Soren
Tauron screams my name, enraged, as I kick Nightspark and spur him forward into the fight. I bark out orders to the soldiers to cover Sari and her handmaid as I leave them behind, all of my focus on the war band.
Whoever they were fighting is gone now, leaving behind this small battalion of witches, but the moment I charge, riding Nightspark toward them like a monster of the Fates, they spring into action.
Screams rend the air as they cast their magic, arcs of light and power surging at me until the air around me is thick with it. I lift my sword toward my face, blocking what I can even as a ball of power as big as a fist strikes my shoulder. It glances off my armor but still does damage, a crater left behind on the iron plate.
When I lift my sword again, the muscles scream, but I ignore the pain and swipe at my enemy as they flock toward me in a swarm, the same battle plan they always have. Dozens of witches against a handful of high fae, their numbers are the only chance they have to win against us, but the magic in this group is stronger than the simple raiding parties I’ve been dealing with lately. It’s a timely reminder of the true threat they are, biding their time until we’re at our weakest before they go in for the kill.
Nightspark whinnies and rears as the ground around us lights up, the dead grass like a tinderbox the moment the magic hits it.
“Get Sari to the river,” I yell as I swing my sword again, grunting as it slices through the witch in front of me.
My injured shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, but my arm slowly begins to numb out, the pain pushed to the back of my mind as the swarm of our enemy rides around me. The markings on their faces glow black as they become an advancing wave of destruction.
The witches all hold swords of their own, pathetic in their technique but hard to fight off when there are so many of them. I hear my soldiers fighting around me and can only hope some have done as I've instructed and gotten Sari away to safety.
The screaming, ranting madness of the spells chanted in a foreign tongue blocks out all other sounds, and I'm forced to clear my mind of anything but the swing of my sword so I don’t get hit by their magic.
Swing, hack, stab, and block. I push Nightspark forward into the mass of bodies and use him as a weapon of his own, trampling witches as the magic bounces off the iron breastplate hung high around his neck.
Swing, block, hack, swing, the witches don’t even bother to lift their swords as they desperately throw their magic at me. They’re exhausted from their earlier battle, and their magic is depleted, stopped by the iron surrounding me. Limbs go flying as their screams drown everything else out. I fight through muscle memory and reflex alone, becoming nothing but cold rage even as my enemies' fury burns around me.
My senses scream, and I turn in my saddle just in time to raise my sword and impale the witch flinging himself at me, silver eyes manic and rolling with black spittle running down his chin. The black markings on his face throb with power, even as he chokes on his own blood. His limbs are still jerking in the throes of death when I yank my sword away, and the body drops from it and crunches as it hits the ground.
There's more jeering and yelling, and Tauron comes alongside me, swiping and maiming as he goes, cleaving the head off one of the raving witches with a single swing of his sword. The sapphire in the hilt glows with power as it absorbs the magic of the witch's blood, neutralizing it and sending it back into the earth. It’s the advantage of using my grandfather’s sword, passed down the Celestial bloodlines from the First Fae and infused with their power, now long forgotten.
We work together, and the last of the witches who swarmed me falls away from Nightspark, its chest cleaved open by my sword and its black blood oozing into the earth beneath us. I take stock of the situation.
Three of my soldiers stand with Tauron on foot as they deal with the remaining witches. Many were too injured to join the fray with no magic left to protect themselves.
With nothing more than a grimace on his face, Tauron works his way through them all, shoving his sword through their throats and into the cracked earth beneath them to sever the heads from their bodies, both hands grasping the hilt of his sword as he works. There’s a grim satisfaction etched across his face, even as he curses under his breath.
“A simple escort, you say, just getting the princess to the river. Nothing to worry about, no chance of an attack this close to Yris, and yet here’s an entire war band waiting at the bridge for us. Thank the Fates above we decided to bring the extra soldiers because, without them, I would’ve been forced to choose between my sobbing, terrified, cousin who wouldn't know which end of the sword to pick up or my impulsive, pig-headed cousin who rides headfirst into a raving mess of witches as though he isn't the heir to the throne of the Unseelie high fae, our future, and the only chance this kingdom has of getting out of this fucking mess!”
It's better to leave Tauron to his furious ranting than to reason with him, to point out to him that my death toll is a mountain of the strongest witches, whereas the soldiers we brought merely picked off the weaker ones who broke away from the rest.
I have never taken my position as the heir lightly, and if I wasn't so sure of my abilities, I would have been far more hesitant to throw myself into the fray.
Tauron’s lip curls at me, and he stabs a finger in my direction. “I don't want to hear it, Soren, don't tell me about the things that only you can do right now, because I will shove you out of that fucking saddle and beat you to death myself.”
Any other male would die for speaking to me like that, and a look around at the soldiers says they know it too, none of them meeting my eyes as Tauron fights to calm himself down.
I sheathe my sword, wincing at the blackened state of the blade, before I swipe the back of my glove across my forehead. “You’re lying, but it's good to know you care, cousin. If you’re so worried about me being your future king, then perhaps you should tone down some of the threats you’re throwing at me.”
It only enrages him further, the vitriol growing louder and more colorful as I walk Nightspark back to Sari and the group surrounding her.
Her eyes are red, and her makeup is smudged as she wipes furiously at her cheeks, tears in her voice as she snaps, “I thought you said it was safe, Soren. This doesn't look very safe to me.”
I shake my head at her and glance over my shoulder to be sure that Tauron and the other soldiers are getting back on their horses and heading this way. We won't be able to burn the dead until we’ve seen Sari safely across the bridge to her father, and it’s imperative we do that as quickly as possible.
“I said you were safe with me, cousin, not that the trip was safe. I wouldneversay that. There’s no path I could take you on in our kingdom during this war that is truly safe. There’s no castle you can live in that’s immune to this danger. The regent has worked very hard to shelter you from such things, but the truth is that, regardless.”
If the guard wasn’t standing with her, listening to our every word and untouched in his saddle as he never bothered to draw his sword, I would tell my cousin that the regent has crippled her by doing so. She was so unprepared for the witches today that she’s a danger to herself and everyone around her.
Even such a slight criticism of the regent would be twisted though, so instead, I command the soldiers to get back on the road to the bridge, and I direct Nightspark to walk calmly alongside Sari’s pony until her quiet sniffling eases up.
When we arrive at the bridge, a group of the regent’s guards are waiting for us, though my uncle himself is absent.
