slightly as the captain tightened his grip around his sword.
"For someone who calls himself a god..." he took a step forward, "...you still couldn't stop our king from leaving."
The other three guards moved with him. For the first time, Valak looked toward the doors then back at the four warriors standing before him before a faint smile returned to his face.
"I never intended to," Valak stated.
The captain's expression changed.
Valak continued calmly, "Your king is exactly where I need him to be."
For the first time since the battle began, the captain felt something colder than fear. Valak had not failed to stop Azarel, he had allowed him to leave. The realization had barely settled before Valak's crimson aura erupted once more, filling the throne room with enough force to shake the foundations of the palace. The four remaining guards raised their weapons. The captain drew one final breath.
"For Arcadia," he said.
Together, they charged.
Moments before...
The doors of the throne room closed behind King Azarel, but he did not look back. The sound of emerald blades clashing against something far more powerful echoed through the corridor behind him, followed by an explosion that shook the palace to its foundations. Dust drifted from the ceiling as the ancient walls trembled around him, yet Azarel forced himself to continue forward. Every instinct told him to turn around. Those twelve men had protected him for years, standing beside him during military campaigns, accompanying him through assassination attempts, and guarding his family as though they were their own. He knew every one of their names. He knew which of them had children, which had wives waiting for them at home, and which had spent their entire lives preparing for the moment when the Crown might finally need them most.
Now they were dying behind him. Azarel tightened his fists as another impact thundered from the throne room. The sound was followed by a silence that somehow felt worse, but he refused to stop. There would be time to mourn them if Arcadia survived, and if it did not, then their sacrifice would be remembered among the countless others being made across the kingdom. For now, the Royal Guard had given him something more valuable than victory. They had given him time, and he would not dishonor them by wasting it.
"My King!" the soldiers escorting him called as they struggled to keep pace.
Azarel moved quickly through the palace corridors while emergency lights flashed overhead and distant alarms mixed with the growing thunder of battle outside. Servants, officials, and wounded soldiers hurried in the opposite direction, disappearing toward the evacuation routes beneath the palace while officers shouted orders through failing communication devices. The royal palace, once a symbol of Arcadian strength and permanence, had been transformed into a maze of panic and uncertainty.
"Where is my family?" Azarel asked without slowing.
"The Queen was taken to the royal chambers when the invasion began," one of the officers answered.
"And my sons?" Azarel asked.
The hesitation that followed was brief, but Azarel noticed it immediately. He stopped so suddenly that the soldiers surrounding him nearly collided with one another. The officer lowered his gaze, and in that moment the king felt something colder than the fear he had experienced while standing before Valak.
"Where are my sons?" Azarel repeated.
"We don't know, my King. The princes were assisting with the civilian evacuations when the attack began, but we lost contact with several districts after the orbital network collapsed," answered the officer.
For the first time since the invasion had begun, the composure of the Arcadian King began to fracture. He stared at the officer as though refusing to accept the answer, but the distant explosions and failing communications throughout the palace made the truth impossible to ignore.
"Find them," Azarel ordered.
"My King, our communications are failing across the capital. We have patrols attempting to restore contact, but..." the officer said before getting cut off.
"I said find them," Azarel ordered.
The officer immediately lowered his head. "Yes, my King."
Before they could continue, a deafening explosion tore through the palace. The corridor shook violently beneath their feet as windows shattered and part of the ceiling collapsed behind them. The soldiers raised their arms against the falling debris while somewhere beyond the walls the roar of engines passed overhead.
Azarel moved toward one of the broken windows and looked outside. The sky above the capital was burning. Demon transports descended between the towering black spires while Arcadian fighters desperately attempted to intercept them. Trails of smoke stretched across the crimson heavens as damaged ships fell toward the city, disappearing between buildings before explosions illuminated the streets below. What had begun as a battle in orbit had now spread across every part of the kingdom, and the capital itself was rapidly becoming the centre of the invasion.
Another sound echoed through the palace, Arcane energy gunfire. This time it was much closer. The soldiers surrounding Azarel immediately raised their weapons while one of them touched the communication device attached to his ear. He demanded a report, but only static answered him at first. Then came shouting, the unmistakable sound of weapons fire, and finally screaming before the transmission suddenly ended.
The officer slowly looked toward the king. "They're inside the palace."
Azarel's expression hardened. "Then we move."
The group continued forward, but the atmosphere had changed. Every soldier kept his weapon raised as they passed through the damaged corridors, their eyes searching every doorway and intersection for movement. They had barely reached the end of the hall when they discovered the bodies. Arcadian soldiers covered the floor.
Azarel slowed as his eyes moved across the fallen palace guards. Emerald weapons lay scattered among them while deep claw marks scarred the walls. Blood stretched across the stone floor toward an open doorway leading deeper into the palace. One of the soldiers knelt beside a fallen guard and pressed two fingers against his neck before quietly confirming that the body was still warm.
A low growl emerged from the darkness ahead. The soldiers immediately raised their weapons as three demons stepped into the corridor. Their armor was black and jagged, stained with the blood of those they had already killed. One carried a massive axe across his shoulder while the others held curved blades burning with crimson energy. For a moment, both sides remained completely still.
Then the largest demon smiled. "The King."
The Arcadian soldiers opened fire. Emerald energy tore through the corridor as one of the demons disappeared beneath the barrage, his body thrown backward by the force of repeated impacts. The other two charged directly through the attack. The larger warrior raised his axe and allowed the blasts to strike the heavy armor protecting his body as he closed the distance between them.
He reached the first soldier and raised his weapon. Azarel moved before the axe could fall. His hand closed around the sword hanging from his waist as he stepped between the demon and his soldier. Emerald light erupted along the blade the moment it left its sheath, and steel collided with enough force to shake the corridor. The demon stared at the king in surprise, clearly unprepared for the strength behind the strike.
Azarel pushed the axe aside and drove his shoulder into the warrior's chest. Before the demon could recover, the king turned the sword in his hand and drove the emerald blade through the gap beneath its armor. The creature gasped as the weapon pierced through its body, and Azarel pulled the blade free before allowing the corpse to collapse at his feet.
The second demon attacked from behind, but Azarel had already heard it coming. He turned as the curved blade passed beside his head, stepped inside the creature's reach, and drove his elbow across its face. The demon stumbled backward long enough for the king to bring his sword across its chest in one clean strike. The body collapsed beside the first. For several moments, the soldiers surrounding Azarel stared at him in silence. The king looked down at the blood covering his blade before wiping it against the fallen demon's armor.
"What?" he asked.
One of the younger guards blinked. "Nothing, my King."
Azarel returned the sword to his side. "Then keep moving."
They continued through the palace, but the deeper they travelled, the more signs of battle appeared. Entire sections of the outer walls had collapsed, smoke filled corridors that had once displayed the history of Arcadia's kings, and ancient banners burned above the bodies of soldiers who had died defending them. Azarel barely noticed any of it. One thought consumed everything else. His family.
Another explosion shook the palace as they finally reached the royal wing. The doors ahead had been sealed, forcing two guards to rush toward the security panel. When the system demanded royal authorization, Azarel placed his hand against the scanner without hesitation. The doors opened.
"Helena!" yelled the King.
The royal chambers were crowded with guards and servants preparing for evacuation. Medical supplies had been gathered near the entrance while several wounded soldiers rested against the walls. Azarel searched every face until he finally saw the queen standing near the balcony doors, speaking with one of the officers.
She turned toward him. "Azarel."
The king crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. The gesture surprised everyone nearby, but he did not care. Helena held him tightly for several moments before pulling away and looking down at the blood covering his armor.
"I heard the explosions near the throne room," she said.
"I'm fine," he assured her.
"The blood..." Helena said with fear.
"Not mine," the King reassured.
Relief crossed her face, but it lasted only a moment. Azarel looked around the chamber again, searching for the two faces he had expected to see the moment he entered.
"Where are the boys?" he asked.
Helena's expression changed, and the answer was written across her face before she even spoke.
"Daeron was helping with the evacuations," she answered.
Azarel stared at her. "And Vilor?"
She hesitated. "He went with him."
For a moment, the king heard nothing. The alarms, the explosions, and the soldiers shouting beyond the chamber seemed to disappear beneath the weight of those words. His sons were still somewhere in the city while the demon army advanced toward the capital.
"Why?" Azarel asked.
"Vilor refused to leave while people were still being evacuated. Daeron promised he would keep him safe," she answered.
Azarel turned toward the nearest officer. "Contact them."
"We've been trying, my King. The communications network..." he said before the King stopped him.
"Try again," Azarel ordered.
The officer immediately returned to the terminal while Azarel crossed the chamber and pushed open the balcony doors. Smoke-filled wind rushed inside as he stepped out, followed closely by Helena. From the balcony, the entire capital stretched before him, but this did not look like the capital he once knew. Instead of streets filled with laughter and beauty, fire and screams consumed the view.
Black towers disappeared beneath columns of smoke while explosions flashed throughout the streets. Demon transports continued descending from the heavens as Arcadian forces fought desperately to slow them. Every few seconds, another aircraft fell from the sky, leaving a trail of fire behind it before vanishing somewhere among the buildings.
Somewhere out there were his sons. Azarel gripped the stone railing as his eyes searched one district after another. Every explosion made his heart tighten, and every falling ship forced him to wonder whether one of his sons had been beneath it. He had spent his entire life preparing to defend Arcadia. He had commanded armies, challenged the Angelics, and stood before beings who called themselves gods without allowing fear to control him.
Yet standing upon that balcony, King Azarel felt something he had not allowed himself to feel since the invasion began. Not fear for his kingdom or his throne, but for his children. His grip tightened around the railing as he continued searching the burning city.
"Daeron..." Azarel whispered, his voice nearly lost beneath the sounds of war. "Where are you?"
Daeron was exactly where his father feared he would be. The evacuation zone had descended into chaos. What had once been an orderly line of civilians waiting to board the remaining transports had become a desperate struggle against time as the sounds of battle drew closer. Emergency sirens echoed between the surrounding buildings while soldiers shouted instructions over the terrified voices of thousands of Arcadians still waiting to escape. Parents held their children tightly against them, the elderly were helped forward by volunteers, and wounded civilians were carried toward any transport that still had room. Above them, the crimson sky had almost completely disappeared behind smoke as demon vessels continued descending across the capital and Arcadian starfighters fought desperately to keep the evacuation routes clear.
Every few moments, another aircraft tore overhead with enough force to shake the ground beneath the civilians. Some carried Arcadian markings, while others belonged to the invading fleet. No one looked toward the sky long enough to tell the difference anymore. All that mattered was reaching the transports before the battle reached them.
Daeron stood near the center of the evacuation platform, helping an elderly man climb the ramp of one of the remaining vessels. Sweat ran down his face as he looked toward the thousands of civilians still waiting behind the barricades. They had already evacuated more people than anyone had thought possible, but the transports were leaving faster than replacements could arrive, and the number of people still trapped within the district seemed endless.
"That's everyone!" one of the transport officers shouted from inside the ship. "We have to leave!"
Daeron looked toward the crowded ramp and then at the space still remaining inside the vessel. "You can take more."
"Not enough for another group," replied the transport officer.
"Then take the children," Daeron answered before turning toward the soldiers managing the evacuation line. "Every child under twelve goes next. Get them aboard."
The order immediately sent a wave of panic through the nearby crowd. Parents tightened their arms around their children while others began shouting questions at the soldiers. One mother refused to release her young son when a volunteer approached, pulling him against her chest as though letting go would mean losing him forever.
"I'm not leaving him!" she yelled.
Daeron approached her carefully. "You aren't abandoning him."
The woman looked toward him with tears filling her eyes. "You don't know that."
The words stopped him. There was nothing Daeron could say that would make her fear disappear. Somewhere beyond the surrounding buildings, another explosion shook the evacuation zone, and the distant sound of weapons fire continued growing louder. The demons were advancing toward them, and every person standing there understood what would happen if they arrived before the evacuation was complete.
"If he stays here, I can't promise he'll survive," Daeron said quietly. "If he gets on that transport, he has a chance."
The woman stared down at her son. Her hands trembled as she slowly knelt and pulled him into her arms, whispering something into his ear before kissing his forehead. The boy began crying as one of the volunteers gently took his hand.
"I'll find you," the woman promised. "No matter where they take you, I'll find you."
Daeron watched the boy disappear into the transport with the other children. As the loading ramp began to close, he found himself wondering how many promises were being made across Arcadia that day and how many families would never have the opportunity to keep them.
"Prince Daeron!"
He turned toward the transport and saw a familiar face among the children.
The little girl from earlier stood near one of the windows, still holding the stuffed animal tightly against her chest. Lena pushed between the others until she could see him clearly and raised her hand toward the glass.
Daeron smiled and waved back.
The transport lifted from the platform, its engines filling the evacuation zone with wind and dust as it rose between the surrounding towers. Daeron continued watching until the vessel disappeared into the smoke covering the city. He had promised Lena that she would be safe, and now he had to make sure that promise meant something.
"Daeron!"
Vilor pushed through the crowd toward him. The younger prince was covered in dust, and his clothes had been torn along one shoulder from helping pull civilians from a damaged building nearby. Exhaustion was visible across his face, but the determination in his eyes had not disappeared.
"The western shelters are full," Vilor explained. "They're redirecting everyone here."
Daeron looked beyond him and saw another wave of civilians already entering the district. Hundreds more poured into the streets, perhaps thousands, and the sight immediately filled him with dread.
"How many transports do we have left?" Daeron asked.
Vilor hesitated. "Seven. Three more were destroyed before they reached the city, and we don't know if any others are coming."
Daeron looked toward the civilians filling the streets. Seven transports would never be enough. Before he could respond, an Arcadian officer ran toward them with one hand pressed against a wound along his side.
"My Prince, the eastern defensive line has fallen," he said.
The words immediately changed the atmosphere around them. Daeron looked toward the distant streets where smoke drifted between the buildings.
"How far away are they?" Daeron questioned.
"Minutes," replied the soldier.
Vilor stepped closer. "How many?"
"We don't know. Communications with the remaining units are gone." The officer glanced toward the civilians still waiting to escape. "If the demons reach this district before the transports leave, we won't be able to protect them."
Daeron looked toward the soldiers positioned around the evacuation zone. Fewer than a hundred remained. Some were wounded, while others had been fighting since the invasion began. Behind them stood thousands of civilians with nowhere else to go.
The distant gunfire suddenly stopped. Silence settled over the streets. Daeron slowly turned toward the eastern road as smoke drifted between the surrounding buildings. One of the soldiers raised his rifle, followed by another. The civilians nearest the barricades began noticing the change, pulling their children closer while volunteers hurried everyone toward the remaining transports.
A shadow emerged from the smoke, then another. Dozens more followed. The first demon stepped into view, its black armor covered in blood. Hundreds more appeared behind it as they moved through the ruined streets toward the evacuation zone.
"Defensive positions!" the officer shouted.
The evacuation zone erupted into panic. Civilians screamed as soldiers rushed toward the barricades and the remaining transports lowered their ramps. Arcadian troops formed firing lines across the streets, every weapon aimed toward the approaching army.
Daeron remained still as he looked from the demons to the transports and then toward his younger brother.
"Vilor, get on one of the transports," Daeron ordered.
Vilor stared at him. "What?"
"You need to go," Daeron said.
"I'm not leaving," replied Vilor.
"This isn't a discussion," Daeron said with authority.
Vilor stepped closer, anger and fear fighting across his face. "I'm not leaving you here."
Daeron grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. "You are going to get on one of those transports, and you are going to help as many people as possible escape this city."
"And what about you?" Vilor questioned.
Daeron looked toward the soldiers taking their positions. "I'm staying."
The answer struck Vilor harder than any explosion could have. He immediately shook his head.
"No. If you're staying, then I'm staying too," Vilor stated.
"Someone has to hold them back," Daeron said.
"Then we both do it," Vilor said hiding his fear.
Daeron tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder. "Listen to me. You can't fight them."
"Neither can you!" Vilor shouted.
The words hung between them.
Vilor's eyes began to fill with tears as he looked toward the approaching army. "You don't know how many there are. You don't know if more are coming. You can't stay here."
Daeron knew his brother was right. He did not know how many demons were advancing toward them or whether the soldiers beside him could hold the street for five minutes or five seconds. He did not know whether he would survive the next hour, but he knew what would happen if everyone ran.
"If we leave, they die," Daeron said.
Vilor followed his gaze toward the civilians still boarding the transports. Children cried as soldiers carried wounded people toward the ramps. There were too many people, too few ships, and almost no time remaining.
"You asked me what we were supposed to do when the invasion began," Daeron continued. "This is what we do. We make sure they get out."
Vilor lowered his head. "I don't want to lose you."
For a moment, Daeron was no longer a prince speaking to another member of the royal family. He was simply an older brother looking at someone he had spent his entire life protecting. He pulled Vilor into his arms, and the younger prince immediately held him tightly.
"You aren't going to lose me," Daeron said.
Vilor closed his eyes. "You don't know that."
Daeron said nothing because they both knew it was true.
Another explosion echoed nearby as the demons continued advancing. Daeron finally pulled away and placed both hands on his brother's shoulders.
"I need you to go. Father needs you. Mother needs you, and the people on those transports need you too. Get them out of here." Daeron said.
Vilor wiped his eyes. "We need you..."
Daeron looked toward the approaching army. "Come on Vilor, I've been in worse positions before."
Vilor looked at his brother with a smile.
"I've taken on hundreds of our best soldiers before," Daeron look at Vilor before continuing. "I won without taking a single scratch."
Vilor knew it was a lie. Daeron could see it in his face, but neither of them said anything. Daeron knew if this was the last time he would see his brother, he would make sure that Vilor saw him smiling. The younger prince slowly stepped backward before finally turning and running toward the transports. Daeron watched him disappear into the crowd. Only after Vilor was gone did he allow himself to breathe.
The Arcadian officer approached and stood beside him. "You should have gone with him."
Daeron looked toward the demon army. "What kind of King would that make me."
A faint smile appeared on the officer's face. "Your father is going to kill me."
"If we survive this, I'll take the blame," Daeron said with a smile.
"I'll hold you to that," the officer replied back.
Daeron reached for the sword at his side. The blade had been given to him by his father years earlier, and Azarel had once told him that carrying a weapon did not make someone a warrior. A sword meant nothing without something worth protecting. Daeron finally understood what he had meant. He drew the weapon, and emerald arcane energy ignited along its edge. The demons were close enough now that he could see their faces, and the soldiers around him prepared themselves for the battle ahead. Some were afraid. Daeron could see it in their expressions and hear it in their breathing. He felt it too. None of them moved.
Behind them, another transport lifted into the sky, followed moments later by another. Every second they remained alive meant more civilians escaped. Daeron stepped forward as the officer raised his rifle beside him.
"How long do we need?" Daeron asked.
The officer looked toward the remaining transports. "Ten minutes."
Daeron stared at the army approaching them. Hundreds of demons filled the street, and there were likely many more hidden beyond the smoke.
He tightened his grip around his sword, "Then we give them ten minutes."
The Arcadian soldiers raised their weapons as the first demons began charging. Daeron looked toward the warriors standing beside him and saw the same fear and determination he had witnessed in the Royal Guard throughout his childhood.
He thought of his father, his mother, and Vilor. Then he remembered a little girl clutching a stuffed animal against her chest and the promise he had made to her.
I will protect you. I will protect all of Arcadia till my final breath.
End of Chapter 20