It erased the volley in mid-air. Wood and iron didn't just burn; they vanished. Evaporated into mist before they could scratch a single scale. The blast punched through the cloud of arrows and continued downward, turning the world to negative space.
It hit the vanguard.
There were no screams. There wasn't time.
Metal didn't melt; it vaporized. The front line of the King's army simply ceased to exist. The heat hit us a second later, a physical wall that shoved me back against Eryndor’s chest, singeing the air from my lungs.
The dragon swept its head. A scythe of violet fire carving a line of utter destruction through the ranks.
The King's army—the disciplined, terrifying force that had hunted us for days—broke.
Panic. Absolute, primal terror.
Soldiers dropped their weapons and ran. Horses reared, throwing their riders, trampling men in their desperation to get away from the apex predator.
Dreadscale didn't let up.
The dragon launched itself into the air, the downbeat of its wings hitting the basin like a concussive blast, knocking a dozen soldiers flat. It banked hard, circling back, a shadow of death raining fire from above. He was laying down a persistent wall of flame that severed the main road. He was sealing the perimeter, holding back the flood of reinforcements so we could finish this.
Maxx was suddenly beside me—blood on his cheek, a loyalist's blade still dripping in his hand. He looked between the dragon and Eryndor with a smirk, and slapped him on his back.
"Good luck competing withthat, Soulbinder."
Eryndor didn't dignify that with a look. He pivoted, his blade taking the legs out from under a fleeing officer.
But the move cost him.
He faltered on the recovery, his boot slipping in the mud. His hand flew to his wound for a split second—a reflex of pain he couldn't hide—before he forced himself upright.
"Focus, Shadow-thief," he gritted out, his voice tight and breathless. "Or I’ll let the next one hit you."
I laughed, but the sound died in my mouth when I saw the sheen of cold sweat on his forehead.
A crack of shattering glamour snapped my head left.
Maxx.
A hulking guard bore down on him—too big, too armored, and moving with grim purpose.
Maxx braced. But the guard didn't slow. Didn't even look at him.
He swung a heavy, plated fist past Maxx—toward Serenya.
She was huddled behind a glyph-ward, scry-notes clutched in her hands.
Maxx threw himself between them.
The blow caught him across the shoulder. I heard the crack from ten feet away. He staggered, face contorted, but stayed on his feet.
"Now you're indebted to me, priestess," he gasped, swaying like a drunkard. Then winked.
Serenya raised an eyebrow in challenge.
Her hand went to her mirrored token. Her lips moved—Old Tongue, barely a whisper.
The air around the guardwarped.
His armor groaned. Twisted. The plates that had protected him suddenly constricted, crushing inward, binding his arms to his sides. The metal remembering how it was made. Reversing order. He roared, thrashing, but the metal held him like a fist.
