The Return

The first volley of arrows blotted out the dawn. It was a sound Kael would never forget—not a hiss, but a deep, throaty roar as ten thousand black shafts were loosed at once, climbing into the sky like a swarm of locusts intent on devouring the world. For a moment, they blotted out the sun, casting the plains into a sudden, terrifying twilight. Then, they began to fall, a storm of sharpened steel meant to erase one man from the earth.

Kael didn’t move. He stood, his feet planted, and imagined the air above him becoming a solid, swirling vortex of pure force. The power required was immense, and a sharp, splitting pain lanced through his skull, a violent throb that made his vision swim. He grit his teeth, ignoring the hot trickle of blood that burst from his nose. The arrows entered the invisible tempest. Their momentum was violently arrested, their wooden shafts splintering against a barrier that wasn't there. The storm of steel became a harmless shower of black rain, thousands of arrows clattering uselessly to the dusty plain around him in a perfect circle.

The army's response was a thunder of a thousand hooves and a forest of gleaming lances. The cavalry charged, the ground itself trembling under their unified might. Kael slammed his palm flat on the ground. The strain of another massive act of will made him cry out, the pain in his head now a blinding white fire. With a groan like a mountain waking from a deep slumber, a great, smooth rampart of earth, a hundred yards long and thirty feet high, tore its way from the plains. It was not a wall of spikes meant to kill, but an impassable wave. Horses screamed and reared, their glorious charge breaking in a chaotic, screaming tangle of men and beasts.

Then the infantry came. A slow, grinding, inexorable tide of steel and grim determination. Here, Kael had no grand gesture. He met them with his star-metal sword, a lone rock against an ocean surf. He was a phantom of pure defense, his blade a silver blur that parried, his conceptual power a subtle, maddening force that disarmed. A Royal Knight’s outstretched foot would find the ground suddenly turn to thick, grasping mud. A soldier's sword-arm, raised for a killing blow, would suddenly feel as if it were made of lead.

But he was one man. For every soldier he non-lethally disabled, ten more took their place. The sheer, crushing math of the battle was wearing him down, the constant, small exertions of his power a drain on his already-strained life force. A mace, swung by a brute in heavy armor, caught him in the side. The blow was softened by a last-second shield of force, but it still cracked his ribs with a sickening crunch. An alchemical grenade exploded nearby, and the concussive force threw him to the ground, his ears ringing. He staggered back to his feet, drenched in sweat, bleeding from a dozen minor cuts, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was an engine running out of fuel, and the ocean was endless.

The sea of soldiers parted, and a squad of Royal Knights, the kingdom’s elite, advanced to deliver the final blow. He was forced to one knee, his vision blurring. This was the end. He had held to his vow. It was enough.

A Royal Knight, his face grim with duty, raised his sword for the final strike.

The sword never fell.

A sound like a mountain breaking split the air. A massive, gleaming steel shield slammed into the knight with the force of a battering ram, sending him flying through the air like a discarded toy. Ronan planted himself in front of Kael, his new shield held high, a bulwark of defiance against an entire army.

“Get up, you idiot,” he roared, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and raw emotion. “I’m not carrying you off this field.”

Before the other knights could react, arrows of silver light rained down from the top of a nearby monolith. Each shaft was a masterpiece of precision, finding the weak point in an enemy’s armor—a knee joint, a pauldron strap—disabling but not killing. Nira’s voice, cool as ice, cut through the din. “It seems your tactical assessment was flawed. You needed a distraction.”

Suddenly, a wall of pure fire erupted in a roaring semi-circle, thirty feet high, cutting them off from the advancing infantry. Cyras stepped through the flames as if they were a mere curtain, his eyes burning with an intensity that rivaled the inferno. Simultaneously, a wave of warm, golden light washed over Kael and Ronan, knitting flesh, mending cracked ribs, and soothing the fire in their lungs. Catherine stood behind them, her hands glowing, her face serene and unbreakable. “The party is all here,” she said, her quiet voice a promise.

High on a nearby ridge, Lord Abrexis watched through a spyglass, his face a mask of triumphant rage turning to pure, sputtering fury. "No... impossible! Traitors! All of them!" His shock turned to chaos as a new sound filled the air—a cavalry charge, from his flank. A company of knights in gleaming silver and blue, flying the personal banner of the Crown Princess, crashed into his command line. At their head, in polished steel armor astride a white charger, was Princess Leora. And from the other flank, a smaller, deadlier force appeared: three figures in black and silver, carving through his war mages. At their lead was Captain Valeria.

On the battlefield, Leora galloped through the chaos, reining in her horse before the reunited party. She raised her visor, her eyes blazing. “Sorry I’m late,” she said to Kael. “It is treason, I’ve found, to rally soldiers who value loyalty over fear.”

At the same time, Valeria and her two lieutenants approached with predatory smiles. She wiped a spot of blood from her cheek, her eyes locked on Kael. “Kael Ardyn,” she purred. “I told you to expect more of me.”

Kael pushed himself to his feet, Ronan’s hand steadying him. He was surrounded by his shield, his eyes, his mind, and his heart. He was surrounded by his princess and a dangerous, unpredictable new ally. The odds were still nearly ten thousand to a handful. But for the first time in a long, long time, Kael Ardyn smiled.