And come they did. They no longer wasted time trying to conceal their intentions. Instead, they shot straight for the stage. For the defence minister, to be precise.

And Rifaq Nazir stood unflinching before his attackers, his posture tall and blade-straight.

Before they could get to him, however, they had to get through Ashwin and Ruban. And that was easier said than done. Battered but defiant, the two of them formed a wall between Rifaq and the Exiles. They fought like cornered predators on the knife-edge of exhaustion. Making the assailants pay dearly for every inch.

Ruban’s vision swam, the metallic tang of blood tainting his palate. The minutes bled into one another, each second thick with the crackling of energy, and the blood-curdling explosions that followed. His muscles screamed in protest, even as he forced his body to lunge, parry, and thrust.

Beside him, Ashwin was a blur of motion, energy crackling like thunder in his wake.

They moved in tandem, a whirlwind of glinting sif and raw, incandescent power unfettered by form. The cries of the crowd, the din of the other Hunters and Aeriels faded into the background. Replaced in Ruban’s consciousness by the singular, primal rhythm of attack and defense. Of survival.

A shell whistled past, and pain lanced through Ruban’s shoulder. It was overshadowed only by the sharper sting in his thigh, from some injury he hadn’t yet had the chance to inspect.

He ignored it all, his body numbed by the single-minded resolve that fueled him. He couldn’t let them get to Rifaq – and that was the only thing that mattered.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Then, with a sickening crunch, his sifblade sank into an Aeriel’s chest. Cleaving through flesh and bone, it slid straight through, the tip peeking out the other end.

And stuck.

Heart pounding desperately in his chest, Ruban tried to yank the blade out of the dead Aeriel’s body. It was no use. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched again. The sweat from his palm had turned the hilt slippery, hard to grip.

Close by, Ashwin was locked in his own duel – a storm of strikes and counterstrikes punctuated by explosive surges of radiant energy.

There wasn’t enough time to call for his attention, even if Ruban could bring himself to do so.

In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of flaring wings, tipped with red.

Ruban whirled, directing his gaze skyward. Still gripping the hilt of his sifblade, which refused to come unstuck. Time seemed to stretch as his eyes adjusted to the sight before him. As if reality held its breath for what was to come next.

Because Safaa had arrived.

The Aeriel queen hovered in the air, directly above the stadium. Her massive wings all but eclipsed the sun.

She flapped her wings once. Then again.

The air convulsed with a burst of unbridled energy.

Time decelerated as Ruban watched a shell coalesce in the palm of her outstretched hand. He dared not blink – the ball of energy taking shape and growing before his eyes.

Then, with a motion both precise and powerful, Safaa hurled the shell into the stadium. Aiming it at the stage.

Ruban blinked.

The queen’s energy-shell struck its target. All but incinerating the two Aeriels Ashwin had been fighting, like a wildfire consuming dry tinder.

The next second, Safaa flung another shell. Then another.

Within half a minute, all the Exiles in the stadium lay dead. Most of them charred beyond recognition. Smoking craters dotted the field surrounding the stage.

A few moments of stunned silence followed. Then, with a few rhythmic strokes of her massive wings, Safaa descended onto the field.