Zafran froze.
“What?”
Her voice didn’t waver. “He’s gone.”
For a heartbeat, something inside him cracked. His breath caught—shock, grief, rage. But there was no time to feel it.
“Elsha and Ysar are still fighting,” Karin added. “She’s up against that shard-wielding woman.”
Zafran’s head snapped toward the ridge—where light flared again, glass and flame flashing in the smoky dark.
He moved.
A blur—his foot hit the dirt.
But Varzen was already there.
Lightning snapped forward like a whip.
Zafran twisted, blade raised—CRACK—the impact slammed into steel, sparks and shadow bursting across his face. The force shuddered through his arms, boots carving deep into the ash.
“I don’t think so,” Varzen growled, stepping into his path. Chaos magic writhed along his left arm—black tendrils flickering, hungry—and lightning pulsed in his other hand, crackling through his fingers like it didn’t belong there.
“You’ve got your fight,” he sneered. “Stay in it.”
Karin pivoted toward Zafran—but she didn’t make it two steps.
A golden wall of glyphlight erupted in front of her—smooth, humming, untouchable. No heat. Just perfection. A line she wasn’t allowed to cross.
Lucian stepped into the glow, calm, unhurried.
“You’re not leaving,” he said.
Isolde didn’t wait for his next word.
Steel flashed.
She moved like a blade drawn from the scabbard—frost curling from her trailing hand, but her sword led the way, laced with cold.
Lucian’s lance came up at the last second, parrying her strike in a shower of sparks. She followed through with a tight pivot, blade arcing toward his ribs.
The shield flared again, glyphs pulsing gold as it caught her mid-swing. But this time, it didn’t stop her clean—Lucian shifted half a step back, bracing.
“Don’t speak like you’ve already won,” she said through her teeth.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed—no smile this time. He spun his lance, setting it to guard.
Zafran reset his stance opposite Varzen, lips tight, mist curling from his shoulders.
Karin was already stepping wide, flame flickering at her fingers again, her breath steady and slow.
They moved like points on a ring, surrounding Lucian and Varzen—cutting off their angles.
The air thickened with heat, frost, and static. Breath, steel, magic. No words now.
And from beyond the ridge, behind smoke and fire—
the clash of glass and steel still rang.
A battle waiting.
And three warriors trapped in another.
Varzen didn’t wait.
Lightning cracked through the haze—bright, erratic, veined with shadow. Chaos bent its path midair.
Zafran ducked, rolled, and surged forward. Mist trailed behind him, sword coming low and fast. He struck clean—but Varzen met it with a burst of black-veined tendrils that whipped from his arm.
Steel sparked against shadow.
Zafran twisted, reversed his stance, and carved upward.
This time, he drew blood.
A thin line opened across Varzen’s shoulder.
The smile faded.
Only for a second.
Then it returned, wider.
“You were quiet last time,” Varzen said. “Guess someone had to die first.”
Chaos erupted—tendrils burst outward, slamming Zafran back. He landed hard—grit in his teeth, pain blooming in his ribs—but he barely had time to breathe. Another tendril was already on him.
He pivoted, deflected—too late.
It scraped his shoulder, tearing cloth and skin, right where he’d struck Varzen a moment earlier.
“Come on,” Varzen taunted. “I like you louder, Balin’s son.”
Zafran didn’t answer.
But he didn’t slow down, either.
Across the field, golden light pulsed—Lucian’s shield catching fire midair and dispersing it in a scatter of sparks.
Isolde closed in from the flank—blade flashing, frost trailing her like a ghost. She struck high, low, twisted—clean, calculated, relentless.
Lucian met her every angle with smooth, practiced grace. His lance spun, caught, and redirected as if the fight barely demanded his focus.
“You’ve grown, Lady Isolde,” he said. “Your father—Lord Lorarth—would’ve approved.”
“Don’t speak his name,” she spat, pressing harder.
Behind her, Karin moved.
Fire braided around her arm—tight, focused. She flung it wide, a streak of white-orange heat angling behind Isolde’s shoulder.
It struck Lucian’s side—dead on.
The shield bloomed to meet it. Glyphs flared, runes shimmered. The fire broke and scattered like dry leaves.
Lucian stepped forward through the light. Calm. Sharp.
“You two aren’t enough to stop me,” he said, glancing toward Karin. “Especially not in that hold-back state.”
Then he moved.
One full turn—his lance swept a circle in the dirt.
The ground rang.
A shockwave burst outward. Glyphlight tore across the field.
Karin stumbled. Isolde lost her footing. Both slid back, boots dragging through ash and frost.
On the other side, Varzen shifted again.
More tendrils ripped up through the ground—splitting old wood, warping the dirt, snapping through broken wagons like vines gone rabid.
Zafran fought between them—breath short, limbs burning, blade laced with mist. One tendril lashed around his leg and yanked hard.
He dropped.
A bolt of lightning slammed into his side.
Zafran gritted his teeth, forced his body upright—blood on his lip, arms trembling.
He was still on his feet.
Varzen licked blood from his own.
“Still standing?” he said. “Grief gives you grit.”
He raised his hand again.
And didn’t wait.
The clearing was a storm of glass.
Elsha’s blade met a shard mid-swing—CLANG—a bone-jarring impact that nearly tore the hilt from her fingers. Her arms screamed, and the edge nicked her knuckles—blood sprayed across her grip. She spun wide, ducking low just as another shard hissed through the air, parting her hair and slicing a line across her scalp.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Ysar dove beside her, shoulder-first into the dirt, a shard whistling past his back and burying itself into a tree with a thunk. He hit hard, coughed, and spat red.
“She’s not running out!” he gasped.
“She doesn’t have to,” Elsha growled, adjusting her grip. Blood ran freely from her thigh now—soaking into her boot. “She’s not even breaking a sweat.”
The glassborn stood at the center—calm, cold, eyes like wet steel. Her cloak swayed, and the shards circled her in perfect rhythm—six jagged blades suspended by humming brass-thread filaments, each one buzzing faintly with current. Lightning flickered between them, arching blue and white. The air stank of ozone and heat.
Another shard dropped low—spinning, shrieking. Elsha blocked it, but it kissed past her sword and carved a shallow gouge along her thigh. She stumbled.
Still, she lunged.
The orbit adjusted instantly.
One shard swooped in from above. She parried—wrong angle. Her wrist buckled. She hissed in pain.
Ysar flanked from the side, limping badly now. Blood trailed from his ribs where a shard had grazed deep. He ducked another slice, rolled—and came up wheezing.
“This isn’t working!” he shouted.
“She’s not invincible!”
“She’s not bleeding, either!”
Another shard sliced across Elsha’s shoulder—skin tore, blood splattered. Her braid unraveled, cut clean down the middle.
Ysar was down to one good arm, the other pressed to his ribs.
The elite flicked her fingers again.
The shards pulsed.
A trap.
Lightning jumped—one, two, three—then snapped outward in a perfect arc. Elsha dropped flat. Sparks scorched the earth where she’d stood.
Pain flared in her side—wet and hot. She didn’t know if it was the bolt or her own ribs breaking.
“Elsha—” Ysar choked, dragging himself behind a shattered log, leaving a red smear in the dirt. “We’re gonna die here.”
“No.”
She stood.
The next shard came—dead center, aimed for her chest.
She threw her blade.
It spun—hilt over tip—not toward the shard, but straight at the glassborn’s chest.
The elite shifted—just an inch.
Enough.
Elsha ran.
“Elsha!” Ysar shouted, voice hoarse.
A shard screamed in from the side—aimed at her temple.
—Crank—
One of Ysar’s daggers hit it midair—snapping the filament, shattering the control.
He was up again, limping, blood across his cheek and jaw, chasing after her.
Elsha reached the woman.
She slammed into her—full-body tackle, shoulder into ribs. They crashed down in a heap.
The shards scattered.
Filaments stretched—SNAP—light burst around them.
Elsha landed hard on top, her knee slamming into the woman’s gut. The glassborn reached to cast, mouth opening—
Elsha grabbed her wrist and slammed it into the ground.
“No more tricks.”
She raised her fist—and punched.
Once.
Twice.
The third hit crunched cartilage—blood sprayed from the woman’s nose.
The shards twitched—trying to return.
Ysar intercepted them mid-air. Slower now. He ducked one, deflected two. A third grazed his arm—cut deep. He didn’t stop.
The elite gasped beneath Elsha, dazed, bleeding from her mouth.
Elsha reached back—drew her shortblade.
She drove it down.
Right into the woman’s chest.
A scream tore from her lips—shrill and jagged. The control snapped.
All six shards went wild.
They spun in jagged arcs, erratic and aimless—faster—faster—
Elsha leapt away, just in time. One grazed her back. Another stabbed the dirt an inch from her throat. But the rest?
The shards all turned.
And drove themselves into her.
Glass punctured flesh in six places—chest, neck, legs, gut. The woman twitched once.
Then went still.
Elsha rose slowly.
Her chest heaved. Blood ran freely from her shoulder, her arm, her leg. Her hands were soaked—hers and the woman’s both.
Ysar limped up beside her. One eye nearly swollen shut, his ribs wrapped in makeshift cloth, one dagger still in hand.
“Done?” he rasped.
Elsha didn’t answer.
She just turned her head.
Toward the slope.
Toward the fire.
Toward Lucian.
Then she started walking.
And didn’t look back.
The air cracked with heat and noise.
Zafran’s blade met Varzen’s again—steel on chaos, sparks tearing through the haze. Mist curled around his arms, deflecting blow after blow, but his stance was slipping. His breath was ragged. Lightning veined the ground, arcing between the shattered bones of the battlefield.
“Come on,” Varzen sneered, striking low. “Thought grief gave you grit.”
Zafran twisted—too slow. A tendril slashed across his ribs. He staggered, boots skidding through the ash—
—and saw her.
“Elsha?”
She stepped through smoke and ruin.
Blood down her arms. Hair wild. Blade clutched like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Zafran froze.
No.
She couldn’t—
“Elsha!” he shouted.
She didn’t even flinch.
He tried to push past Varzen.
Varzen blocked him.
“No, no—” Zafran surged, mist flaring. “Get out of my way!”
Another crack of chaos forced him back. Varzen grinned, lightning dancing across his fingertips.
“You insult me,” he hissed. “Focus, Balin’s son.”
Zafran’s shout vanished in the thunder.
On the far side—
Lucian and Isolde circled like dueling stars. Frost hissed against his golden shield; her blade carved arcs of ice through the smoke. Lucian’s lance spun with the grace of old bloodlines—precise, patient, perfect.
Then—
Boots hit the ash between them.
Elsha.
Lucian tilted his head.
Isolde paused, mid-step. “What are you—”
But Elsha didn’t stop.
Her blade swept wide—nearly cutting across Isolde’s path. No glance. No hesitation.
Her eyes locked on Lucian like nothing else existed.
Isolde stepped back, caught off-guard. Off-balance.
“Don’t be reckless,” she muttered—but Elsha wasn’t listening.
Behind them, Karin flung another bolt of fire—tight, searing. The glyphlight bloomed once more around Lucian, scattering it like wind through sparks.
Elsha walked through them. Through the flame. Through the noise.
Straight into the storm’s eye.
Elsha charged.
Blade forward. Breath ragged. Blood trailing with every step.
Lucian didn’t move.
Not until the last second.
Then—clang—his lance met her sword with a flick of the wrist. Her momentum twisted, boots skidding across ash. She caught herself, snarled, and came again.
Another strike.
Another parry.
Then another. And another.
She was fast. Furious.
He was still.
Each blow struck, but none landed. His shield turned aside flame. His lance deflected steel.
He wasn’t winning.
He was unbothered.
Across the field, Zafran’s eyes locked on her.
His breath caught—
And that was all Varzen needed.
Lightning and chaos slammed into his ribs.
Zafran dropped to one knee—pain exploding sharp and immediate. His sword hit the ground beside him, half-buried in ash.
“Elsha!” he shouted—raw, desperate.
Too far.
Too late.
Lucian’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Grief and rage,” he murmured, “make you sloppy.”
Elsha screamed—pure, wordless—and struck again.
He stepped aside.
One smooth motion.
She stumbled—off balance—dropped to one knee.
Lucian didn’t strike.
He waited.
Behind her—
Varzen emerged from smoke.
Zafran tried to rise, tried to move—
Too slow.
Varzen smiled.
And drove the tip of his staff—chaos-forged, jagged and black—straight through her back.
One thrust.
No hesitation.
It punched through her chest, just beneath the collarbone.
Her breath hitched.
Everything stopped.
She looked down—at the blood, at the metal.
Her sword slipped from her hand.
Lucian exhaled, soft as ash.
“I hate this,” he murmured.
Elsha turned her head slightly.
Eyes searching—blurring—
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t fall.
Not yet.
She just stood there.
Still.
Then Varzen pulled the blade free.
And she dropped.
The air went still.
No scream.
No call.
Just the sound of her body hitting the ash.
Zafran’s breath caught in his throat.
Karin froze—mid-step. The flames at her fingertips flickered, then surged.
Ysar’s voice broke the silence—raw, cracked—but the words didn’t carry.
Lucian stood still, lance lowered. Varzen took a single step back, shaking blood from his staff like it meant nothing.
Then—Karin moved.
The fire flared up her arms. First a whisper—then a rush.
Not wild.
Not chaotic.
It tightened.
Her shoulders rose. Her breath hitched once—sharp and clean.
Across the field, Lucian’s chestplate glowed.
A pale red light, like a coal beneath silver. Faint at first.
Then brighter.
A pulse.
The metal warped.
Cracks split the polished armor—soft lines at first, then jagged. Smoke hissed from the seams.
A thread of embers bled through the cracks. They didn’t fall.
They pulled.
Pulled outward.
Drawn—across the space between them—toward her.
One strand.
Then another.
Dozens of glowing filaments unwound from Lucian’s chest, curling midair like veins of fire.
They reached her.
And struck.
Karin’s back arched.
There was no scream.
No cry.
Only flame.
It wrapped her shoulders. Her spine. Her hands. It didn’t explode—it filled her.
The ground trembled.
A wall of heat burst outward, scattering ash, turning broken carts into cinders.
The Hollowbound stumbled. Even Varzen took a step back, hand raised against the glare.
Zafran shielded his eyes.
Karin stood at the center.
Hair whipped by the updraft. Skin lit by gold and orange. Fire rose around her—not wild, but alive. Carving clean lines into the ash beneath her feet.
When her eyes opened—
They were burning.
Lucian didn’t move at first
He just stared—at the flames that didn’t burn, the ground that cracked not with heat, but with pressure, like the world itself was holding its breath.
“…Aftree,” he said.
Not a command.
Not fear.
Just recognition.
He took one step back. Then another. His shield shimmered faintly—gold, divine—but he didn’t raise it.
Not yet.
Karin stood alone.
Flames curled around her limbs—not like fire, but like memory. They didn’t flicker. They coiled. Perfect. Steady. Silent. Her coat turned to threads, then dust, leaving her wrapped only in scorched cloth and light.
The air trembled around her.
Not heat.
Weight.
Like the gravity of something older than fire itself had returned.
Varzen turned, slow and cautious.
His grin was gone. So was the arrogance. His chaos flickered tighter around him, like a shield—not confidence. Instinct.
“She’s consumed it,” he muttered. “Our plan are wasted again,”
Karin raised her head.
Her eyes were gold.
Still her.
But something moved behind them.
Varzen moved first. Not recklessly—precisely. Chaos wove into form, spears of shadow and lightning sparking to life between his fingers. He threw them like fate itself.
Karin raised one hand.
No roar.
No explosion.
Just obliteration.
A single beam of flame—so bright it left no shadow—cut the world in half.
Not fire.
Force.
It hit Varzen before he finished blinking.
There was no scream.
No shatter.
No trace.
He didn’t fall.
He was gone.
The flame didn’t stop.
It carved through the Hollowbound ranks like time unmaking matter. Metal, stone, bone—unwritten. It split a hill in two. Trees turned to glass, then to powder. The ridge cracked open.
Then it turned.
Curved up.
And rose.
A vertical scar across the sky—so white it looked like the clouds themselves bled.
The blast arced wide—skimming toward Ocean Tide’s ramparts.
Lucian finally moved.
His shield flared, brilliant.
He vanished—drawn away in a flash of glyphlight just before the blast reached him.
The outer wall of Ocean Tide—
Didn’t fall.
It ceased.
One moment it was there.
The next—
Nothing.
The flame lifted. Redirected. Bent upward—just barely—as if some shred of Karin inside the power remembered not yet.
And then silence.
Smoke twisted down like silk.
Ash fell like snow.
The world was still.
Karin stood at the center.
She didn’t glow.
She burned—without smoke, without heat. Her skin shimmered gold beneath soot. Her eyes dimmed to embers.
She looked at her hands.
Not in triumph.
In question.
Her breath came sharp.
She turned slowly—saw the crater, the emptiness where Varzen had stood.
And then—
A voice.
Not around her.
Inside her.
“A mortal… thinks she can control my power?”
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
It spoke like the world cracking open.
Karin staggered—just half a step.
And from the edge of the field—
Ysar ran. His boots hit the scorched ground hard, slipping once in the glassed dirt.
“Elsha!” he cried, falling to her knees beside her body—still whole, untouched by the flame.
But Karin didn’t turn.
She was still listening.
And something was listening back.