Haedria stood in the way. With the queen angered, the lives of everyone were in danger. There was only Loren who stood to challenge her.
The queen of Sagna raised her flame whip, cracking it in the air. The whip left a burning after image as it sailed through the air, and produced embers and sparks as it cracked. The queen advanced, and pulled her arm back. With a swift movement she brought the whip forward, the tip barbed with tiny hooks. Loren raised her arm to shield herself, catching the whip at full force. The burning lash coiled around her arm, the hooks digging into her flesh and the magic setting her prisoner’s garb alight.
Loren did not scream. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the whip with both hands, holding her ground even as Haedria tried to force her forwards. The whip burned into her skin, searing her flesh, but the princess did not cry out. Tears of pain streamed from her golden eyes, but she did not cry out. Instead, the princess ran at the queen, her arm still bound by the flaming whip.
Screaming in anger, Haedria raised her ebonstone dagger.
Out of instinct or desperation, a roar bubbled up within the princess. She ran at the queen, unarmed, outmatched, but with the will to protect more than her kingdom. She fought to protect those she loved. She screamed a war cry — a challenge that echoed across generations.
The dragon smiled.
A burst of golden flame issued from the princess’s mouth with that war cry, growing in intensity and size, easily enveloping the rampant queen. The force of the flame staggered the queen, dragonfire overpowering the prophesied Fourth Daughter. Haedria’s form was enveloped in the golden fire, cutting short her charge. The dragon magic extinguished the flames that touched Loren, and fizzled the flaming whip out of existence.
The queen of Sagna’s body fell to the ash covered stones of her castle with a soft thud. Her skin was burned black along the side of her face and down her arms; her material of her fine gown torched and melting onto her body. Tongues of golden flame flicked and swayed in the cool night air from where they burned in the queen’s blood red hair.
Loren fell to her knees, stunned.
All her energy had left her in that one cry, that one burst of dragonfire. The Witch of Flame’s body lay on the ground before her and she couldn’t believe her eyes. She did not hear Lind move or rumble, he did not roar. The dragonfire had come from her. A human. A non-magical human. Gingerly and with shaking hands, the princess touched the hollow of her neck, and found the pendant gone. A shadow passed over her, and she looked up.
The dragon’s golden eye shimmered in the light, and Loren began to fall. The princess felt like falling, falling weightlessly and effortlessly, getting lost in the golden light of Lind’s eye. She heard a voice, one that was strong yet gentle, wise far beyond its years. She heard its words, though it made no sound.
Loren Elisis Cyrael, Princess of Aldoran.
What you have done is a noble act. You have attempted to protect those close to you, those in your charge, with valor and bravery. Few can accomplish such in their lifetime.
The High Dragon of legend did not bestow magic onto your ancestor, Ylfair Mariorr, simply because she defeated monsters with her bare hands. No, the High Dragon bestowed magic and her son to your ancestor because she showed extraordinary bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. All to protect those she loved. The stories passed down by your family have omitted the reason why Ylfair Mariorr accepted the challenge of the Ebonstone Castle. Monsters attacked her village, plaguing the fields and murdering her countrymen. Her own family was a victim; her family was in danger.
As were yours.
“Loren?”
The princess did not stir.
Chapter Twenty Seven
“Loren! Loren, please, please wake up.” A voice said, strained, choked with emotion. The princess felt someone shaking her by the shoulders, and a hand caressing her face. A drop of liquid, warm on her cool skin, fell on Loren’s cheek. The princess twitched. “Loren, please wake up. I can’t lose you, not after everything. I wasn’t able to tell you that I…” the voice faded into a sob.
The activity that followed within the castle was chaotic. The Warmaster and Spymaster, both bearing wounds from their battles, refused to take a rest. The two men organized the evacuation of the Aldoran troops, having the men file out of the Firestone Keep as fast as they could. Soldiers in blackened armor, bloodied, limping, some supporting their comrades as they struggled to walk, slowly made their way out of the keep. They kept a wide, respectful berth of the two young women in the middle of the hallway.
Kae knelt with Loren in her lap, caressing the princess’s cheek and begging her to wake up. For all the things she had said, the princess did not seem to hear. The huntress’s voice petered out into sobs and desperate whispers, her chest heaving with every staggered breath. Ma’trii passed her by, limping, the fur around his face and neck bloodied, and eyed his best friend pitifully. He would offer comfort in a while, but for now, Kae needed Loren.
Minutes passed by in a blur. The sound of the soldier’s shuffling feet drummed in a rhythm Kae didn’t care to hear. There was the scent of blood on the warm, humid air of the Keep. The huntress clutched Loren tightly, clinging to the scent of something more familiar in the midst of death and destruction.
“Excuse me.” A soft voice said.
