Page 130 of The Dragonrider and the Void
Greggor’s eyes lit in triumph. “First blood to me, cousin,” he crowed. “The first of many.”
The wound wasn’t deep. Her armor had deflected the worst of it, but it bled freely, staining her tunic crimson. Nix flew in but stopped as Lark commanded both her and White Eye to stay. He released a throaty growl that rumbled with protective fury and shook the ground beneath their feet.
“Lark,” Venrick’s voice cut through as he and Hardin looked on in worry.
“Stay,” Lark commanded. This was her battle to finish, not theirs, not her dragon’s or Nix’s.
Greggor pressed his advantage, launching into another series of attacks that forced Lark to give ground. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain from her wounded side, but she pushed through it, narrowing her focus to the dance of blades between them. The magical energy within her responded to her needs, flowing through her veins to grant her strength beyond mortal limits.
The tide turned gradually, almost imperceptibly at first. Lark stopped retreating and began to hold her ground, then pushed forward. Her counters became more aggressive, forcing Greggor to defend rather than attack. The starlight beneath her skin grew brighter, casting her features in an otherworldly radiance.
Greggor’s expression shifted from triumph to uncertainty, then to fear as he recognized the change. “What are you?” he gasped, parrying a strike that would have disarmed him had it connected fully.
“I am what I’ve always been,” Lark replied, her voice calm despite the exertion. “Your blood. Your family. The only one who truly understands what Barrik’s influence was like.”
She launched into a sequence of attacks that Barrik himself had taught her years ago, the Dance of Falling Stars, an advanced form that few outside the Vermillion Keep had ever mastered. Dawnrender moved desperately to intercept eachattack, but Greggor’s technique grew increasingly ragged as exhaustion and fear took their toll.
The end came suddenly. Lark feinted high, drawing Greggor’s guard upward, then dropped into a sweeping low attack that caught him behind the knees. As he stumbled, she rose, Nightfang completing its arc to knock Dawnrender from his grasp. The brismil blade spun loose, disappearing in a flash.
Greggor fell to his knees, disarmed and defeated. He looked up at Lark, at Nightfang poised at his throat, and laughed with a sound more broken than mirthful.
“Do it,” he said. “Finish what you started when you returned. Take everything from me, as you always have.”
Lark regarded him solemnly, the celestial marks beneath her skin fading to a subdued glow. “I didn’t come back to take anything from you, Greggor. I came back to save Sataran from threats you don’t yet understand.”
“More lies,” he snarled, but there was less conviction in his voice now. “If you’re going to kill me, at least have the courage to admit you want the throne. That you’ve always wanted it.”
“I never wanted the throne,” Lark replied softly. “I only ever wanted to protect our people. From external threats, from corruption, from those who would use them as pawns in games of power.” She lowered Nightfang slightly. “Including your father.”
There was a shift in Greggor’s eyes at the mention of Barrik, a flicker of doubt, perhaps even the first glimmer of understanding. “He said you betrayed us,” he whispered, suddenly sounding much younger again. “That you abandoned Skol for personal power, that you conspired with Lamar against our interests.”
“And you believed him,” Lark nodded. “As I would have, had I been in your position. Barrik is a master manipulator. I’ve onlyrecently come to understand how thoroughly he shaped both our lives to serve his ambitions.”
She extended her free hand to him. “Come with me, Greggor. Help me unite our forces against the true enemy. Together, we can?—”
The sudden blur of motion caught her by surprise. Greggor’s hand flashed to his boot, drawing a hidden dagger, not brismil, but simple steel, deadly nonetheless. He lunged upward; the blade aimed directly at Lark’s heart.
Instinct took over. Nightfang moved without conscious thought, intercepting the blow in a motion too fast for the eye to follow. The brismil sword passed through Greggor’s dagger, through his copper breastplate, through flesh and bone.
Time seemed to slow as understanding dawned in Greggor’s eyes. The hatred drained away, replaced by something almost like relief. He slumped forward, Nightfang buried to its hilt in his chest, his blood, her blood, stained the field beneath them.
“At least,” he whispered, his voice already fading, “it was you who did it. Not some... nameless enemy. Fitting... that what my father began... you would end.”
The light faded from his eyes. His body going slack against her. Lark caught him instinctively, then lowered him gently to the ground. Blood pooled beneath them, staining her armor, her hands. Hands that had just ended her own cousin’s life.
The soldiers around them fell silent. Even the distant sounds of the ballistas hurling against the wards seemed to dim, as if the entire conflict held its breath in witness to this moment of tragedy. Venrick, Hardin and their dragons stood guard, but no soldiers rushed in to attack. Thorn and his flight of riders continued to circle calmly as if waiting for commands. Lark knelt beside Greggor’s body, emotions warring within her, grief for the cousin she had once bounced on her knee, rage at Barrik’smanipulation that had led them to this point, and a hollow emptiness where triumph should have been.
Eristen approached cautiously, his weathered face solemn. Behind him, the Honor Guard and Skol warriors watched in reverent silence.
“It did not have to end this way,” Lark said softly, her voice carrying in the stillness.
“No, my Lady,” Eristen agreed, “but it was his choice. He drew the hidden blade. The laws are clear. He forfeited his right to mercy in that moment.”
The old Master-at-Arms knelt on one knee beside her. With careful hands, he removed the copper crown from Greggor’s brow. The simple circlet gleamed in the morning light, untarnished despite the blood that stained everything else.
“The crown returns to its rightful bearer,” Eristen intoned formally, raising it toward Lark. “Marcel Heartfell, blood of the ancient line, true heir to the throne of Skol.”
Lark stared at the crown, feeling the weight of its significance. This small circle of metal represented everything she had once been, the life she had lived before, the destiny that had been ripped away by Barrik’s treachery and her own near-death.
