It rained stone.

  The red glow consumed them, and fire blossomed like a cloud in the sky above. The lightning beat down on the castle like a blacksmith’s hammer striking an anvil.

  Wesley could only see the following seconds in complete darkness. It was like flashes of a strobe light as he fought his bindings.

  He was forced to watch what came next.

  In a shower of sparks and broken metal, the Nocturne broke free of his restraints and sprang up the steps to where his father knelt, still stuck in place by Belaric’s magic. His body was like chiseled stone, carved from some dark, all-consuming, other-worldly material. He was naked, too, the stone-like muscles rippling with every movement.

  It was like watching a museum statue come to life and move with deadly efficiency.

  As the rest of the room was in chaos, the Nocturne and his father were like a pocket of stillness. One standing over the other. For a long moment, they merely stared at each other, knowing what was about to happen.

  “Goodbye, father,” the Nocturne said.

  The Colonel, to his credit, did not scream, but looked up at his son with defiance.

  The Nocturne raised his hand, drawing a fiery handful of lightning into it, as if poured from a cauldron.

  Then he put his hand onto his father’s head, gentle as a caress, as if consoling him.

  Whatever pain the Colonel felt lasted but a second and his body went limp, and he slumped over.

  The Nocturne stood over him in a moment of quiet reflection, his shoulders tight.

  The big knight came out of nowhere, his blade arcing down in an overhead strike, like a silver bolt of lightning itself.

  Wesley almost thought he had it, too.

  At the last second the Nocturne spun, catching the giant sword in his hand. The Knight didn’t flinch and tried for another strike. Except he couldn’t get the sword out of the Nocturne’s grip.

  Wesley watched in awe as the Nocturne crushed the metal like it was paper, then he yanked it out of the knight’s hands and punched the knight in the breastplate, sending him over Wesley’s head to crash somewhere behind him.

  The sheer power the act took and the nonchalance with which the Nocturne had done it made Wesley’s heart sink.

  They were all just puppets, like he’d said. This could go only one way.

  And he was still stuck in the goddamn chair.

  “Enough!” Belaric roared, his voice doubling its force. A shield charm erupted above them, cutting off the storm raging in the skies. Bolts of lightning immediately struck it, as if testing its veracity. “You’ve had your fun. Your terms have been filled. Now, show us the way.”

  Godfrey appeared to Wesley’s left, a disgusted look on his face at what was happening. His blade was held in his white-knuckled hand.

  “Untie me,” Wesley said to him. “He isn’t going to help anyone. He’s going to kill you all.”

  He didn’t reply, his eyes darkening.

  “He will kill you!” Wesley said.

  The Nocturne stood near the corpses of his victims, a dark figure among all that he’d wrought.

  “You may have your freedom if you give us Avalon,” Belaric tried, desperation in his voice.

  Something tugged at Wesley, like the smallest pressure against his head. He looked up to find the little wooden bird figurine fluttering just outside the shield charm, pecking at it unnoticed.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The Nocturne sniffed the air. “I smell the rot on you, old man. You dabble where you shouldn’t have.”

  Belaric scoffed. “And you haven’t?”

  “I seek redemption through obliteration. You seek respite from an unrespectable death wrought by your endless search for power.”

  Wesley frowned.

  “Hypocrite,” Belaric spat.

  The Nocturne titled his head. “No. You see, you seek power because you are a weak, selfish man. Pathetic in life and so in death. I seek power so that all creatures, all those powerless little things that you cast aspersions on, do not suffer like I did.” The vitriol from the man was emanating like waves of heat. “Avalon will even the playing field. So that men like you, like my father, do not get to drag their evil around the world because no one has the strength to stop them.”

  Belaric laughed, the sound damp and sickly. “No. You are just like us. The power feels good, doesn’t it?”

  Wesley listened, but watched his little bird continue pecking at the shield. The place it had chosen was cracking like a spot of ice.

  “How many people have you killed in your search for justice?” Belaric continued, his tone colored by derisive humor. “Why not just seek your father? You could have crushed him. And yet, you'd killed dozens of others.”

  The Nocturne’s eyes flashed. “I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Can you say the same, you old fool?”

  Godfrey took a step forward, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his sword.

  The air was charged with the coming fight. A cord tightening slowly, being pulled from both ends towards the breaking point.

  “Then die, Nocturne, and let us be done with this episode of tantrums,” Belaric said dismissively.

  So many things happened Wesley wasn’t sure he hadn’t just gone mad.

  His bird figurine dive-bombed the cracks it had made in the shield, shattering the shield in one great explosion of sparks. The storm sounds assaulted them once more in a great wave. The figurine continued its descent like a bullet and smashed into the chair Wesley sat on, shattering it.

  He fell to the floor in a mess of broken wood. Without missing a beat, the little bird began to peck at the shackles while sitting on his wrist.

  Meanwhile, a dozen or so spells had all shot at the Nocturne, who, even without his gauntlets, still caught them. It was like watching a very skilled cricket player practicing catching. He caught the last one at the same time Godfrey charged. He only had five or so meters to close, but he only made it two steps.

  A spell, bright like a shooting star, flew from the gathered energy in the Nocturne’s hands and hit the Templar knight in the chest. It washed over him like a splash of water. Godfrey immediately slowed to a near crawl, caught in slow motion.

  The Nocturne laughed like it was all a big joke.

  Wesley, now able to look around, saw the one that must be Belaric walking slowly down the stairs, as if to make a run for it. He was old, unstable, his robe singed and smoking but moved quite quickly.

  The Minister had made it further, almost to the far door, when a bolt of lightning struck the ground just in front of him and flung him off his feet.

  “Where are you going, Minister?” the Nocturne called.

  A string of silver light was flung from his hand and caught the Minister around the ankle as he tried to rise. He was flung into the air so viciously Wesley heard the crack of his bones, and as he reached the apex of his flight, a bolt of red lightning struck him.

  Ashes joined the dusty air.

  “Filth!” the Nocturne shouted.

  It was at that moment the bird got through Wesley’s shackles, a stiff crack coming from the broken charm. The little creature fell to the ground, charred black and smoking. It was almost a comical thing to watch, and just before it died, it belched, and Wesley’s wand flew out of its mouth.

  The absurdity of it made him laugh.

  Then he grabbed it, said a quiet thank you to the bird and unfroze Godfrey, whose eyes were wide with growing terror at his apparent vulnerability.

  At the same time, the giant knight returned, a big fist-sized dent in the center of his chest.

  They charged the Nocturne together.

  Wesley didn’t wait to watch. He spun and released both Cecelia and Esther, who looked at him with cold detachment.

  “We must leave,” he said, helping Cece to her feet. Her eyes were distant, and she was cold to the touch.

  “What of your father?” Esther asked.

  “Him too but–”

  It was then, among the chaos and raging storm, that Wesley’s father chose to come back to himself. He suddenly threw back his head, his eyes wide with madness, and began a rageful chant.

  The change made Wesley stare. He could not hear the words among the storm or the ensuing battle.

  “Wesley!” Esther shouted, terror in her voice.

  He spun and saw immediately what had frightened her. Not-Merlin had sat up, the dagger in his rope-covered hand. It was then that Wesley remembered what Merlin had told him. He feeds off chaos.

  And they had delivered him a delicious meal.

  Not-Merlin had just feasted, enough to wake him from the knife’s power. With a slow, jerky movement, he began to cut himself free of the ropes.

  His father’s chanting grew louder, more feverish.

  Not-Merlin freed his face, and the dark eyes looked around, taking in the scene. They lingered on the big knight, then on the Nocturne. When at last they fell on Wesley, he felt a chill.

  “Ah, it's you,” Not-Merlin said, his voice hungry for revenge. “I was just dreaming about you.”

  Then his eyes looked past Wesley, going wide with something like awe.

  Wesley turned in time to see his father, somehow free of his bonds, reach out a hand to…to…a shadow.

  The shadow. The very same from the Nocturne’s memory.

  The one that had killed his mother.