Page 130 of Song of the Heart Scale
His eyes glowed with fury. The shadows behind him twisted. He wasn't simply wearing my heart scale—he wasusingit. Drawing power from it.
I turned to Cat and my uncle. “Don’t interfere.”
“Damien—”
“I have to do this.”
My uncle grabbed Cat’s arm and shook his head, stopping her. He knew very well that this final battle had to be between Thorne and me. And whoever was standing at the end… well, they would be the victor.
She bit her lip, then nodded.
Thorne drew his sword.
So did I.
The final battle would be one of blood, flame, and prophecy, and only one of us would walk away as king.
The throne room pulsed with the kind of electric silence that came before the storm.
Thorne stood opposite me, bathed in flickering firelight, his armor scorched and splattered with blood not his own. Crimson threads ran down his cheek from a shallow cut, but otherwise, he looked unscathed—arrogant and untouchable.
“You should’ve stayed gone,” he sneered. “You never had what it takes.”
I rolled my shoulders and stepped forward. The echo of my boots struck the marble like war drums. “You’re right,” I said evenly. “I didn’t. But then you took what wasn’t yours.”
His eyes flickered and he tapped his chest with a clawed finger, right over his heart. “You meanthis? Funny how something so small can turn a boy into a prince.”
I lunged.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew.
The force of his parry sent vibrations up my arms. He was strong—unnaturally strong—and faster than I remembered. The twin heart scales inside him pulsed with power. I felt them in the air, like the rumble of thunder before lightning.
We fought like only brothers could: with hatred sharp as daggers and a history too old to forget.
His blade sang through the air, nearly taking off my arm. I ducked, kicked him hard in the gut, and sent him staggering back. But he caught himself and came up laughing.
“You're slowing down, little brother.”
“I’m still fast enough to kill you,” I snarled.
We danced across the throne room. Firelight painted the scene in undulating golds and reds. Tapestries burned. Smoke charred the ceiling. Cat and my uncle stayed back, watching and waiting.
Thorne slashed. I blocked.
I swung. He ducked.
But he was stronger, and it was true: I was tiring.
He suddenly charged at me with a barrage of strikes—left, right, up, down. I parried each one, but barely. My arm shook. My shoulder screamed. He was toying with me.
I feinted low, then sliced toward his ribs. The blade cut across his side. He snarled and retaliated with a vicious backhand that sent me crashing into a marble pillar.
My vision blurred. My ribs throbbed.
“You've grown soft,” he said, stalking toward me. “You spent too much time on that island.”
I pushed off the pillar and charged.
