Page 126 of The Dragonrider and the Void
“Without Tel Roan in the Vermillion Keep, it looks like he’s come back to the battlefield,” Lark replied.
The army before them parted and a mounted Honor Guard rode out before the Nordraven front line. Lark saw her cousin wearing the battle armor of Skol’s fighting kings. A copper breastplate etched with the same runes her father and grandfather had once worn, bracers and greaves designed for mobility rather than ostentation, and at his hip, a brismil sword that she recognized with a jolt. It was her father’s blade, Dawnrender. And atop his head, he wore the copper crown. Greggor put on a grimace for the benefit of Skol’s soldiers, who cheered him on. Behind him Lark noticed a tall slender figure in Magi Order robes.
Venrick tensed, drawing a sharp breath. “That’s Hierro,” he said, readying his hand over his brismil scale harness.
“Don’t let him get to you now. Stay strong,” she said.
As the King drew closer, Lark could see her cousin more clearly. He bore the same high cheekbones and firm jawline as Lark. He looked like a younger version of Barrik, though Lark knew he held none of the experience.
The entourage stopped just short of the ward boundary, close enough for conversation but separated by thin veil of magic. Shesaw her cousin’s expression fall flat when he saw her, like he was seeing a ghost. He said something to the members of his guard, then turned back to speak briefly with Hierro. Lark saw the Magus’ lips moving but couldn’t identify what kind of lies he was twisting into the King’s ear.
“Cousin,” Greggor called. His voice carried the arrogance of youth and assumption of power. “I’m disappointed. For a time, I thought you had died. Now I see you standing over there, aligned with our enemies. You’ve joined the red cloaks of Lamar. Where is your Northern pride?”
Lark stepped forward. “No, cousin. I do not stand against my countrymen or the North. I stand with anyone who fights against the rimeshade and their leader who was corrupting your father’s mind, twisting your ambitions and shaping the North to his will.”
Greggor spat, his spittle sizzling against the glossy wards in the air between them. “Nothing you say can be trusted. You turned against us, you attacked one of our own and stole a Hyalite meant for a dragonrider of Nordraven. Now that I have come to claim this city after Lamar has overstepped its reach, I find that you’ve killed my father.”
Lark met the Archmagus’ gaze as he gave her a hooded smile.
“Will you stop at nothing to tear down our kingdom’s pride?” Greggor barked.
“No one has murdered your father, Greggor.”
The young King’s eyes widened. “Did you forget who you were talking to? I am your King.”
“You are not my king. You were not in the line of succession. You stole that crown, murdered my father, and exiled my mother,” Lark hissed.
“Skol is my Kingdom. I won this crown through legal combat,” he whispered. Raising his voice as he spoke, he continued, “For your crimes of treason, murder, and betrayal,you are officially declared an enemy of Nordraven. For these crimes, I sentence you to death!”
“Your father brought this fight to me. I did not kill him, he yet lives,” Lark replied evenly. She moved closer to the ward boundary, letting him see her clearly. “Look at me, Greggor. You know who I am. My dragon and I have never stopped trying to make the world a better place formyKingdom.”
The King’s face contorted, struggling to process his emotions. “I won’t listen to your lies. You betrayed our Kingdom. You abandoned your heritage, your responsibility.” His hand moved to the sword at his hip. “And now you stand with Lamar, our sworn enemy.”
“I stand against a greater threat,” Lark countered. “The corruption that has infiltrated out homeland’s courts. The same corruption that drove your father to attempt to harness all of Sataran’s magical essence for his own ambition.”
“More lies,” Greggor declared, though with less conviction than before. “My father was targeted time and again by this group of rebels in the Everburning Forest and the Paragons of Lamar. You’ve murdered him. Killaborden has confirmed that he is no longer with us. My father’s death is an attempt to shift the dragonriders’ control to Lamar’s clutches. I will not allow it. I will control of the Everburning Forest and its resources.”
“Listen to me. Your father isn’t dead,” Lark insisted, trying to get her cousin to see reason.
Greggor froze.
“Barrik escaped during the Flashover through a tear between realms. He’s alive, but no longer on Sataran. Even if you don’t believe the Void Drinker’s influence and its rimeshade servants were spreading corruption throughout our society, then you know the Flashover creates tears in our realms.” Lark met her cousin’s gaze directly. “Barrik manipulated you, Greggor. As hemanipulated me. As he’s manipulated events for decades, all to serve his own quest for power.”
Greggor’s certainty wavered, his expression softening for a moment. “You’re lying. If my father were alive, he would be here. He wouldn’t abandon us outside the Vermillion Keep. Not when we’ve been preparing for this.”
“Unless he had a different goal entirely,” Lark suggested. “One that required sacrificing even his own son’s well-being.”
Hierro laid his hand on Greggor’s shoulder, his grip whitening as he shook him. “Enough of these distractions,” the Archmagus said. “Barrik’s status doesn’t change your objective. Your terms are simple. Force them to surrender Astral City. Hand over the mad King Agadorn and take full control of the Everburning Forest’s resources.”
“And if we refuse to surrender?” Cheyanne asked coolly.
Hierro’s smile was thin and without warmth. “Then Nordraven will take it by force. The city wards will fail against the assault. I made sure of that before the city fell to your rebels. No one is coming for you. You’re outnumbered three to one.”
“Surrender now, and I may show mercy to Astral City’s people,” Greggor said. “Resist, and I will ensure history remembers Astral City and your rebellion as a cautionary tale when it comes to the might of Skol and the strength of the North.”
Lark felt her magic stirring, responding to her rising anger. “You speak of rightful claims while you allied with forces that would’ve consumed all realms without distinction.” She stepped closer to the ward boundary, letting the constellations now prominent on her skin flare brighter. “This is your only warning. Withdraw your army. Return to Skol. Accept that the balance of power has changed.”
Greggor’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “You abandoned your claim to Skol’s throne years ago. You chose to becomeMarcel Heartfell, not Princess Marcella.” His voice hardened. “And I will not be lectured about rightful rule by a deserter who attacks her own kin and hides behind Lamar’s walls.”
