At noon, the streets of Caelid were eerily quiet. Shops had shuttered early; citizens had barred their doors and windows, listening with bated breath to the distant, rhythmic echoes of boots on stone.
Bang!
Cezir kicked open the ornate gate of a luxury villa and waved a hand. "Arrest them."
Under his command, dozens of armored City Guards filed into the courtyard, dragging out a tall, disheveled man. Two soldiers twisted his arms behind his back and shoved him toward Cezir, forcing him to his knees with a brutal kick to the hamstrings.
"Officer... what is this?" The man reeled, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused from a midday stupor. "What are you doing?"
Cezir grabbed a handful of the man's hair, pulling his head back to inspect his face with cold, clinical indifference.
"It's him. Take him."
The soldiers shackled the man's wrists and ankles, dragging him toward a prison van waiting on the street. Similar scenes had played out ten tis across the city in the last two hours. First, Cezir had disard and executed the skeleton crew of new recruits Hectov had left behind. Then, one by one, he hunted the Rodel Knights.
Most were retainers of the Ofnir family or veterans who had served Hectov since the Liurnian Wars—the Regent's most loyal core. But Cezir moved with a speed that bordered on the supernatural. Whether it was through their own decadence or Cezir's terrifying efficiency, the knights offered no resistance. When the guards hesitated to strike their social superiors, Cezir settled the matter by personally decapitating the first knight he found.
By 12:30, seventeen Rodel Knights were gathered in the central stronghold. Before a crowd of bewildered garrison soldiers, Cezir announced that the knights had leaked intelligence to the rebels, leading to the massacre of the Regent and the expeditionary force. They were to be executed for treason.
Within five minutes, the knights—still dazed and confused—were forced onto the block. Their heads were claid by giant axes before they could even formulate a plea.
Cezir imdiately promoted a new tier of junior officers, placing the city under total martial law. No one was allowed in or out. Elite crossbown were stationed on the walls.
Both the ruthless staff officer and his puppet soldiers were Clavell's insurance policy. For a year, the Perfur had used subtle, aerosolized aromatics to erode their wills, turning them into extensions of his own hand. Even if Hectov had sohow survived the pass, he would have returned to a city that had already forgotten his na.
But in the blood-soaked dirt of Sunset Pass, none of that mattered to Clavell.
He looked down at Hectov's head. The once-illustrious Baron, a man who had lived for war and status, now looked like any other piece of at in the mud. In death, the "hero-rivaling" noble was indistinguishable from the demi-humans he had so thoroughly despised.
"Does it feel as sweet as you imagined?" Turak sheathed his longsword, walking forward with a shark-like grin. He casually kicked Hectov's head into a pile of corpses.
Clavell let out a long, shuddering breath. There was no joy in his eyes—only a profound, hollow exhaustion. After a mont, he glanced at the demi-humans and Misbegotten stripping the fallen of their gear.
"Kruger should be here soon, shouldn't he?"
Clavell knew the High Priest's health was failing; it made sense that the old Misbegotten hadn't joined the front lines.
"Ah, the old man?" It wasn't Turak who answered, but Soreto, who approached with a phalanx of warriors. "Before we set out, he gave us specific orders. He wants you at the main camp to discuss the final handover of supplies."
"The camp?" Clavell's instincts flared. "The terms were settled. Anything else can be discussed here."
"Tsk. What's the matter?" Turak shrugged with faux innocence. "Those were his words. Would we lie to you?" He pointed toward the valley exit, now a jagged ruin of scorched earth. "Thirty miles north. A short ride. No need to be difficult."
Clavell looked toward the exit, but the air around him had suddenly turned cold. A primal sense of danger scread in his mind. He spun around just as Soreto swung a massive warhamr toward his ribs. Simultaneously, the Misbegotten warriors drew their steel and lunged.
Clang!
The War Fever aromatic was still surging through Clavell's veins. In a blur, he drew his sword, parrying the hamr and cutting down the nearest archers. But before he could reset his stance, Turak's Caelid longsword flashed, locking his blade in a shower of sparks.
In the stalemate, Soreto threw his weight into the hamr. The sheer mass of the demi-human general sent Clavell flying. He slamd into the jagged rock wall, the wind leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp. Before he could recover, Soreto was in the air, his head-sized hamr descending like a falling star. Clavell raised his sword to block, but the weight pinned him to his knees, his blade trapped against the stone.
"Now! I can't hold him!" Soreto roared, his face turning purple with effort.
A dark shadow blurred across the ground. Turak moved with a rcenary's lethal grace, his blade aid straight for Clavell's heart.
The sun was high and warm, yet Clavell felt a chill that reached his marrow. He saw the cold iron of the blade closing in and felt a strange sense of peace. He closed his eyes, ready to join Monica.
Zheng—
A tallic hum, followed by the screech of twisting iron, tore through the air. Turak's montum stopped dead, as if he had run into a wall of solid granite.
Between the three of them stood a silver-haired youth with eyes like burning rubies. He had reached out with a single, casual hand and caught Turak's blade.
Grayish-white scales rippled across the boy's palm. The Caelid longsword—forged of hardened iron—was crushed in his grip like a piece of soft lead.
Turak and Soreto tried to speak, but a sudden, crushing weight descended upon them. It was a pressure so imnse it felt as if a colossal hand had gripped their hearts, dragging them to the dirt. Their bodies trembled, pinned to the ground by a terrifying, predatory aura that triggered every animal instinct of survival.
"You... are..." Turak managed to gasp, his neck straining to look up.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two massive, mbranous wings erupt from the boy's back. A savage, ancient aura flooded the pass. The boy—Aegis—grabbed Clavell by the shoulders, and the two were lifted into the sky by a sudden, violent gale.
Below them, the three thousand soldiers of the coalition froze. The frenzy of plundering vanished, replaced by an absolute, paralyzed terror as they watched the shadow soar above.
And then, a second shadow fell.
A figure so large it blotted out the sun descended from the cliffs. Throughout the long ages of the Lands Between, there has been only one creature that defines the intersection of majesty and destruction.
"Dragon!"
The scream tore through the valley as the sky turned to fire.
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