Page 131 of The Dragonrider and the Void
“I prefer to be known as Lark now,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “Marcella the Princess was transformed to the dragonrider Ella in my youth, then shaped into the ruthless Marcel Heartfell at the request of my grandfather. Both died in the Everburning Forest. What I have become now, what I am at my core is shaped by these pasts and honed into what I’ve become; simply Lark.”
“Nevertheless,” Eristen persisted, “the blood flows true. Will you take what is yours by birthright? Will you reclaim the throne of Skol?”
White Eye approached, his massive form moving with unexpected gentleness across the bloodstained ground. He lowered his head beside Lark, cream-white eyes observing the proceedings. She could feel his steady presence, not guiding her decision, but supporting her through it.
Nix hovered nearby. “We’re with you no matter what you decide, Lark.”
Venrick stepped in, taking her hand in his. “It’s yours to take,” he said.
“I will take the crown,” Lark said, reaching for the copper circlet, “not as a claim to rule, but as a symbol of truth restored.”
She accepted the crown but did not place it on her head. Instead, she held it before her, addressing the assembled army of Skol.
“Hear me, warriors of the North,” her voice rang out, strengthened by the magical energy she projected it with. “I do not return to claim the throne for myself. I return to cleanse our homeland of corruption, to restore the honor that has been tarnished by manipulation and deceit.”
She gestured to the fallen form of her cousin. “Greggor was not our enemy. He was a victim, as I was, as all of you have been. The true enemy is the corruption that spreads from the shadows, the rimeshade influence that infiltrated our courts, and those who allied themselves with such darkness for personal gain.”
The starry glow coming through in the patterns on her skin flared brighter as she spoke, casting her features in an otherworldly light. “I call upon you now, not as your queen, but as your blood, to turn your blades from this city and toward the true threat that faces all of Sataran.”
One by one, the warriors of Skol knelt, spears lowered, shields grounded. It spread beyond the clearing she stood in, rippling through the forces spread before the city gate. Everywhere, Northern soldiers laid down their weapons,recognizing both their rightful liege and the truth of her words. The Nordraven dragonriders glided overhead passing low once before banking into a climb back toward the North.
Venrick approached, Ingamar following close behind. His expression was a mixture of relief and concern, the silver-traced corruption beneath his skin glowed faintly in response to the celestial energy emanating from Lark.
“It’s done, then,” he said quietly as he reached her side.
“This part is,” Lark agreed, her gaze still fixed on the kneeling warriors. “But there’s more to be done. This battle may have been prevented but there will certainly be fights to come. The North will not give up their claims to the magic in the forest, nor will Lamar.”
“No,” Venrick concurred, “but now, maybe we can get things moving in the right direction toward a treaty. A way to avoid warring over Hyalites and Yogos. Something that all Kingdoms will benefit from.”
“That’s a lofty goal,” Hardin said, joining them.
“One that Barrik and the Magi Order will never agree to as long as they are drawing breath,” Lark admitted.
Eristen rose to his feet, his ancient warrior’s discipline reasserting itself. “What are your orders, my lady?”
Lark considered for a moment, weighing strategic necessities against the emotional weight of what had just occurred. “Gather his body,” she decided. “Return to the North. There will be no more war today.”
She placed Greggor’s crown carefully in a saddle bag on White Eye’s side. The midnight dragon lowered his massive shoulder, allowing her to mount despite the wound in her side.
As they prepared to take flight, Lark cast one final glance at her cousin’s body, now being prepared for transport by Honor Guard members.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For all of it.”
30
REGENT
Twilight settled over Astral City, painting the smoke-filled sky in somber shades of purple and deep crimson. Lark unclipped the brismil scale from her harness and put the spent Yogo Sapphires she’d been using to heal herself on the nightstand. She walked to the window looking out from the highest tower of Vermillion Keep and peered out to survey the aftermath of Flashover and the fighting that took place afterward. Lanterns glowed throughout the lower districts as rescue teams searched for survivors among the ruins. Healers moved between makeshift field hospitals, tending to the wounded without regard for which side they had fought on. And somewhere beyond the city walls, the Nordraven army continued their long retreat north.
The copper crown of Skol rested on a stone parapet beside her, catching the last rays of the setting sun. Nix flitted around it, studying it as though it were a discovery to be admired. Lark knew well enough the weight it bore.
“Are you going to put it on?” Nix asked, tucking her hands behind her back, looking up with a slight pouty face, and twisting back and forth.
“No,” Lark said. “That decision will have to wait for calmer days.”
“The casualty reports are in,” Venrick said, stepping onto the tower balcony to join her. His armor was gone, replaced by simple clothing. Lark noted the marks the corruption left traced on his skin, dark lines flecked with silver starlight acting as a permanent reminder of what they had endured. “Over eight hundred soldiers dead, twice that wounded. Civilian casualties are still being assessed, but lower than feared, thanks to Cheyanne’s evacuation efforts.”
“How many were Cheyanne’s rebels and how many were defending the Keep?” Lark asked, though the question tasted bitter on her lips. Those who had fallen on both sides of this fight were still people, regardless of which banner they served.
