The thunderous din of battle echoed through the grounds surrounding the Royal Palace, each clash of steel and flare of spirit essence fueling the chaos.
Inka’s patience was fraying, his hands flexing on the hilts of his sickles as yet another wave of soldiers pressed toward him. He threw back his head, a snarl twisting his mouth as he bellowed, “If these ants keep pouring in, I’ll start a massacre!” he roared, his voice reaching Indral even through the crush of soldiers.
Indral’s amplified voice shot back, cold and disdainful. "Try it, and I’ll take your head myself. Don’t make the young master clean up your mess.”
Nashia, her sharp gaze flicking toward a particular figure, pointed a blood-slicked finger. “That brat’s giving me some weird looks—one of the Remington pups. I can see it with my Soul Vision. Hmm, cover for me, I'll go and gauge his eyes out.”
"Hold the damn exit," Indral barked. "None of us are going anywhere."
The knights of the royal guard charged in disciplined formation, their shields gleaming as they closed ranks against the trio’s blockade. Noblemen with hastily-donned armour followed, desperation rather than duty driving them into the fray. Behind them, the loyalist forces from Amberheart surged, unwilling to let their king’s rule end in flames.
The trio were pincered from both directions.
Only the three of them were sent here, not a single other Soulweaver, as the three Tier 5 Soulweavers were tenacious and wouldn’t die easily, the same couldn’t be said for the other Soulweavers Sullivan’s allies had to spare. The Tier 4 High Elders were still fighting in the castle and the majority of the Tier 3 Solweavers were over there as well. The rest had their own task to perform, leaving the heavy duty of blocking the Royal Palace to Inka, Indral and Nashia.
Normally, a thousand mundane soldiers, even thousands more, would have been no match for the three of them, as they could extinguish their weak souls instantly with a Soul Reaver technique. But they were bound by strict orders: no unnecessary bloodshed.
Amberfell bled heavily in this battle and would likely bleed more in the future, so the neutral forces had to be kept relatively unharmed.
Without Soul Reaver, however, indiscriminately killing beyond a certain point would exhaust their spirit essence quickly. And then they could be tackled by lesser Soulweavers.
And so, they had to split their focus, holding back the rising tide of reinforcements while continuing to secure the exits.
The soldiers continued to press forward, some led by Soulweavers who took advantage of the confusion, trying to break through the blockades at the palace gates. The knights of the royal guard joined the fray, rushing forward with well-honed skill and resolve, wearing down the three who fought to avoid spilling more blood than necessary.
Just as Inka’s patience reached its breaking point, a new force cut through the fray like a sudden storm. Kael and Bai Lanhua, along with a majority of their forces, burst from the western half of the noble district, ploughing through the reinforcements with a whirlwind of spirit-infused attacks, scattering the soldiers in their path. Kaede and Kie, accompanied by their men, joined from the eastern side, their arrival shaking the reinforcements, who stumbled under the onslaught. And from the Palace itself, the noblemen and ladies—disillusioned by King Leifstein’s faltering rule and desperate to salvage their fates—stormed the battlefield, their combined forces crashing into the loyalist reinforcements like thunder.
As flames consumed the outer walls and soldiers clashed in the courtyards, a quieter darkness took root in the palace gardens, where Edward’s ritual awaited its final sacrifice
Crown Prince Edward Remington cursed under his breath. “Where the hell is that bastard?”
Surrounded by three Tier 2 and one Tier 3 Soulweavers, his face twisted in frustration as he glared at the unfolding carnage. Before him, a large runic circle had been meticulously carved into the soil, its nine nodes emanating a dull glow in the smoky air. Edward’s sword tip, stained with earth, was still embedded in the soil, having just etched the final strokes of the circle.
Edward’s hands trembled slightly as he surveyed the final strokes of the circle. His ambition—no, his destiny—glowed as bright as the runes in the smoky air. For this, he would sacrifice anything, anyone.
At that moment, his aide arrived, flanked by three Tier 1 Soulweavers who dragged nine bound captives into the garden. Five men and four women, their faces were pale and fearful, each one a royal servant—some young, others weathered with age. One of the women held the hand of a young girl, barely six, her tiny face streaked with tears as she clung to her mother, trembling. The woman’s other hand rested gently on the girl’s head, even as her own tears fell silently, her gaze fixed on Edward with a mix of defiance and dread.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
He looked over them, lingering on the wide eyes of a young girl clutching her mother’s hand. His lips curled in satisfaction.
“The final pieces,” he muttered to himself, gesturing for the Soulweavers to position the prisoners inside the runic circle. The guards did as they were told.
“Do it,” he ordered, his voice as cold as the blood pooling beneath his feet. The cries of the dying were nothing but whispers in the march of his grand destiny. This moment would cement his victory, whatever the cost. The ritual would proceed, his ascension would follow, and the flames consuming the kingdom would forge a path only he would walk.
The Soulweaver guards moved in unison, their faces hardened with grim purpose as they beheaded each of the captives. The severed heads, expressions frozen in horror, were methodically placed onto the nine nodes of the runic circle. Blood poured freely from the bodies, pooling within the intricate lines and symbols of the array, filling the grooves and etching deep red paths that twisted toward the centre. The dark liquid moved like it was alive, pulsing with each beat, until it reached the outermost line of the circle and halted as if awaiting the final offering.
Crown Prince Edward took a deep, steadying breath. Without hesitation, he drew a thin ceremonial dagger and held it over his wrist. With a swift motion, he slit his skin, letting his own blood spill and mingle with that of the sacrifices. His blood snaked its way into the array’s centre, merging with the crimson pool in a violent surge. Edward’s face twisted with a fierce expression as he raised his arms and began to chant, his voice reverberating with unnatural force.
“In the name of the ancient pact, I Edward Remington, son of Liefstein Remington call upon you,” he intoned, his voice rising above the distant clamour of battle. Bound by my forefather’s blood—the Flame Saint’s blood—I invoke our ancient covenant, forged in the light of the First Fire. You, who are banished, are now commanded to protect me and my kin from the calamity that befalls us!”
The runes began to shimmer as he spoke, emitting a dark, ominous glow. Edward’s voice grew louder, resonating with ancient power, each syllable seeming to etch itself into the very fabric of reality.
“By the sacrifice to satiate your hunger, by the blood of the Remington Clan, fulfil your oath! Rise from your banishment and obey my will!!”
He repeated the incantation, his words growing harsher and more insistent as the ritual continued. The ground beneath the circle began to tremble, a faint rumbling that grew in intensity with every word. The severed heads and bodies, once still, started to dissolve, melting into the blood, which itself began to bubble and boil. The liquid darkened, shifting from red to a dense, ink-like black, radiating a sickening energy that made even the seasoned Soulweavers step back.
The blood began to emit smoke, and the air grew thick with the scent of iron and decay. Edward took a final, shuddering breath before he uttered the last words of the invocation, his voice carrying an edge of desperation and command.
“Answer me, Guardian of the Remington bloodline! Rise and shield your masters!”
The moment his last word left his lips, the boiling blood surged upward, writhing and twisting as if forming a shape of its own. Suddenly, a tear appeared in the sky above the circle, a rift splitting reality itself. The fabric of the air was torn asunder, and from within the void, a massive, razor-sharp claw emerged, forcing the rift open wider, pushing aside the sky itself with sheer power.
Through the gap, the creature emerged. A colossal Silver Gryphon, the stuff of legends—but in reality, far more fearsome, majestic, and deadly. Its golden beak was sharp, glinted with a predatory light, and its talons glowed with an ethereal sheen. Its eyes blazed like molten gold, burning with an ancient fury. It spread its silver wings, each feather honed to a razor’s edge, a promise of blood and death.
It let out a piercing screech, a sound that tore through the battlefield like a living force, shaking the very souls of those who heard it. Its presence descended upon the palace grounds, bringing an invisible pressure that crushingly swept through the crowd. Every living being felt its weight—a suffocating force that bore down on them, demanding submission.
The creature once dismissed as a Remington family’s made-up legend, crafted to ward off enemies and bolster their vain pride, now stood before them.
The mundane soldiers, caught entirely unprepared for such a sight, collapsed under pressure. Their faces drained of colour, and they fell flat to the ground, paralysed with terror. Even the Tier 1 Soulweavers were forced to their knees, gasping for breath, while the Tier 2s struggled to remain upright, their movements slowed as though weighted by chains. Tier 3 and Tier 4 Soulweavers, though able to remain standing, found their bodies frozen in place, an instinctive fear gripping them and preventing them from even looking directly at the terrifying creature above.
The nobles who had sided against the Remington Clan began to curse their own choices, their faces pale as the weight of their impending doom settled upon them. They now felt the sting of regret as they realised the true power hidden behind the Remington insignia.
Inka, Indral, and Nashia, the three assassins who had fought countless battles and faced powerful enemies without flinching, seemed unaffected on the surface. But their faces held deep frowns, each one marked by a grim line of tension. Though their souls were shielded by their own spirit essence, they could feel the sheer might of the Silver Gryphon pressing down on them—a silent, looming threat that gnawed at their confidence.
Hovering above the palace, the Gryphon’s gaze swept over the battlefield, its golden eyes radiating an ancient fury. Though it directed its power at no one in particular, the pressure was enough to freeze all but the strongest in place. Edward felt a twisted sense of satisfaction as he looked upon the summoned Guardian, knowing the ritual had succeeded. The Remington bloodline was safeguarded, and its shield against calamity was restored.
The crown prince, who had been spared from the pressure, let out a satisfied grin as he raised his hand, basking in the overwhelming force that now answered his will.
“The calamity that dared to rise against our family shall now meet its doom,” Edward declared, his voice filled with cold, ruthless satisfaction. “With you, Guardian, none shall lay waste to the Remington line.”
But as Edward spoke, the gryphon’s gaze flickered, a glint of something ancient and untamable stirring in its molten eyes. For a fleeting moment, it regarded him—not as master, but as something insignificant, something beneath it.