Page 129 of The Dragonrider and the Void
The Honor Guard advanced as one, shields raised, weapons at the ready. Their formation was perfect, a product of years of drilling and battlefield experience. Against conventional opposition, they would have put the fear of the North into her.
Lark signaled to Venrick and Hardin to stand back. As the Honor Guard closed the distance, she calmly unclipped her brismil scale from its harness, exposing herself to them. She raised her hand, channeling power through her bond with White Eye. Energy swirled through the marks beneath her skin. Stars ignited along her forearm, constellations formed and shifted in patterns that mirrored the night sky. Behind her, White Eye’s eyes glowed with the same cosmic light. Nix flashed into view, her flame burning white-hot.
When the first warrior reached her, Talon, a spearman she’d once bested in three consecutive tournament bouts, Lark movedwith speed of a predator. Nightfang blurred as she parried his thrust, the brismil blade leaving trails of black smoke in its wake. Her counterstrike wasn’t aimed to cause lethal injury. The flat of her blade struck his helmet with precisely the right amount of force.
Talon crumpled without a sound, unconscious but unharmed.
The others hesitated for just a fraction of a second, long enough for Lark to seize the initiative. She flowed between them like water through stones, Nightfang finding gaps in armor, using rounded spears of her fae energy to strike pressure points while simultaneously removing opponents from the fight with the flat side of Nightfang. Nix and White Eye remained where they were. Her fae form blazed at the ready, his wings half-extended in silent threat, but neither made a move to join the combat. This was Lark’s battle, fought on terms she had chosen.
Keldrin stumbled after a strike of fae energy to his sword arm; his brismil blade clattered to the cobblestones. Vanessa lasted longer. Her shield work blocked the initial two hits from Lark’s energy, but on the third, she dropped to a leg sweep. One by one, the Honor Guard went down, defeated by the very techniques many of them had learned at Lark’s side years before.
Through it all, Greggor held back, his expression a mixture of rage and growing uncertainty as he watched his elite warriors fall before his cousin’s blade. Lark moved with a grace guided by her supernatural advantages. The energy flowed through her, enhancing already formidable skills.
When half the Honor Guard lay unconscious or temporarily immobilized on the field, a remarkable thing happened. Eristen, the oldest among them and Skol’s Master-at-Arms since before Lark was born, suddenly lowered his weapon. He dropped to one knee, head bowed.
“Princess Marcella,” he declared, his voice carrying across the now-quiet field. “Blood of the true line, rightful heir to the Copper Crown.” He placed his brismil sword on the ground before him. “I have sworn to uphold the laws of succession. By those laws, you stand before us, alive and of sound body. My oath compels me to acknowledge your claim.”
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, one by one, the remaining standing members of the Honor Guard followed Eristen’s example, kneeling and laying down their weapons. It spread beyond the clearing, rippling through the Skol forces engaged throughout the rural sprawl skirting outside Astral City. Warriors lowered their blades and shields dropped as they recognized the implications of what was happening.
“No!” Greggor’s anguished cry broke the silence. “You cannot abandon me! I am your King! I killed her father. I won my right to bear the crown.”
“By law of succession, you are not King,” Eristen replied, his weathered face solemn. “Not while Princess Marcella lives.”
“My name is Lark now,” she corrected gently. “And yes, I am your rightful leader.”
Greggor’s expression contorted in conflicting emotions: rage, betrayal, fear, and beneath it all, a deep-seated pain that Lark recognized all too well. He was still too inexperienced and had been thrust into a role he had never truly been prepared for. Greggor had been manipulated by a father who saw him as a tool rather than a son.
“Greggor,” Lark said softly, lowering Nightfang. “It doesn’t have to end in blood. Surrender now. Return to Skol with me when this is over. Help me cleanse our homeland of the corruption that has taken root there.”
For a moment, just a moment, vulnerability eased the pain in her cousin’s eyes. It was almost like she caught a glimpse of the child he had been, looking up to his older cousin withadmiration rather than hatred. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold determination that sent a chill down Lark’s spine.
“Never,” Greggor snarled. He raised Dawnrender in both hands, the brismil blade catching the morning light. “I will not live in your shadow again. If Skol will not have me as King, then it shall have neither of us.”
He charged, abandoning all pretense of strategy in favor of pure aggression. Dawnrender whistled through the air in a downward arc meant to cleave Lark from shoulder to hip. She sidestepped smoothly, Nightfang rising to deflect the blow rather than stopping it directly. The two brismil blades met with a clash. Azure and black sparks showered over them.
“Don’t do this,” Lark urged as they disengaged and circled each other cautiously. “There’s a greater threat to both our kingdoms. We should be united against it, not fighting each other.”
“There is no greater threat to me than you,” Greggor replied, his voice cold with hatred. “There never has been.”
He attacked again with a flurry of strikes that would have overwhelmed a lesser opponent. But Lark had been fighting with brismil since before Greggor could lift a training sword. She parried each blow with efficient precision, conserving her energy while allowing him to expend his in increasingly desperate assaults.
The duel drew spectators from all sides. Skol warriors, Vermillion Keep troops, civilians who had emerged from hiding to witness the confrontation between cousins that would determine the fate of their city and several kingdoms. Among them, Lark glimpsed Venrick astride Ingamar, watching with concern.
“Yield, Greggor,” Lark said after parrying another furious combination. “This doesn’t need to end with one of us dead.”
“It does,” he insisted, breathing heavily now. “It always has. From the moment you became Barrik’s pupil. You don’t know what it’s like living in the shadow of the perfect heir. ‘Why can’t you be more like Marcella?’ ‘When Marcella was your age, she had already mastered the spear.’ ‘Marcella never disappoints me’.” Each of these phrases was punctuated with a wild, desperate swing of Dawnrender.
Lark recognized something new. This wasn’t just about succession or the throne of Skol. This was personal, a lifetime of perceived inadequacy distilled into pure hatred. Barrik had nurtured that resentment, shaped it into a weapon he could wield against his own son.
“I’m sorry,” Lark said, and meant it. “I didn’t know.”
“You never knew,” Greggor spat. “Too busy being perfect, being father’s favorite, being the heir apparent. You never saw how he treated me when you weren’t there. How he molded me into nothing more than your replacement.”
He lunged again, overextending in his fury. Lark could have ended it there. A simple counterstrike to his exposed side would have finished the duel. But she hesitated, unwilling to deliver the killing blow to her own blood. That split-second of mercy nearly cost her everything.
Greggor reversed his momentum with unexpected speed, bringing Dawnrender around in a horizontal slash aimed at Lark’s throat. She jerked backward, the brismil blade missing her by a hair’s breadth. But the maneuver left her off-balance, creating an opening that Greggor immediately exploited.
His follow-up thrust caught her in the side, the brismil blade slicing through her armor to find flesh beneath. Pain exploded along her ribs, hot and immediate. Lark staggered, Nightfang dipping momentarily as she fought to maintain her stance.
