The light settled over Darian's skin like a silk armor.
White hair brushed his shoulders, each strand emitting a faint glow that shifted with his breathing. The eyes, black with white pupils, swept the throne room. The cracks in the floor. The fractured columns. Aelthas's black sword, pulsing with a dark gleam.
Aelthas narrowed his eyes.
—So, a possession, —he said, his voice carrying that affable elegance that made it more dangerous than any shout—. I didn't expect a human to manage something like this. I thought only beasts surrendered to their weapons.
—I didn't surrender, —Darian answered. The double voice resonated through the hall, his and Lumine's layered into an amplified whisper—. This is not a surrender.
—Of course not. It's a collaboration. —Aelthas tilted his head, the red and gold filaments in his arm pulsing like living veins—. What a modern concept. In my time, weapons and bearers didn't collaborate. They consumed each other. One dominated the other. I wonder which one dominates here.
—Neither.
—That's what you say now. Everyone says the same thing at first.
Aelthas raised the black sword and the blade extended in an instant whip-crack. The tip stretched toward Darian's chest like a shadow bolt. Darian turned his torso just enough for the tip to pass a centimeter from his tunic, and before Aelthas could retract the blade he was already sliding forward.
The Dance of Light carried him across the cracked marble without friction, without sound. He wasn't running. He was gliding, as if the floor had turned to ice beneath his feet. He appeared at Aelthas's left flank. Lumine traced a horizontal slash that left a white trail in the air. Aelthas widened the black blade in time and the impact rang through the columns. Light against darkness. Both blades shook.
Darian didn't stop. He turned on his heels and attacked again from another angle. The Dance of Light took him right, then back, then forward. Three positions in a blink. Lumine came down diagonally. This time Aelthas couldn't block in time. The tip of light grazed his shoulder and left a bright mark on the dark tunic. A small rune of light, like a momentary seal.
First mark.
—What is this? —Aelthas touched the rune. It didn't hurt, but it glowed.
—An outstanding debt, —Darian answered.
—You're keeping count of your strikes? How childish.
—Four. When I reach four, you'll see.
Aelthas narrowed his eyes.
The filaments in his arm shot out. Six red and gold tendrils reaching for the neck, the arms, the legs. Darian slid between them. The Dance of Light made him move like a leaf in the wind, unpredictable. One filament grazed his cheek. Another passed under his arm. A third was waiting in his path and Darian answered by raising Lumine. From the tip of the sword a concentrated beam of light shot out, thin as a needle, fast as a thought.
The Prismatic Ray cut through three filaments at once.
The light split them cleanly. The tendrils dropped to the floor and evaporated before touching the marble. Aelthas retracted the remaining filaments. A new expression crossed his face. Not annoyance. Genuine interest.
—That I wasn't expecting, —he said.
—I have several you won't expect, —Darian answered.
—Show me all of them. I don't like to wait.
Darian charged. The Dance of Light carried him straight at Aelthas's chest. Lumine traced a thrust. Aelthas blocked with the widened blade. Darian was already somewhere else. He appeared on the left. Another slash. Aelthas deflected it with a flick of the wrist. Darian appeared on the right. Third strike. This time Aelthas didn't reach the block. The tip of Lumine touched his ribs.
Second mark shone beside the first.
—Two, —said Aelthas, his tone beginning to shed its laziness—. How many left?
—Two more.
—Then hurry. I'm starting to get bored.
Aelthas brought down a vertical strike and the black blade widened mid-swing, shifting from whip to hammer. Darian saw it coming. The Dance of Light slid him right. The blade crashed into the marble and opened another crack that ran to the wall. Darian used the momentum of the failed strike. He launched forward. Lumine went for Aelthas's leg. The blade of light touched his thigh.
Third mark.
—Three, —said Darian.
—One more, —Aelthas answered—. And then we'll see if your little trick is worth anything.
He drove the sword into the ground.
The Field of Negation expanded from the black blade. It wasn't a pulse. It was a cold tide that swept the hall. The torches stayed lit but their light turned hollow, useless. Darian's aura flickered. The Dance of Light died beneath his feet. He stopped gliding. His movements became human again. Heavy.
—No magic, —said Aelthas—. No tricks. No little dances. Let's see you finish your collection now.
Darian gripped Lumine. The blade was still light. But the fluidity of the Dance was gone. He couldn't move faster than Aelthas's eyes anymore. Now he was just a swordsman standing before a king.
Aelthas attacked first. A horizontal strike. Darian blocked it. The impact shook his arms. Aelthas attacked again. Diagonal. Darian deflected it barely. The black blade was heavier now, each blow pushing him back a step. Aelthas gave him no room. Third strike. A thrust to the chest. Darian dodged by turning his torso, but the tip grazed his tunic. No mark. Just a warning.
—You're running out of magic, —said Aelthas—. No magic, no dance. No dance, no marks. No marks, no hope. Was that how the count went?
—I still have one left, —Darian answered.
—Then find it. Because I've already found mine.
Aelthas lunged forward. The black sword traced three consecutive blows. Darian blocked the first, dodged the second, but the third caught him. The blade opened a gash along his side. Not deep, but painful. Blood soaked his tunic. Darian staggered. Aelthas didn't wait. Another blow. This one to the shoulder. Darian blocked it, but the force put him on the ground.
—Get up, —said Aelthas—. I don't like finishing anyone on the floor. It's bad manners.
Darian got up. His hand trembled on the hilt. Blood ran down his side. The marks of light still glowed on Aelthas's body. Three runes. One missing.
—I'm going to reach four, —said Darian.
—I hope so. Because if not, this was a waste of time for both of us.
Darian charged. No Dance of Light, no fluidity, just legs and determination. Aelthas waited. The black sword raised. Darian attacked from the left. Aelthas blocked. Darian turned and attacked from the right. Aelthas deflected. Darian threw himself forward, to the center, exposing his chest.
Aelthas took the bait.
The black sword went straight for Darian's heart. But Darian wasn't there. He had turned at the last instant, using the momentum of the false thrust to move to the flank. Lumine found Aelthas's back.
The fourth mark blazed over his shoulder blade.
All four runes lit up at once. White light connected them to each other, tracing lines across Aelthas's body like a constellation. Darian raised Lumine. The blade absorbed the light of the four marks and became blinding.
—Four, —said Darian.
The empowered strike passed through Aelthas's guard as if it didn't exist. The blade of light sank into his chest. It didn't pass through. But it burned. An explosion of white light burst at the center of the hall. Aelthas was hurled backward, feet sliding across the marble. The black sword trembled in his hand, the grip faltered for an instant, but he didn't let go. The Field of Negation shattered. The torches lit up again.
Aelthas came to rest against a column, chest smoking, filaments writhing out of control. A thread of blood ran from the corner of his lips.
Darian dropped to one knee. Lumine's possession faded. His hair returned to its color. His eyes too. The light went out. His grip on Lumine weakened, fingers barely holding the hilt, but he didn't let go.
—Well done, —Lumine whispered.
Darian couldn't answer. He could barely breathe.
Aelthas stood up.
Not quickly. Not in fury. He rose with the slowness of someone who no longer had any hurry. His chest was still smoking. His tunic was burned. But he was smiling. The filaments now ran across his entire torso, climbing his neck, marking his cheeks like black veins.
—Four marks, —he said—. How lovely. A shame it wasn't five.
He raised his hand. The black sword steadied in his palm. A pulse of darkness swept the hall. Not like the ones before. This one was denser, heavier, older.
Darian felt the blow in his chest. He was thrown backward. His back struck a column. Pain exploded through his broken ribs. He couldn't move. His fingers were still locked around Lumine, but his arm wouldn't answer.
Aelthas walked toward him. The black sword lengthened.
—You've been an entertaining opponent, —he said—. Truly. But this ends here.
He raised the blade.
A gust of wind struck his back.
Aelthas staggered. The sword veered off course. He turned.
Vael was in the air, wings spread, golden eyes burning. The dragon was small, barely a hatchling, but the gust that came from his wings was enough to push back a king. He shrieked. A sharp, defiant sound.
Aelthas looked at him. His expression didn't change.
—Dragons should understand their place.
He raised his hand. A whip of red filaments shot from his arm and struck Vael in the chest. The dragon let out a shriek and was hurled against a column. The impact was dry. Vael dropped to the floor, wings folded, chest heaving. Alive, but still.
Darian saw Vael lying there. Saw the blood on the dragon's side. Saw the golden eyes half-open, still conscious.
Something broke.
Not Lumine. Not the possession. It was the patience.
He lowered his left hand. His fingers found the hilt of Nox. The short blade was cold. Colder than it had ever been.
—Now, —said Darian.
—Now, —answered Nox.
Darkness erupted.