Chapter 33 - The Hour of Ryn’s Death

  Ariel ran.

  Tonight she had seen the city she called home—every street she had walked, every stone that had shaped her childhood…consumed by fire and invaded by strangers. Solvara, the jewel her mother had defended until her last breath, was collapsing before her eyes.

  As she stumbled through the smoke, dragged forward by Ryn’s iron grip, she wanted, desperately, to believe it was only a nightmare. Yes, a dream. Any moment she would wake, and the palace walls would be standing whole, and the streets would still ring with the laughter of her people. Lilia’s pained expression would vanish, her trembling legs would steady, and this horror would fade like mist at dawn.

  But the smell of blood clung to her nostrils. The crackle of fire filled her ears. Her skin stung with the heat of burning stone. No matter how hard she tried, the truth pressed down on her: this was no dream.

  This was her life—all seventeen years of it—being erased before her eyes. The city her mother died to protect was vanishing, and she was powerless to stop it.

  Her grip on Ryn’s hand tightened until her knuckles whitened. She couldn’t bear to release him. If she did, she feared he too would vanish into the ruin, another name swallowed by Solvara’s fall.

  That was why, when Ryn suddenly stopped, a jolt of unease shot through Ariel’s body. Cold sweat prickled the back of her neck, trickling down her spine.

  She dared to raise her gaze from the ground for the first time since they had started running. Her heart already thudded in her throat, but when she saw what had halted Ryn, her body recoiled on instinct. She staggered back, nearly falling if not for Ryn’s grip still clamped around her hand.

  In front of them stood a figure she wished she would never see again.

  The Prince of Varghelm.

  His silver hair flowed softly in the night wind, his hollow eyes fixed on them—on her. And in his hands, dangling as if they weighed nothing, were two severed heads. One in each arm, gripped mercilessly by the hair.

  Ariel’s stomach turned to stone.

  She knew those faces—faintly. They were among the eleven knights who had hidden with them. She did not even remember their names, but that familiarity, that recognition, made the sight unbearable. Her lungs seized; she could not breathe. Each desperate attempt to draw air felt like choking.

  Beside her, Lilia let out a shallow, broken whimper, the sound of a child unable to comprehend what stood before her.

  Ryn’s grip on Ariel’s hand tightened like a vice, but it did little to steady her. Her knees trembled, threatening to give way beneath her.

  How had he gotten there? How had the Prince appeared right in front of them without a sound?

  The air thickened under his presence, crushing, suffocating. Ariel’s breath grew ragged, each inhale more frantic than the last. Her body screamed to run, but her legs would not obey. She was trapped, trapped under that hollow gaze that promised nothing but death.

  It was terrifying. Terrifying in a way words could never carry.

  Ryn shoved her back, his voice breaking through the night, telling her to stay behind him, telling Lilia to protect her. His mouth was moving, shouting something, but the words rang hollow in her ears. All she heard was a dull roar, like the pounding of war drums inside her skull.

  Her thoughts scattered. The memory of Ryn’s last battle tore through her, of his body bloodied and broken. And now—now he stood again before this monster.

  Why?

  Why was this happening?

  Her chest heaved, air tearing in and out like knives. Why? Why us? Solvara had done nothing—nothing! They were a peaceful nation, barely even defended, with no apostles, no blessings, no armies to wage war. They posed no threat. Without Sol’s apostle, they were nothing.

  So why?

  Why burn the city? Why slaughter the people? Why crush the only life she had ever known beneath armies of blessed?

  The questions slammed through her like waves, one after the other, until the ground itself seemed unsteady beneath her feet.

  And yet, no answer came, only the pale, terrible figure of the Prince, standing there with death in his hands, his gaze unblinking and fixed.

  The prince exhaled softly, his gaze never leaving Ryn.

  “I suppose this is goodbye, Sir Ryn,” he said, almost wistful. “It upsets me that you must die. You’ve endured more than I expected… you’ve impressed me.”

  His pale lips curved into something too delicate to be a smirk, too cold to be a smile.

  “I’m honored,” he whispered, raising his blade, “to be the one who slits your throat.”

  To Ariel’s shock, it was Ryn who lunged first.

  He moved fast, so fast her eyes could barely follow, faster than any mundane human who should still be bleeding and broken. For an instant she thought—hoped—he might actually reach the prince.

  But the prince was faster. Much faster.

  He didn’t flinch, didn’t even shift his stance. The severed heads slipped from his grasp, tumbling to the stones with a dull thud. His free hand rose almost lazily, and with a sound like ice cracking, Ryn’s sword splintered into shards before it could even touch him.

  Ryn didn’t falter. Even with his sword shattered, he didn’t step back—he only shifted his grip, twisting the jagged remnant forward, desperate to drive it past the prince.

  The prince moved as though it were nothing. A single sidestep, his silver hair rippling like silk in the firelight, and his hand closed around Ryn’s arm.

  A vicious crack split the air.

  Ryn’s scream tore from his throat as his arm bent the wrong way, bone snapping under the prince’s grip.

  But he didn’t linger on the pain. He twisted under the prince’s hold, driving his weight into a desperate kick aimed for the man’s ribs.

  The prince only tilted his head, almost curious, letting the strike slice harmlessly past. His expression never shifted, but he released Ryn’s arm all the same, as though the boy’s resistance amused him.

  “How unforgettable.”

  The words rolled from the prince’s tongue like silk, but beneath them coiled something sharp, hungry. His pale eyes lingered on Ryn, unblinking.

  “Why is it, every time we cross paths, I find it impossible to believe you’re only a mundane human?” His tone was almost thoughtful, as though weighing Ryn like a specimen. “Faster… stronger than most Blessed I’ve seen at the academy. And still so young.”

  Then his face twisted. The elegance cracked into something grotesque, lips stretching into a smile so unnatural, Ariel felt her breath catch.

  Cold ran down her spine, her knees weak.“A prodigy,” the prince whispered, voice trembling with delight.

  “Yes… Yes!” The word broke into a laugh, jagged and wrong.

  “Show me your strength, Sir Ryn.”

  Ryn didn’t answer.

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  He simply moved—a blur of speed he shouldn't have possessed. His broken blade flashed, every strike aimed to kill, his boots driving in kicks, knees, blows meant for the prince’s throat, heart, and skull. Each movement was precise, desperate, lethal.

  The prince flowed around them all. Not once did his hair shift out of place. Not once did his smile falter. He dodged with inhuman ease, every failed strike making Ariel’s chest clench tighter.

  “No,” the prince murmured, almost bored.

  “This won’t do.”

  For the first time, he retaliated. His foot slammed into Ryn’s chest. The sound of impact cracked through the air, and Ryn went tumbling across the corpse-littered marble, rolling to a bloody stop.

  Ariel’s breath hitched. Lilia clutched her sleeve, both frozen in horror.

  The prince raised one pale hand, his other moving across it in delicate, practiced motions. Sparks bloomed, gathering into light. Before their eyes, steel was born—an immaculate blade, its surface glowing faintly as if it had been forged from the air itself.

  He twirled it once, then tossed it lightly, the sword clattering at Ryn’s feet.

  “Take it,” the prince said, his voice smooth.

  “Try again.”

  Ryn didn’t answer. His breath was ragged, chest heaving, but he bent, snatched up the conjured blade, and raised it His stance was raw,born not from training but from sheer necessity.

  The prince mirrored him with elegance, one hand clasped behind his back, his sword resting lazily at his side. He didn’t look like a man about to duel. He looked like a teacher humoring a child.

  Then Ryn charged.

  Steel screamed as the blades collided. Sparks burst in the dark. Ryn’s strikes came fast, desperate—overhead slashes, low cuts at the legs, a sudden thrust at the throat. Each one was wild yet driven by a primal will to kill. His face was streaked with blood and sweat, his teeth clenched so hard they might crack.

  But the prince flowed.

  A sidestep here, a tilt of the head there. Each dodge was graceful, deliberate, almost lazy. And when he chose to counter, it was vicious. His blade struck Ryn’s ribs, glancing off the borrowed armor, but the force drove him stumbling. Another cut traced his thigh, shallow but burning. A third blow slammed into his shoulder, leaving it numb.

  None of them fatal.

  All of them cruel.

  “Harder,” the prince breathed, his smile widening. His voice rang soft but clear, rising above the clash of steel like a hymn.

  “Show me more.”

  Ryn answered with silence, spinning into a reckless flurry. He struck again and again, his arms shaking, his legs trembling, yet he refused to fall. Each failed strike cost him more blood, more strength.

  The prince’s laughter split the air. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t even joyful. It was the laugh of someone delighted, as though every cut he delivered was a gift.

  “You truly are a genius, Sir Ryn!” the prince cried, parrying another desperate slash. His silver hair glimmered in the firelight, unruffled, his pale face radiant and serene, like an angel smiling as he dismantled a mortal.

  Ryn pressed on, faster, harder, until every swing of his blade left red droplets in the air. His vision blurred, his chest burned, but his feet moved anyway. For his duty…

  This wasn’t a duel.

  It was a dismantling.

  And still, Ryn refused to stop.

  Ariel watched it all—though every part of her wished she didn’t.

  She couldn’t look away.

  Ryn was a blur of blood and steel, his body carved open one cut at a time. His borrowed armor cracked, torn, and dented, barely clinging to him. Every strike the prince landed made him fold for a heartbeat—and every heartbeat, he rose again.

  His sword trembled in his hands, his face pale and streaked with crimson, but he kept fighting, kept throwing himself at a man who wasn’t even trying.

  And she saw the cost.

  She saw his shoulders sagging, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the tremor in his legs that said he couldn’t stand much longer.

  He was going to die.

  He was going to die protecting her.

  Ariel’s lungs locked. The world seemed to dim, her vision tunneling on the boy in front of her who kept standing up when he should have stayed down. Her stomach churned. Her hands shook so violently she nearly dropped to her knees.

  The clash drew closer; sparks leapt between them, lighting Ryn’s face for an instant.

  This is my fault, she thought, the words screaming in her skull even as her lips stayed still.

  All of it. Ryn. The knights. Lilia. Solvara itself.

  Everywhere she looked, she saw fire and ruin, bodies crumpled in the streets, banners torn, stones blackened. The markets she’d walked, the temples she’d prayed in, the balconies she’d leaned from, were dying in front of her eyes. And Ryn, bent and bloodied, was the last pillar left holding it up.

  Her throat closed around a sob. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, but it didn’t stop the sound. Tears blurred her vision until the prince’s silver hair and Ryn’s blood became one smear of color.

  He was going to die for her. They all were. And she was powerless, just watching it happen, choking on guilt that felt heavier than the fire-choked air.

  If only she had awakened her blessing.

  If only she had something.

  That thought cut through her as Ryn’s scream tore the air apart. She saw it—the prince’s hand closing over Ryn’s mangled arm, pulling as if he meant to rip it off. The sound it made was wrong, like cloth tearing, like a rope fraying until it snapped.

  She flinched.

  Ariel’s vision swam. She couldn’t breathe.

  Ryn staggered, countering desperately with the pommel of his blade, but the strike went wide. The prince moved with unsettling ease, hammering mailed fists into his chest again and again until she swore she heard the crack of ribs shattering, then a final, merciless kick sent him crashing across the floor.

  “Ryn!” Lilia’s scream cut through the night.

  He didn’t rise immediately. For a heartbeat, Ariel prayed—stay down, please, please stay down, don’t get up, don’t throw yourself away. Her throat burned, the words rising but catching in her chest.

  And then he moved.

  Slowly, impossibly, his broken body dragged itself upright. His arm hung at a sick angle, bones jutting, blood streaking down his side. Every breath sounded like knives carving into his lungs. He leaned on his sword as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

  Ariel’s heart broke. Tears welled until she could barely see. Her nails bit into her palms as she tried to force the words out—stop, run, live. But she knew he wouldn't, Ryn only stood there, face obscured by ash and blood, no different from a corpse, and yet still refusing to fall.

  Her knees gave way. She covered her mouth with trembling hands, but the sobs tore through anyway, ragged, pitiful.

  Her hands trembled as she reached for him, for the light, the warmth she’d always believed would answer when she prayed. She called for it again, harder this time, her voice breaking.

  “Please… please!”

  But nothing came.

  No warmth.

  No light.

  Her breath hitched, tears cutting through the soot on her face.

  “Why won’t you answer?” she choked out, her voice raw. “Why won’t you ever answer!?”

  Only the hollow weight of her own voice echoed back at her.

  The silence felt cruel, like the world itself had turned away.

  Only the burning air, the smell of ash, and Ryn standing alone against the dying ligh remained.

  “Ryn… please… please don’t…” Her voice cracked, shattered, begged.

  But he heard nothing.

  He spat blood, shoved himself forward, and charged.

  The prince swatted him aside like nothing. Ariel’s body jolted as if the impact had struck her. She wanted to close her eyes, to turn away, but she couldn’t—her gaze was chained to him.

  Ryn rose again. Black hair plastered with blood, lips torn, face pale and hollowed, yet his grip clung to that ruined sword. Blows rained down on him, precise, cruel, but never killing. The prince was playing with him, dragging out the suffering—and that truth carved through her heart.

  death.

  The certainty was cold, absolute.

  And when he died, she would die. Lilia would die. Solvara would die.

  Ariel’s chest convulsed with sobs. She wanted to run forward, to scream until her lungs ripped apart, to throw herself between them—but she couldn’t move, frozen in terror, in guilt, in grief.

  Still, Ryn stood. He pushed his hair back with his nearly severed hand, his lips twisted, and he laughed.

  It wasn’t sane. It wasn’t triumph. It was raw, broken laughter, the kind that scraped against the walls of the dead city and made Ariel’s blood run cold. Blood dripped from his jaw, ash clung to his face, flames cast him in reds and golds, yet he laughed as though he could mock the world.

  Ariel’s chest caved in. Her nails tore deep into her palms, hot blood slicking her hands. She shook her head, sobbing until her throat burned, but the sound was drowned by the crackle of fire and the prince’s terrible silence. Stop. Please stop. You’ve done enough. You’ll die—you’ll die for me. For nothing. Don’t do this, please… Her cries became wordless, a broken scream tearing out of her lungs as if her soul itself was ripping.

  But he never heard. He never could.

  Ariel’s heart ached, heavy with pain she could no longer carry. She wanted to be free of it, so desperately it burned inside her.

  And then, with that same ruined body, with nothing left but stubborn will, Ryn gripped his sword one last time and charged.

  Ariel screamed

  Beneath the scream, something in her broke, and then, at last, there was light, a flash so sudden it seared the silver into smoke, and the world went white with it.