Page 131 of Song of the Heart Scale
We clashed again, and this time I forced him back. Blow after blow, we crashed swords until he locked my blade with his and leaned in, our foreheads nearly touching.
“You can’t win!” he hissed. “You never could.”
I headbutted him.
He reeled back, dazed, and I drove my knee into his gut, then slashed a deep line across his thigh. He screamed and retaliated with a punch to my jaw that knocked a tooth loose.
I spit out a glob of blood and grinned a crimson smile. “Now we’re even.”
He roared, flames flickering in his mouth. He was close to shifting—but the room couldn’t handle two full dragons. We'd bring the whole palace down.
Instead, he launched himself at me again, fists swinging.
We fought hand to hand with no weapons, just raw fury and bruised knuckles. He got a hit in on my ribs—I heard the crack. I got one under his jaw. He fell back. I stumbled.
We circled.
Breathing heavy. Blood dripping.
I drew my dagger. He raised his sword.
And then I dropped to one knee, spent and gasping.
Thorne loomed over me. “And now you fall.”
When he raised his sword to finish it, I knew Cat wouldn’t stand by and watch him kill me, no matter what I said. She was coming to my aid when…
A blinding light exploded from the center of the room.
Everyone froze.
A figure stood where there had been nothing a moment before. Tall. Luminous. Not glowing but lit from within, as though his very skin held starlight. His hair was jet black, shoulder-length, and swept back from a face too perfect and serene to belong to any mortal creature. His eyes were twin voids—a glossy black so dark, they shimmered.
The room held its breath.
Even Thorne stumbled back a step.
Cat gasped and clutched her arm. “What—?”
And then another presence entered the room.
Malachar, in tattered gray robes, stepped forward from the shadows. His milky white eyes seemed to look everywhere but at nothing at all. He bowed deeply. “You stand in the presence of Azareth, the Immortal of Reckoning.”
The name struck like thunder.
An Immortal!
Thorne paled. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You have no right to—”
Azareth raised a hand and Thorne’s voice vanished. The Immortal turned toward him, silent and cold as winter. He stepped forward, each movement graceful and exact, like time itself obeyed him. Reaching Thorne, he pressed a hand to his chest.
Thorne’s body seized and he convulsed, his mouth open in a scream that made no sound. With a sickening crack that rocketed through the room, the dragon sigil on his armor split.
And then—
With a thrust of his hand, Azarethripped.
Thorne collapsed to his knees, a terrible cry torn from his throat. Blood poured from his mouth.
