EOIN
They come not with the roar of a traditional army, but with the silence of falling snow. A dozen dark shapes detach themselves from the morning sun, descending upon Haven in a coordinated, lethal storm. The Crimson Wing. Even from the height of the battlement, I can see the brutal, effortless grace of their movements. They are a manifestation of Vrakken perfection, and they have come to sterilize my world.
Beside me, Elza shouts commands, her voice sharp and clear, a queen marshalling her people against a tidal wave. Arrows fly from the walls, a volley of cold iron tips I advised her to forge. Most are deflected by Vrakken armor or dodged with impossible speed. A few find their mark, eliciting surprised grunts but doing little to slow the assault.
The defenders of Haven are brave. They meet the descending warriors with shields locked and spears braced. They fight with the ferocity of people defending their home, their families. And they die with that same ferocity.
The Crimson Wing are not soldiers; they are reapers. They move through the defenders like a scythe through wheat, their blades a blur of silver, their movements a synchronized dance ofdeath. They do not waste energy. They do not gloat. Each motion is a precise, economical calculation designed to end a life.
And I watch.
A part of me, the Enforcer that has served the Matriarch for millennia, watches with a cold, tactical detachment. My old instincts scream at me.The mission has changed. The objective is now to protect the specimen. The Crimson Wing will retrieve it. Your interference is illogical. Step aside.My duty is to my race, to the cure that will save us from The Fading. That cure is embodied in a small boy with silver hair who is, at this moment, huddled in the undercroft below. The Matriarch’s plan, though treacherous, will achieve the objective.
I track the battle, my gaze sweeping over the chaos of the courtyard. I see three Vrakken break from the main assault, their movements purposeful. They are the extraction team. They head for the entrance to the keep, where the path to the undercroft—and Lyren—lies. My jaw tightens.
My gaze finds Elza. She is no longer on the wall but in the thick of the fighting below, a whirlwind of desperate, furious motion. A soft, golden light pulses around her hands as she throws up shields of Purna magic, deflecting blows that would have killed her. She ducks under the swing of a Vrakken war blade, her dagger flashing as she scores a shallow, useless cut along its thigh. She is outmatched, a candle flame trying to hold back a blizzard, but she does not retreat. She does not surrender. She fights for her people. For her son.
The Enforcer in my mind observes her with cold calculation.She is a liability. The source of the contamination. Her elimination is a necessary part of the Matriarch’s plan.
But another part of me, a new, feral thing that has taken root in my soul, is not listening. It is focused entirely on her, a low, possessive growl building in my chest. It watches every warrior that gets near her, every blade that swings in her direction.
I see it happen as if the world has slowed to a crawl. The leader of the Crimson Wing, a massive Vrakken named Kael whose cruelty is legendary even among our kind, tires of the game. He backhands her Purna shield, the raw force of the blow shattering it like glass. He disarms her with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, her dagger flying through the air to clatter uselessly on the cobblestones.
He corners her, pressing her back against the cold stone of the forge wall, the very wall whose rhythmic clang has become the heartbeat of her sanctuary. He raises his blade, the tip coming to rest directly under her chin, tilting her head back.
He looks at her not with rage or lust, but with the cold, empty disinterest of an exterminator ending a pest.
And in that instant, ten thousand years of duty, of logic, of cold, hard apathy, turn to dust and blow away in the wind.
The sight of another male—another Vrakken—with his hands on her, his blade to her throat, is a reality my soul will not accept. The logic is not just infuriating; it is irrelevant. All that matters is the singular, possessive roar that erupts in the silent, walled-off chambers of my mind, a roar that annihilates every other thought, every other mission, every other loyalty.
Mine.
My stillness shatters.
I do not jump from the battlement. I fall. A blur of silver hair and black wings, dropping into the chaos of the courtyard below. I land with a ground-shaking impact that cracks the cobblestones, my own blade already in my hand.
The Vrakken nearest me turns, his eyes widening in shock at my betrayal. He does not have time to raise his weapon. I move past him, and my blade draws a clean, crimson line across his throat.
I am not fighting. I am slaughtering.
The cold, precise movements of the Enforcer are gone, replaced by a fury so absolute, so biblical, it shocks even me. I tear through my own kind, a force of nature unleashed. I am not just killing them; I am erasing them, my movements a symphony of brutal, overwhelming violence. A Vrakken lunges, and I break his arm with my free hand before driving my blade through his chest. Another comes at me from behind, and I spin, my wing striking him with enough force to send him flying into a wall, his armor crumpling like parchment.
Kael turns from Elza, his eyes wide with disbelief. He has no time to react. I am on him, a silver and black whirlwind of death. His blade comes up to parry, but I shatter it with a single, furious blow. My hand closes around his throat, lifting him from the ground, his feet kicking uselessly in the air.
I look into the eyes of the warrior who dared to touch what is mine, and I let him see the monster he has awakened. Then, with a final, vicious twist, I snap his neck and cast his body aside.
Silence falls over the courtyard, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the ragged sound of my own breathing. The surviving members of the Crimson Wing, what few are left, stare at me in horror before taking to the air, retreating.
I stand over Kael’s body, my chest heaving, my blade dripping with the blood of my kin. Elza is at my back. I can feel her, her warmth, her shock, her terror. The strong psychic link between us is no longer a hum of confusion or a storm of passion. It is a blazing, solid cord of shared battle-fury and fierce, undeniable connection.
The choice is made. The line is crossed.
I have just declared war on my Matriarch, my people, and my entire world.
19
ELZA
