When Myraden sprinted into the hallway, Kythen was in trouble. She’d felt his wounds, but she hadn’t known how bad it was until she saw him. His white fur was nearly all red with the blood of himself and his enemies. He had turned sideways, blocking the hallway as best he could, and he kicked at Khara and her boar, keeping them at bay.

He knew she was coming, though. Turning forwards, he reared up on his back legs and lashed out with his front hooves. Khara dipped back, slinking out of the way, and the boar took a hit to the flank, skidding back along the hallway.

“Kythen, it’s alright,” Myraden told him in Íshkaben. “I’m here now. Rest.”

Thank you, he replied, bowing his head and trotting back.

Myraden vaulted overtop of Kythen, then lashed out with her spear. She aimed for Khara’s chest. She still wore her uniform—a Dominion wizard’s uniform—and it wouldn’t do any good against Myraden’s strikes. It was light leather, designed for mobility and to protect against mortals.

But Khara still had her sword. She deflected all of Myraden’s jabs, pushing them to one side or the other.

“A little extra speed won’t save you, Leursyn,” Khara snarled. Her boar leapt at Myraden, charging in beside. Myraden struck it with the blunt haft of her spear, flinging it into the wall. Kythen pounced on it and pinned it with his hooves. But Khara lashed out with a burst of boar Essence.

It struck Myraden in the gut, where her cuirass ended, and flung her down the hall. A thousand tiny tusks ripped her gambeson and scratched her, but she blasted it aside with her own burst of Essence to dispel it before it did any real damage.

Khara was right. Myraden needed an edge, and she needed it now.

She lifted her spear and spun it up ahead of herself. She’d held the weapon ever since she was ten years old, ever since her father died and passed it to her. It’d been in her family for centuries before then, just like the armour.

She should have had enough of a connection to it. She should have been strong enough.

A sword slashed, but a spear pierced. That was its single purpose—what they had assigned to it, and what she had to make the auras of the world believe it could do.

She tightened her fingers around the haft and imagined her father’s face going pale. His hands turned icy cold.

You are the last Cursebearer.

She had knelt on a stone-cold floor, weeping and crying and screaming when guards tried to drag her away.

Reignite the fire.

Presently, a single tear leaked out of her eye and fell on the spear. She knew its purpose—to peirce and thrust. To serve her family, to serve the sprites, and to save Sirdia.

A metallic shhhing rolled over the spearhead, and it gleamed bright even in the gloom of the hallway.

Lightning flashed and the facility rumbled, and she charged. On the first swipe, she pushed Khara’s sword down into the floor. But the spear didn’t want to swipe; it wanted to jab. She jabbed once, forcing Khara to push the spear to the side, then jabbed again, this time aiming for Khara’s blade.

Her spearhead went right through the sword’s fuller, shattering the blade. Khara leapt back. With another thrust, Myraden closed the distance. Khara threw out another blast of boar Essence, but Myraden’s Reign pierced through it, shattering it.

The last jab went straight through Khara’s chest. The boar squealed, and Khara gasped, then coughed out blood. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Myraden pulled away, ripping her spear free. Then, to ease Khara’s suffering, she spun around and slashed her spearhead through Khara’s neck. The woman fell to the side, dead on the spot. Her boar collapsed, and the golden tattoos on her flesh dimmed.

Myraden leaned on her spear, panting. “Kythen? Are you alright?” she asked in Íshkaben.

I will survive, he said. Though I may need Pirin’s help when we get back to the Featherflight. If we get back.

“We’ll get back,” Myraden replied. “We just need—”

Before she could finish, the windstones in the ceiling crackled and buzzed, then a voice seeped through.

“My name is Pirin.”

image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Nomad wore a smile as he faced down two Unbound Lords.

He controlled the wind currents with his Essence, holding himself up in the sky beside the landing platform and Lady Neria’s airship. He didn’t have the concentration available to keep the rain off him, and once he was wet, it didn’t really matter.

“You know,” he said, “we could just walk away. You go back to the Mainland, and we’ll head back to the Elven Continent, and we won’t have to do any of this song and dance.” He crossed his arms and his racoon-cat gave a mrrrrp. “Simple, really.” He projected his voice with a fortification technique—strengthening his voice-box with Essence.

“But you walk away with Lady Neria’s army!” Lord Three shouted back. He threw off his cloak, and his dragon-bat crawled up onto his bare shoulder.

“Doesn’t seem like a very fair deal,” Lord Two added. He kept his magenta cloak on, but pushed half of it to the side, revealing layered leather armour. “I will not take a deal that isn’t fair.”

“And you walk away with your lives!” Nomad shouted back.

“You think you can hold us both off?” Lord Three shouted.

“I think that, if I lose, there will be two wizards who are hungry for revenge,” Nomad called. He’d already sensed that both of his disciples had advanced. Now, Pirin was preparing to rally the Weavelings. They weren’t ready to face a Wildflame yet, but they were getting closer by the day.

“Your two disciples?” Lord Two scoffed. His scorpion Familiar clung to his wrist, and he unveiled a chain-scythe—a foot-long scythe on a chain. He spun it beside him. “You put too much faith in them.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Nomad shrugged. They hadn’t let him down so far, but he’d trained the Red Hand for years before the boy had let him down. “But you,” he pointed his flute-staff at Lord Two, “have unfinished business with the sprite.” Then, he looked at Lord Three. “And if you go along with Lady Neria’s plan to destroy Sirdia, you will have a very motivated black-haired elf on your tail.”

“And without your guidance, they won’t advance,” Lord Three said.

“Right then,” Nomad said. “Are we doing this or not?” He twirled his staff behind him, then used the wind to throw himself down at the airship. If he could destroy the ship, they would have no way of catching the Featherflight or the Weaveling transport fleet.

But he’d need to take the two Unbound Lords out of the fight eventually. He had a way, and there would be a price to pay.

It would be a small price to pay, but he couldn’t do it until he knew his disciples were safe and free.

Until then, he fought.

He swept his staff, and a blast of wind slashed along with it, smashing into the airship’s flank. A sail ripped free, but Lord Three launched a technique of blood-Essence to shatter it.

For the second time within a month, Wildflames clashed.

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“I have Lady Neria’s control dagger,” Pirin said. “This is the weapon she is holding over all of your heads. If you disobey, a single push of her thumb can inflict extreme pain and suffering upon you.” His thumb slipped up along the dagger, tempted to apply pressure to the gemstone just to see it activate and prove his point.

But that wouldn’t be proving anything.

“She might have to rest for a week after using it, but it’s barely a cost when it allows her to maintain control over such a powerful army.” He flicked the blade, letting the golden material ring out and resonate in front of the windstone. They’d probably heard it before.

“I am going to destroy it,” Pirin said. “I am going to free you all.”

He set the knife down on the counter, and for a moment, he pulled his mask off. His wind techniques cut out, and the stone deactivated, but the Weavelings in the atrium below—including the five he’d spared earlier—stared up at him.

For a second, he resisted. The dagger didn’t want him to destroy it, and he didn’t want to lose such a valuable tool.

Pirin… Gray warned, spreading her wings.

“I know,” he whispered.

He needed to prove himself to this army. He was stronger than that. He pulled back his arm, then drove a Shattered Palm into the knife’s blade. The Essence made the runes resonate just a touch, and the Weavelings below winced.

Pirin winced in sympathy, but he couldn’t stop now. A set of cracks ran along the blade of the dagger. He threw out two more Shattered Palms, each more powerful than the last, and finally, the dagger shattered.

It burst apart like a glass window, sending shards of golden metal skittering across the control room floor.

He opened his void pendant and took the shards. They’d be a valuable resource to carry, but he didn’t have all the shards. Even if he wanted to, he’d never be able to put the dagger back together.

He slid his mask back on, then approached the windstone and fuelled it again. “That was it. I destroyed the dagger. You’re all free.”

But none of the weavelings below moved. They stared up at him expectantly.

“If you want, leave. We’ll bring you to safety, and you can start a life wherever you please. But I have a proposition to make of you all.”

He paused for a moment, pondering his phrasing, then he said, “I am the King of Sirdia, and I am the last wizard-king in the north. As of this moment, Sirdia is the last country not under the boot-heel of the Dominion, and I want to keep it that way. We need an army, and you have trained your entire lives to fight. You know nothing else. If you want to put your skills to use, I could use your help.”

Is that the best you can do? Gray asked.

No, Pirin thought. It’s not.

“You were created for one purpose: to subjugate the people of the Mainland. Lady Neria built a slave army to assist her in her coup. But no longer. We’re going to free the world from the Dominion, and if you want to help us—help pick the rest of the world up and free them—then I humbly accept your sword. We can take everything back and set it right.”

The weavelings glanced at each other skeptically.

Pirin needed another push. “What do you have right now? If you stay with Lady Neria, she’ll cast you aside. And that’s if she doesn’t drop you into the sea first because she lost her fancy dagger and can’t assert her absolute will. That’s nothing. That’s barely an existence. Come with me, and I will give you purpose.

“To the ships. As quickly as you can, board them and set sail. We head northeast—to the Elven continent, and to your freedom.”