The throne room fell silent.
Darian was still leaning against a column, Nox in his left hand. The short blade was no longer exhaling mist. Lumine remained sheathed at his hip. Aelthas didn't move.
He lay on the marble, surrounded by a dark pool. The filaments that had once run across his body had gone dark. The black sword rested a few meters from his hand.
Darian tried to stand.
He couldn't.
His entire body shook and he fell back against the column. Lumine's possession first, then Nox's, had left him with nothing. Breathing hurt. Moving his fingers hurt. Staying awake hurt.
Vael was nearby, lying beside a broken column. The small dragon opened his golden eyes and let out a faint click.
Darian turned his head.
—Vael...
The dragon was breathing. Barely, but breathing.
Darian closed his eyes for a moment.
—Thank god.
The side door burst open.
Aria came in first, bow in hand and wolf cloak over her shoulders. She was pale, her armor poorly adjusted over her torn dress, but she was still on her feet. Behind her came Zareth, Lyra, Draven, Kára, and Varkas.
None of them were whole.
Varkas could barely walk. Kára held him on one side. Draven on the other. Lyra had her staff resting against her shoulder. Zareth came in with his daggers lowered, but his eyes were still sharp.
Aria saw Darian and moved toward him quickly. She didn't run. The poison still weighed on her legs. Even so, she reached him and knelt at his side.
She looked him over from head to foot.
First came the anger. Then the relief.
—Idiot.
Darian tried to smile.
—Good to see you too.
Aria checked his shoulder, his leg, his face. Her hands were steady, but Darian noticed they trembled slightly.
—You're a mess.
—You don't look much better.
Aria let the air out through her nose. It almost sounded like a laugh, but didn't quite get there. She gave him a light tap on the forehead.
—That was for worrying about everyone except yourself.
Darian looked down.
For a moment, only the distant fire could be heard.
—You came, —he said.
Aria placed a hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch the wound.
—Of course I came.
Darian swallowed. His throat was dry.
—I took too long.
—But you got here.
—On the beach I couldn't.
Aria looked at him steadily. The hardness in her eyes softened just slightly.
—That's already over.
—Not for me.
—Then let it go now. I handed myself over because I chose to. You tried to follow me. That's enough.
Darian wanted to answer, but couldn't find the words. He was too tired. He only nodded.
Aria stood slowly and looked toward the center of the hall.
Aelthas was still motionless.
—Is he dead?
Darian followed her gaze. Aelthas wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling.
—I think so.
Zareth moved a few steps closer, not taking his eyes off the body. He didn't look at ease. His daggers were low, but he hadn't put them away.
—Don't get close, —said Darian.
Zareth stopped.
—I wasn't going to touch him.
The prince studied the black sword.
—That weapon wasn't normal.
*It isn't dead*, said Lumine in Darian's mind.
Darian tightened his fingers on Nox's hilt.
*No*, Nox growled. *It just stopped moving. That's not the same thing.*
Darian looked at the black sword. It was still. Too still.
—Lumine and Nox say that thing is still dangerous.
Aria looked at the weapon again.
—Then we leave now.
Kára helped Varkas sit against a wall. He let out a grunt and rested his head against the stone. His face was stained with blood and dust. His armor was broken in several places.
—I'm fine, —said Varkas.
Kára looked at him with exhaustion.
—You're not fine.
—I'm alive.
—That's different.
Varkas didn't argue. He closed his eyes for a moment. He breathed slowly, as if each breath cost him something.
Draven let go of his arm and dropped down near Lyra. He had dried blood on his face and several cuts on his arms. Even so, he managed to smile.
—I never thought I'd miss being bored.
Lyra sat beside him. She rested her staff against the wall and looked at her own hands. They were shaking.
—I did.
Draven glanced at her sideways.
—Yeah?
—Since I met you.
Draven let out a weak laugh. He didn't answer. He just let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.
Zareth was still standing.
Aria watched him. The prince wasn't looking at anyone. His attention was on Aelthas, on the black sword, and on the doors of the hall. He seemed unable to accept that it was all over.
—We need to get out of here, —said Kára.
Zareth blinked, as if returning from somewhere far away.
—There are lower passages. If we reach them, we can get clear of the castle before the guard regroups.
—We can't make it like this, —Kára answered—. Darian can't walk. Varkas can barely breathe. Aria has poison in her body. Vael is wounded. I'm not doing much better.
Draven raised a hand without opening his eyes.
—I'm still here too.
—You're not doing better either.
—Correct.
Zareth gritted his teeth. He wanted to move. It showed in his posture, in his fingers tense over the daggers. But he looked at the others and understood that Kára was right.
—Five minutes.
Kára shook her head.
—Ten.
—Five.
—Then you'll have to carry all of us.
Zareth looked at her. Kára didn't look away.
Finally, the prince let out the air.
—Ten minutes.
The group stayed there, among broken columns, smoke, and stained marble. It wasn't real rest. It was only a breath. But after everything they had lived through, even that felt like too much to ask for.
Aria sat near Darian. Vael dragged himself over as best he could and rested his head on his leg. Darian stroked his scales carefully.
—You pulled a stupid move too, —he murmured.
Vael let out a low click, as if in protest.
Aria looked at him and smiled faintly.
—He has character.
—Too much.
Darian kept stroking Vael. The small dragon closed his eyes, but was still breathing with difficulty. That was enough. For now, that was enough.
Across the hall, Zareth approached a broken window. From there he could see the castle burning in several places. The sounds of battle were starting to recede. The explosions were less frequent. The screaming too.
For the first time, it seemed like the chaos was dying down.
Nobody looked at Aelthas.
Nobody saw when one of his fingers moved.
The black sword trembled once. Then again. Filaments sprouted from the hilt, slow, like roots searching for water. They crept across the marble, crossing the floor without a sound. They reached Aelthas's hand and drove into his skin.
The king's body didn't convulse.
He breathed.
One long, deep breath, like someone returning from a dream that had gone too dark.
The wounds began to close slowly. They didn't heal entirely. Dark marks were left beneath the skin, thin lines that spread across his chest, his neck, his face. The filaments entered his body and disappeared beneath the torn tunic.
Aelthas closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the green was still there.
But there was something dark behind it.
The sword slid into his hand. The hilt locked to his fingers. The straight blade snapped with a dry sound. The black metal split, stretched and changed shape. The grip grew. The blade curved until it formed a long, thin, dark crescent.
A scythe.
Aelthas rose slowly. First one knee. Then the other. Then he stood. His black tunic fell over his body like a torn shroud. The edges moved with a shadow of their own. His face was still the same, but the expression had changed. No more mockery. No more fury. Only calm.
An empty calm.
He raised the scythe.
Across the hall, Draven got to his feet.
—Well, —he said, rolling his neck—. If we've got ten minutes, I'm going to use them to not die sitting down.
Lyra opened her mouth to answer, but didn't get the chance. The scythe cut through the air without warning. Draven stopped moving. For a second, nobody understood what had happened. Then the blood fell on the marble like red rain.
Draven fell.