“And my cousin?”
“He’s joined Mathis and the Light cadre at the East entrance.”
Rylan nods as his eyes narrow as he mentally calculates and strategises as he takes stock of the magic wielders in front of him. “You four will come with me and Eirabella to the North Tower,” he orders, pointing at Thynara, Gelfroy, the Psyrixis’s second-in-command, Doran, and Master Gavrik. “The rest of you, move to the East Tower. You’ll take orders from Captain Corvane when you get there.” He nods to Grellor. “Captain Farran, you’ll check on the Western and Southern fronts; if they don’t need you, join Captain Corvane in the East.”
Grellor’s jaw twitches, obviously wanting to argue, wanting to stay to protect his friend and prince, but he doesn’t dare to say so. He simply bows to Rylan before thumping his fist against his chest, and then, surprisingly, gives me a short nod of his head before flinging himself down the West corridor. I hope it’s not the last time I’ll see him.
Rylan pauses, taking a step back to meet each of the Strength wielder’s eyes. “Remember who you are, and why you’re here. We’re not just fighting for stone and banners—we fight for every soul in this castle, every hope they hold onto. Aetherhold falls, and all of Celador falls. Show them what true strength looks like. We stand together, and we will not fail.”
A silent understanding passes between us all. Rylan holds his sword out in front of him, the gleam of its edge catching the firelight. One by one, the other Keepers place their weapons into the circle. I watch as he closes his eyes, his lips moving in a silent incantation. The air around us vibrates, and a shiver runs down my spine as the Keeper stones flare to life, each one blazing with its unique colour.
Rylan’s eyes snap open, fierce and resolute. “Morath be with you all. I will see each and every one of you after the battle.”
For a heartbeat, the world pauses, and I feel the weight of his words settle over me like a promise. He turns, nods to me, and we’re off again, surging into the fray toward the North Tower, the other four close behind us. The sound of pounding boots and the shouts of the wounded grow louder, and the chilled night air is a mix of smoke and iron.
Rylan’s command is absolute, his voice clear as he calls out orders to the guards we pass. Even in the chaos, he stands as a beacon, a force of certainty amid the madness. I watch him, imbued with power, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Here is the man who carries the weight of the realm on his shoulders, and yet he’s been nothing but unflinching and determined, an unconquerable post in human form.
We reach the North Tower, and the sight that greets us is a total frenzy—the front line of guards haphazardly holding back the attackers, rebels forcing their way past fallen debris, their faces lit with determination. I catch my breath, steel my nerves, and meet Rylan’s gaze one last time before we dive headlong into the fight.
“You ready?” he asks.
My only answer is the raising of my staff sky high.
FORTY-FIVE
Rylan
The North Tower’scourtyard is a deafening symphony of sound and motion. The guards are holding formation in a perfect shield wall, their bodies pressed tightly together, shields overlapping like scales to block the relentless push of the rebels. Sweat and blood glisten on their faces, resolve etched into every tense muscle.
But when they see me and my assembled group of Strength wielders, they part, making way for us to push to the front lines where the fiercest fighting rages. My heart thunders in my chest, the weight of command settling like iron in my veins. Bodies are scattered across the stone, some still, some writhing in pain. Eirabella makes a small, involuntary sound—a mixture of horror and despair—but when I look at her, there is no fear, only resolute determination.
“Remember, stay with me,” I say, my voice sharp over thenoise. “With you and Doran here, concentrating on water wielding, I’m going to concentrate on my other Strengths.”
Eirabella’s jaw tightens. “You should’ve brought the Terranir instead of Thynara and Gelfroy.”
“Trust me,” I say, meeting her eyes for a fleeting second before turning back to the battle. I raise my sword, flames licking along the blade, and shout, “For Celador!” The cry is echoed by the soldiers around us, a rallying call that charges the air with undeniable energy.
I surge forward, sword blazing, and unleash a torrent of fire into the mass of insurgents. They stagger back, shields raised too late as the searing heat scatters their formation. One soldier charges at me, a battle axe lifted high, eyes wild with fury. I parry his strike, the force jolting up my arm, and pivot, sweeping my leg out to knock him off balance. Before he can recover, I drive my sword into his side, the flames searing through his armour. He crumples, and I turn, just in time to see another assailant rushing at me with a spear.
I step aside, grabbing the shaft and yanking it forward. He stumbles, and I release a blast of flame that sends him reeling. Behind me, I hear Thynara’s voice, low and commanding. She stands back, eyes narrowed and lips moving as she murmurs incantations. The attackers closest to her falter, their eyes glazing over as if they’re caught in a trance, compelled by her sentient powers to turn on their own comrades. It gives us a precious few moments of respite.
The push and pull of battle is relentless. An insurgent with a scarred face lunges at me, blade swinging, and I sidestep, slicing through his defence with a quick pivot and thrust. The coppery scent of blood fills the air as another one charges, only to be met by a burst of flame that sends him sprawling.
Eirabella catches my eye for a heartbeat, her expression fierce as she ducks under a swinging blade, disarmingher attacker with a well-placed kick and using a stream of water to shove him back into the fray. Amidst the chaos, I watch her pause, just for a moment, to help a wounded guard struggling to his feet. She whispers something—words I can’t hear but that I know are laced with compassion—and I see the spark of hope in the man’s eyes before she turns back to the fight. That spark reminds me why we’re here, why we fight.
The battle surges again, and Doran yells something, his focus split as a barrage of arrows rains down from above. I lift my free hand, flames roaring up to meet the arrows, turning them to ash before they can pierce our ranks. But the effort costs me a second too long, and an insurgent wielding a wicked curved blade charges at my flank. Before I can react, Eirabella is there, water coiling around her like a living thing as she drives it into the enemy’s chest, sending him sprawling.
“You’re welcome, Celestaris,” she shouts over the noise, an obvious smirk on her lips.
Brat.
“Doran, hold the line!” I shout. Doran moves with muscle memory, water weaving in intricate, deadly patterns around him. He pushes back a cluster of enemy soldiers with a wave that crashes into them, sending bodies sprawling like ragdolls. But their numbers keep coming, a relentless tide of aggression.
Suddenly, I see another group surge towards him from the left, and my heart seizes. I’m about to move, flames surging at my fingertips, when Eirabella steps in. With a shout that rings clear and strong, she channels her power, a towering wall of water sweeping over the attackers and smashing them against the stone courtyard with unrelenting force. “Not today, pickledicks!” she yells, her voice carrying the conviction of a hundred warriors.
Doran’s eyes widen for a split second, and he shoots her a quick grin, nodding his thanks. Eirabella turns, meeting mygaze, panting but grinning, and gives me a nonchalant shrug. I shake my head, unable to keep the surge of pride and surprise from showing on my face.
This woman. I’d fucking kiss her breathless right now if we weren’t in the middle of a battlefield.
