They rode at dawn, twenty Dragon Knights, Thorne, and Lyra, a small army of the living moving toward the darkness, toward the death that waited.
The journey north was hard—fighting the dead at every turn, watching the Plague spread across the land like a cancer, like a disease that consumed everything in its path. The Church's inquisitors were everywhere, hunting dragon-blooded heretics, burning magic users, spreading fear and death in the name of purity, in the name of light. The dead roamed freely, like death itself taking form, taking shape, taking the world.
But with the Dragon Knights, they were stronger. They fought as a unit, dragon fire and steel cutting through the dead, leaving nothing but ash in their wake. The Church's inquisitors fell before them, holy light shattered by dragon fire, white robes burned by black flames. The dead fell before them, rotting bodies shattered by steel, corruption burned away by dragon fire.
For the first time in years, Thorne felt like he wasn't running. For the first time since the Church had burned his knightly order, since the day his life had ended, he felt like he was fighting back.
On the fifth day, they reached a narrow pass through the mountains, a gap in the rock that led north, toward the Wall of Ice, toward the death that waited.
"Trouble," Garrick said, reining in his horse, his eyes narrowing as he sensed something wrong, something that shouldn't be there. "I can feel holy magic. The Church is here. They've found us."
Thorne's dragon blood sensed it too—the sickly sweet smell of holy light, the feeling of being watched, of eyes that shouldn't exist, that were hunting him. "They've been tracking us. They've been following our trail. The Church never stops. The Church never forgives. The Church never forgets."
"How?" Lyra asked, her voice tight with fear, with the desperate need to understand, to know how they had been found.
"Valerius," Thorne said, and the name was poison on his tongue, was the taste of ash in his mouth, carried the weight of seven years of running, of seven years of losing everything. "He has ways of finding dragon blood. He can feel the fire, can track the scales. He's been hunting me for seven years, across seven kingdoms, and he won't stop until I'm dead. He won't stop until everything I love is dead. He won't stop until the darkness has won."
As if on cue, figures emerged from the rocks above the pass, from hiding places that had been waiting for them. Dozens of them, in white robes, their faces hidden behind silver masks, holy light staffs raised, their movements synchronized, practiced, the movements of men who had fought together, who had killed together, who were an army in everything but name. And at their head rode Valerius Lightbringer, his white robes trimmed with gold, his posture perfect, his bearing that of someone who had never doubted, who had never questioned.
"Thorne Ashford," Valerius called down, his voice carrying the weight of authority, of power, of a man who had never been told no. "I told you I would find you. I told you I would hunt you across seven kingdoms, and I have. And now, here you are. And now, you've brought me the rest of the Dragon Knights. All my enemies in one place. All the dragon-blooded heretics, all the carriers of fire that shouldn't exist, all gathered together for me to burn. The Church will be pleased."
Thorne raised Dawnbreaker, black fire trailing from the blade, the power that shouldn't exist responding to his will, feeding on the dragon fire that burned in his veins. "Come down and fight, Valerius. Or are you afraid to face me yourself? Are you afraid to die by the fire you've hunted for seven years? Are you afraid to burn by the power you've tried to destroy?"
Valerius laughed, a sound that held no humor, only the confidence of someone who had never lost, who had never been truly threatened. "I don't need to fight you. I have an army. I have inquisitors who have hunted dragon-blooded heretics for centuries, who know how to burn the fire, how to shatter the scales. I have holy light that burns brighter than any dragon fire, that consumes the corruption that fuels the Plague. You're strong, Thorne. Stronger than any heretic I've hunted. But you're not strong enough. The Church is greater than you. The light is greater than the fire. And you're surrounded. You're trapped. You're going to die here, today, and I'm going to watch."
He raised his staff, and holy light erupted from it, forming a net that covered the entire pass, that trapped Thorne and the Dragon Knights, that left them nowhere to run, no way to escape.
"Kill them all," Valerius commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument, carrying the weight of authority, of a man who was used to being obeyed. "But bring the girl to me alive. I have questions for her. I want to know where the Moonwhisper mages are hiding. I want to know where the tower's secrets are buried. I want to know everything she refused to tell her grandmother. I want to burn it all, and I want her to watch."
The white-robed men moved forward, holy light staffs raised, their movements synchronized, practiced, the movements of men who had fought together, who had killed together, who were an army in everything but name.
Thorne looked at Lyra, saw the fear in her eyes, saw the determination there, the refusal to die hiding, to surrender to the Church. "Can you fight?"
Lyra nodded, her eyes burning with purple light, with a power that went beyond sight, beyond magic. "I can. I've been running for too long. It's time to fight back. It's time to burn the Church, to destroy the light, to end the darkness."
"Then let's give them a hell of a fight," Thorne said, and his right eye began to glow, golden light burning in the sunlight, and for a moment, the pass was filled with the heat of dragon fire, with the power that had destroyed kingdoms, that had ended ages.
The first wave of inquisitors charged, their holy light staffs raised, their movements confident, certain. They had fought dragon-blooded heretics before. They had killed them. They knew how to do it.
Thorne met them with black fire, sword cutting through holy light as if it were smoke, as if the Church's magic meant nothing to dragon fire. The Dragon Knights fought beside him, their dragon fire burning bright, their steel shattering bone, their movements practiced, certain. They fought as a unit, dragon fire and steel cutting through the Church's inquisitors, leaving nothing but ash in their wake.
Lyra raised her hands, and silver light erupted from her palms, forming a barrier that deflected their spells, that sent their holy light back at them, that made their confidence waver.
They fought back to back, dragon blood and ancient magic against the Church's holy light, against the power that had burned kingdoms, that had hunted magic for centuries. For a moment, it seemed they might hold, seemed they might survive.
Then Valerius raised his staff, and blinding white light erupted from it, light so bright it burned, so holy it made the air itself feel sacred, made the very light of day seem profane by comparison.
The light hit Thorne like a physical blow, knocking him backward, driving the breath from his lungs. His black flames flickered and died, overwhelmed by the holiness, by the purity that the Church had cultivated for centuries. The wound in his side tore open, and he fell to his knees, his blood mixing with the dirt, his strength fading.
"Your dragon blood is strong, heretic," Valerius said, walking toward him, his steps measured, certain. "But it is no match for the Holy Light. The light of the gods themselves burns brighter than any dragon fire, and the Church wields that light. You're going to die here, today, and I'm going to watch."
He raised his staff for the killing blow, the white light gathering at its tip, bright enough to blind, Lyra screamed, a sound that went beyond fear, beyond rage, a sound that came from somewhere deep, from somewhere that had slept for a long time and was now waking up. Silver light exploded from her body, brighter than anything Thorne had ever seen, brighter than the sun, brighter than hope itself. The light formed a spear, driving itself toward Valerius, carrying with it all her rage, all her grief, all the power of her heritage.
Valerius caught the spear with his bare hand, holy light and silver magic colliding in a blinding flash, a collision of powers that had been enemies for centuries, that had been destined to destroy each other. He staggered back, his hand burned and blackened, the flesh seared away by silver magic, by the power that had slept in Lyra's blood for twenty years.
"You," he snarled at Lyra, his voice losing its calm, losing its certainty. "You'll pay for that. You'll pay for every burn, every scar. I'll make you watch while I burn everything you love, everything you are. I'll make you scream like your grandmother screamed."
He raised his staff again, but before he could strike, the ground beneath them shook.
Not an earthquake. Something worse. Something that shouldn't exist, something that defied the laws of the world itself.
From the forest beyond the pass, figures emerged. Not human. Not alive.
The walking dead. The Iron Plague had come for them.