Sven glanced over his shoulder.
The Lightner wasn't pursuing. He remained slumped, dazed, seated amid shattered wood. Sven could barely make him out, head lowered.
Maybe he'd done more damage than expected.
Or maybe…
Sven froze.
He thought of the fleeing man's lowered head, his obscured face. The Lightner still wasn't coming after him. He was too skilled. They said few swordsmen could rival Gravok, King of the Unified Tribes.
Could it be…?
Sven turned on his heel and ran, trusting his instincts. The moment the Lightner saw him returning, he rose swiftly. Sven dashed toward him. What was safer for the king? Fleeing with guards? Or left behind, disguised as a mere bodyguard in Soulplate armor?
Clever, Sven thought, as the once sluggish Lightner resumed a combat stance. Sven attacked with renewed ferocity, his Soulblade a blur. The Lightner—the king—responded with wide, aggressive arcs. Dodging one of them, Sven felt the wind from the swing brush his skin. Then, with precise timing, he ducked low and lunged, sliding beneath the king's counterstrike.
Expecting another strike to the flank, the king covered the damaged area with his arm and turned. It gave Sven just enough space to slip past him into the royal chambers.
The king moved to pursue, but Sven, dashing through the lavishly furnished room, touched the furniture, infusing each piece with soulight and projecting them back toward the doorway. Sofas, chairs, and tables toppled as though the room had turned sideways.
They crashed toward the stunned king. Gravok made the mistake of trying to cut them down with his Soulblade. Though the blade sliced cleanly through a large divan, the fragments still struck him, staggering his stance. A footstool hit next, knocking him off balance and to the floor.
Gravok rolled clear of the falling furniture and surged forward, Soulplate venting light from its cracked seams. Summoning all his remaining strength, Sven jumped, projecting himself backward and to the side just as the king advanced. He dodged a swing, then projected forward twice in quick succession. Soulight streamed from his body, icing over his clothes as he shot toward the king at twice the speed of a normal fall.
The king's posture betrayed his surprise as Sven halted midair, then launched straight at him, striking. His Soulblade crashed into the king's helmet, then Sven immediately projected upward, smashing hard into the stone ceiling. With so many abrupt shifts in direction, his body had lost its sense of orientation—graceful landings were no longer possible. He staggered as he tried to rise.
Below, the king stepped back into a defensive stance, sword raised. His helmet cracked, leaking soulight. Guarding his exposed flank, he thrust upward with one hand. Sven immediately projected downward, banking on the king not being able to withdraw the blade in time.
Sven had underestimated him.
The king accepted the hit, trusting his helmet to absorb the blow. When Sven struck the helm a second time—shattering it—Gravok punched him in the face with his free, gauntleted hand.
A burst of light exploded in Sven's vision, followed by sudden, brutal agony.
Pain. So much pain.
He screamed, soulight bleeding from him rapidly as he crashed into something hard—the doors to the balcony. More pain raced across his shoulders like a hundred knives driving in. He collapsed, rolled, and stopped, muscles trembling. That strike would have killed an ordinary man.
No time for pain. No time for pain. No time for pain.
He blinked and shook his head. The world was dark and blurry.
Was he blind?
No. It was nighttime. He was on the wooden balcony. The force of the punch had hurled him straight through the doors. Muffled sounds. Heavy footsteps. The Lightner!
Staggering and half-blind, Sven rose. Blood poured down his face. Soulight pulsed from his skin, blinding his left eye. The light would heal him, if it could. His jaw felt misaligned. Broken?
He dropped his Soulblade.
A flickering shadow moved ahead—Gravok's armor had lost so much light that the king could barely walk. But he was still coming.
Sven cried out, knelt, and infused soulight into the balcony beneath him. He projected it downward. The air froze around him. The storm howled through his arms and into the wood. He projected again. And again. When Gravok stepped onto the balcony, Sven projected it a fourth time. The wood groaned under the added weight.
The Lightner hesitated.
Sven projected a fifth time. The supports cracked. The entire structure tore away from the building. Despite his broken jaw, Sven screamed and used his last scrap of soulight to launch himself sideways, past the stunned Lightner. He reached the wall and rolled.
The balcony gave way beneath the king, who stared upward, off balance. The fall was fast. In the moonlight—though blind in one eye and with blurred vision—Sven solemnly watched the structure crash down below. The palace wall trembled with the impact, and the sound of shattered wood echoed across the nearby buildings.
Still clinging to the side of the palace, Sven groaned and stood. He felt drained—he had used his soulight too quickly, taxing his body to the edge. Barely able to remain standing, he staggered down the wall, approaching the wreckage.
The king was still breathing, though shallowly. The Soulplate would have protected a man from such a fall—but a large, bloody wooden beam protruded from Gravok's side, piercing the very spot where Sven had cracked the armor earlier.
Sven knelt and studied the man's face—tense with pain. Strong features. Square jaw. A black beard streaked with white. Notable pale green eyes. Gravok, King of the Unified Tribes.
"I… was expecting… you," the king rasped.
Sven reached beneath the armor, searching for the straps. He undid them and removed the pieces, exposing the gemstones within. Two were shattered and dark. Three still glowed. Numb, Sven took a deep breath, drawing in their light.
The storm returned. More light flared from his cheek, slowly restoring skin and bone. The pain remained. Healing with soulight was never immediate. Hours would pass before he truly recovered.
The king coughed.
"Tell… Raydakar… he was too late…"
"I don't know who that is," Sven said, rising. His broken jaw made it difficult to speak clearly. He reached out and summoned his Soulblade.
The king frowned. "Then who…? Rekares? Sabreas? I never thought…"
"My masters are the marsedians," Sven said.
Ten heartbeats later, the Blade appeared in his hand, dripping with condensation.
"The marsedians? That makes no sense." Gravok coughed again and reached shakily into a chest pocket. He pulled out a small crystal sphere, suspended from a chain.
"Take this. They must not get it." He seemed dazed. "Tell… tell my brother… he must find the most important words a man can say…"
Gravok went still.
Sven hesitated, then knelt and picked up the sphere. It was strange—unlike anything he'd seen. Though completely dark, it somehow glowed. With black light.
The marsedians? Gravok had said. That makes no sense.
"Nothing makes sense anymore," Sven whispered, tucking the strange sphere away. "Everything is unraveling. I'm sorry, King of the Mitrezians. But I doubt you care anymore. Not now." He stood. "You won't have to watch the end of the world with the rest of us."
Beside the king's corpse, his Soulblade appeared from the mist, clattering onto the stone. Now that its master was dead, it lay there, gleaming—a priceless treasure. Kingdoms had fallen in battles for just one such blade.
Sven heard alarmed voices inside the palace. He had to leave.
But…
Tell my brother…
In Sven's culture, the dying wish of a man was sacred. He took Gravok's hand, dipped it in blood, and used it to write on the wooden floor:
Brother. You must find the most important words a man can say.
Then he vanished into the night—he did not take Gravok's Soulblade. He had no use for it.