CHAPTER 21: TWENTY ONE

We ride two days without stopping, no fire, no camp, no rest. And when we arrive at the front, what greets us isn’t a battlefield. It’s the end of the world.

"Gods above..." Thadius whispers, the words barely more than a breath. His face is pale as bone.

My horse shies beneath me, hooves shifting restlessly, and I tighten the reins. But I can’t take my eyes off the horizon.

Too many.

Our army numbers in thousands, and yet the Dark King’s forces stretch beyond sight, a black tide consuming the plains. A scourge upon the earth. They bring no supplies. No ballistae. No trebuchets. No siege towers.

They don’t even need them.

A creeping silence settles over our men, the kind that chokes. Even the Elite falter, their eyes hollow with despair. We all know it. This is a battle we cannot win. When we fall, Silvermoor will burn. Nothing will remain.

"What are they waiting for?" someone mutters hoarsely, as if even speaking might shatter what fragile courage we have left.

For hours, they’ve stood still. Waiting. Watching. Not advancing a single step.

Prince Rafe’s voice cracks across the lines like a whiplash. "North flank! Prepare the cannons!"

The men move, though their hands tremble. Even I know it is useless. Cannons may buy us moments, but the inevitable looms upon us. Death.

I glance down at my fingers, slick with sweat where they grip the reins and my father’s sword. His armor hangs heavy on me, his helmet scraping against my ears.

Did he feel this same cold before his last battle? Did he pee himself like the men holding the front line have begun to? Or did he raise his chin and forged ahead, regardless?

I’d wager the latter. My father was a lion. He never cowered from anything a single day in his life--

The ground shudders beneath us.

A ripple of darkness races across the sky, swallowing the light. The enemy army stirs, and gasps ripple through our ranks as vision dims, as if the world itself retreats from what comes.

Lightning tears across the heavens. Thunder cracks like the snapping of the earth’s spine.

"Something’s coming!" a soldier screams.

The horses panic, rearing and whinnying, foam flecking their mouths. The world holds its breath as the sound of hoofbeats breaks through the storm.

The Dark King’s army parts in precise, terrible symmetry. From its center, a lone rider emerges. He is covered in head-to-toe black. The only thing that stands out is the striking hair of silver that flows out from under his black helmet.

A man. A beast. Both, and neither.

He rides forward, calm as death, until he reaches the space between our armies.

The aura rolling off him is suffocating, a black tide pressing against my skin, sinking into my lungs. I can’t see his face, yet I feel his gaze in every corner of me, hollowing me out. His voice crashes over us, not merely sound but presence, vibrating in the marrow of my bones.

"Bend the knee," he roars, "Surrender to me. Give me Silvermoor... and I will let you live."

My eyes find Rafe’s tall back at the front lines. What will he do, I wonder? There is no escaping this annihilation, even if he turns around and flees, leaving us to die. The wise choice would be a surrender. A part of me knows it’d be silly to trust those beasts not to ravage our lands even after they somehow conquer the throne. But I think about the King in my dreams. About his rage. His hatred.

Still, he offered a peace treaty. One the crown refused. That lead us here. To our deaths. And yet, he has his General extending us the same offer.

Something tells me he has no interest in killing more people than necessary. Then another part of me remembers the slaughter he has laid in his wake.

There is no easy choice. Fight and die. Surrender and live to fight another. The second option seems fairly attractive.

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that he doesn’t bend the knee. Or surrender. Instead, he stirs the rein of the horse and rides to the center with a single order thrown in the air.

"Fire!"

"No!" I yell, but the sound of cannon fire swallows up my voice.

I watch in horror as fire rains down upon the singled out man and the army beyond. The boom is loud enough to rock the earth, and the world is consumed with flames and smoke.

Someone swears, praying to the Goddess.

When the wall of smoke clears, my body goes numb with fear.

The black knight remains standing, a circle of soldiers fallen around him, shattered to bits by our attack. A human shield, I realize. They had formed a shield around him right before the attack landed. And though, the majority of his army is unscathed, he seems to peer down at the dead and I taste darkness in the air.

The world hangs on single precipice at the single breath he exhales.

He lifts his gaze then and smiles. And his voice is a low whisper that curls around my deepest, darkest fears and heightens it so much, I feel the paralysis spread along my spine.

"You never listen, do you?"

And then he moves. Just him.

It happens in seconds. He lifts him arms and knocks one bow. Confusion stirs in my heart as he releases it in a direction that’s off-kilter. I wonder if he aimed wrong, but I realize it is only a trick of the mind.

Because as the arrow splits the air, hurtling with destructive speed towards us, I see that it is no ordinary arrow. It is as tall as a spear and curves back like a fucking boomerang--if that makes any sense.

"Get away from the cannons!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

But it’s too late. I see it happen in slow motion. The moment that sole arrow pierces the first cannon, then the next, then the next.

Our side of the world... explodes.

The entire front line, seven dozen men are cleared in an instant.

Dead.

The screaming begins.