Shatter

The lights of the city appear before the city itself does. Osthryn was never outside Mountainkeep's walls so late at night from this vantage point. A warm sensation covers her shoulders for a moment as she remembers the coat Silovar threw over her the night he first pushed her too far.

The embarrassment of that night still stings despite Silovar's tenderness. The nightmare from last night too. It was one thing to wake up from a night terror alone, another when accidentally falling asleep next to someone you just spent the better half of a day healing.

It might just be her nervous mind, it might be the normal tenor of the Keep District and surrounding taverns at this time of night, but Osthryn feels the lights burn just a little too brightly, and the distant shouts sound a little too loudly in her ears.

swip


Osthryn feels the searing pain of the bolt tear straight through her flesh before she sees the ballista.

There were no ballistae on the wall before, were they? She cannot tell. It is something she would take notice of. Why were they there? The guard on the wall re-sets a bolt. It is shiny. Must be silver, how else would it tear straight through her body? No, there must not have been ballistae on the walls before now. They like Dragons here. They send their prayers to Dragons here. Silovar has swept low and fast over the city and not one weapon was lifted. They will not need ballistae on the walls.

Strange, that there are ballistae on the walls.

There are ballistae on the walls.

They are loaded with silver-tipped bolts. The guard twists the ballista in their direction.

A bolt has gone through her. A bolt has gone through her. They are on their way to warn the King about the Necromancers. What will that help? They are Dragons. Of course they will want to save their own lives. No. That is not it. Magic can be done better. They can be taught better. So many living things do not need to die.

Necromancy is a slippery slope. When they run out of wyverns, and the the Dragons run dry, the people will be next. All living things have magic. Necromancy makes you thirsty, so thirsty, so thirsty. The bards sang of it. Might not be true, but it was repeated enough. It is not worth the risk to disbelieve it.

She falls, helpless, stunned.

He will catch her

There are ballistae on the walls.

The pain crystallises across her shoulder with the realisation, and it is as if she is jolted from a haze. She is falling, and her heart calls out in fear. Silovar must stop. Silovar is going to die. Silovar...

He will catch her.

"Silovar!" her voice resounds in a panicked timbre within the space of her mind. She opens her eyes, her wings are straining to maintain control. She feels the gap where the air touches the inside of her wound. Silovar has seen her, he is diving to catch her.

No, he must flee. He must flee. He must go. She strains against the pain to right herself, to fly up to meet him.

The wound protests.

"Silovar!"

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--- *** ---

The city below him is abuzz with frantic activity -- not the type he typically associates with his flyovers. His keen vision is honed on the Keep and the Keep alone, but still the smoke and the hubbub rising from the city's streets manage to edge their way into his awareness.

Silovar's eyes narrow at the sight: a wyvern lies dead at the feet of His Majesty, its chest cut open. Guards barricade the gates of the courtyard from both sides. Some court officials have made it out of the Keep's grounds to spread the word, however. If the line of priestesses with painted faces standing to protect the protesting crowds behind them from the managerie of necromancers and corrupted guards is anything to go by.

Some of the guards abetting the cause of the Necromancers is one thing, but what is held in His Majesty's hands makes Silovar's hope plummet.

The wyvern's slowing but still-beating heart drips blood through the gaps between the king's fingers. His Majesty holds the heart not with remorse, sadness, or disgust, but with sickening glee. Like it is a hard-won prize.

Silovar does not care who sees him, who knows him. His eyes fall on Frederick, standing beside the king, practically shaking with ill-gotten power that the frail, short-lived creature cannot begin to comprehend. How dare he. How dare they. He trusted them all to be better.

A movement catches the corner of his eye. Old Man Oswald has clambered to the top of the courtyard walls, another man chasing him close behind. The old man just misses a swipe at his ankles as he begins to run to the city walls in Silovar's direction, frantically waving his staff overhead to get Silovar's attention.

"I know," Silovar sighs at Oswald in his mind. The king is lost.

You do not. His soul corrects him.

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Dread seeps into his bones at the sound. Fear and pain fill his consciousness and tie his heart into a knot.

Osthryn.

He tears his focus from the scene at the Keep and turns back just in time to see her falling from the sky, a hole torn straight through her shoulder.

I will catch you.

He feels her repel him, shouting at him to leave her. Pleading with him to flee.

He sees the ballista turn toward him. He knows he can outfly it. The silver glint in the starlight has not been loaded yet. She is all he has, she is all that will stay, he just got her, and he cannot lose her.

I will catch you.

"Silovar!" Her voice resounds in his mind. A panic. A warning. He pushes himself faster. He can outrun it. He can get her and get out of here.

"I know," he reassures her.

You do not. His soul corrects him.

swip.

Death feels unfamiliar this time. It does not brush with him, but buries itself deep into his chest.

He watches his body fall, limp, helpless. Unable to save her. Breaking his promise to catch her. He watches with chagrin as Osthryn's wings strain against the air, pushing past her pain to fly up and catch him. He wonders if this is how she felt when he drank the silver, he wonders if her heart called out in fear of losing him as it does now.

Death never came this close. He knows he cannot die. He ...

"I don't know'' his spirit whispers mournfully, watching from above as Osthryn's talons close around his lifeless body, the echoes of her soul screaming in pain and fear during his last moments sounding over and over.

You do not. His soul agrees with him.

Too quickly, his world begins to shrink. Too quickly, Osthryn fades from his view.

Perfect darkness.

Death comes as a stranger.