Oathbreaker - Chapter 15
“Alana!” Devon screamed as she collapsed at Quinn’s feet.
Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.
A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.
Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.
As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.
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“Alana!” Devon screamed as she collapsed at Quinn’s feet.
He staggered forward, but pain shot up his leg and a wall of men moved to bar his path. Gritting his teeth, he hefted kanker and made to lower Braidon to the ground.
“No.” Kellian’s hand grasped Devon firmly by the arm and pulled him back.
In front of them, the Stalkers edged forward, swords held at the ready, their eyes filled with loathing. Despite his injuries, Devon had downed several with his hammer, Kellian two more. But now they’d been forced back to where the tunnel widened, the Stalkers threatened to encircle and overwhelm them. Their only chance was to keep retreating.
Devon’s anger flared as his eyes swept across to where Quinn stood. He watched with teeth clenched as the man crouched down and lifted Alana into his arms. Turning, he walked away down the tunnel. For a moment, Devon thought he was sparing them; then his words carried back to the Stalkers facing them.
“Kill Devon and Kellian. Bring me the boy, if he lives.”
“Come and get him!” Devon bellowed, but he knew the threat was an empty one. He could barely stand with the boy’s weight on his shoulder.
One of the Stalkers leapt towards them, sword extended. Kellian parried with a flick of his dagger, then buried his second blade in the man’s eye. Screaming, the man reared back, tearing the weapon from Kellian’s grip. His comrades charged forwards, but the man staggered blindly to the side and sent two more crashing to the ground with him.
“That’s far enough!” rang out a voice from the tunnel.
Devon froze where he stood and cast a glance over his shoulder. The voice had been softly spoken, barely audible above the pounding of his own heart, yet it carried with it a ring of power. At the other end of the tunnel, Quinn stopped and swung back towards them. The other Stalkers exchanged looks.
Turning, he stared as the demure figure of Tillie walked from the shadows, stepping past Devon and Kellian and advancing on the men. She held the familiar short sword in her right hand—and fire in her left.
“Who are you, woman?” Quinn’s voice came from the end of the tunnel. “How dare you use magic in the Tsar’s lands?”
“How dare I?” Tillie laughed. “By the power of Antonia, I defy your false god!”
The colour drained from Quinn’s face. Even from a distance, Devon could see the man’s fear as he looked at the flames crackling in the priest’s hand. As the Stalkers hesitated, the old woman flashed a glance over her shoulder, a smile on her lips.
“Sorry I’m late, boys,” she said in response to their stares. “I was finding us a ride.”
With that, she turned back to the Stalkers. The fire in her hand roared, doubling in size, and the men stumbled back. Beyond them, the last of the colour fled from Quinn’s face.
“Stop her!” he yelled, then turned and fled, Alana still draped over one shoulder.
The remaining Stalkers hesitated, looking from one another back to the old Magicker. But they were soldiers still, well trained and professional. For the past five years they had spent their days hunting down rogue Magickers, trapping them and dragging them back to the Tsar’s dungeons. Overcoming his fear, one unleashed a battle cry, and the spell broke. Together, the men charged.
And died.
Devon stared as Tillie carved through the warriors, her sword little more than a blur, flames dancing out to engulf men in its blazing light. A man ran at her screaming, and staggered back, choking on his own blood. Two tried to encircle her, but the old woman only spun on her heel and sent flames rushing out to swallow them. Acrid smoke stung Devon’s eyes as he retreated from the battle. One by one, the priest cut the Stalkers down, until none remained to face her.
Gaping, Devon watched as the old priest came to a stop, her shoulders heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Glancing back at them, she waved her sword towards the citadel.
“Get back to the courtyard beyond the gate,” she ordered. “Dahniul is waiting for you.”
Before Devon could ask who or what Dahniul was, the woman turned and started down the tunnel after Quinn and Alana.
***
Quinn’s heart pounded hard in his chest as he raced out onto the open plains before the gates of Fort Fall. Alana weighed heavily on his back, but he did not set her down. If he lost her too, there would be no more chances for redemption. The Tsar would see him locked away, his soul torn from his body, his mind destroyed. No, better he face death than succumb to that fate.
Sprinting across the barren land, he scanned the skies, searching for the dragons he knew were lurking nearby. An explosion echoed from the tunnel behind him. He watched the light flickering within the darkness. His men didn’t stand a chance against the woman, but if they could hold her long enough, he at least might escape.
He turned away from the fortress and continued his flight. Silently, Quinn cursed his recklessness, using up so much of his magic filling the ship’s sails. He’d barely recovered enough power to strike at Devon, but the man’s cursed hammer had turned away the attack as easily as it had the demon’s dark magic. Now a powerful Magicker had shown herself, and he had nothing left with which to fight her.
“Give her up, Quinn!” The old woman’s voice chased after him.
He glanced back, seeing her standing in the gate tunnel. Flames gathered in an outstretched hand, and then rushed towards him. Quinn threw himself to the side as the conflagration struck the sand where he’d been, showering him with molten glass. The unconscious Alana tumbled from his shoulder, her head lolling against her shoulders like a ragdoll’s.
Leaping to his feet, he hauled her up, but another blast of flame struck the ground before he could go further. He staggered to a stop, turning to face the old woman. She walked slowly towards him, her eyes flashing an angry red, power flickering in the palm of her hand.
Quinn swallowed hard. Where had this woman come from? She was certainly not a priest, not from the Earth Temple, at least. Had one of the Trolan Magickers escaped during the war, and bided her time for all these years?
“Drop her, Stalker!” Her command rang off the castle walls.
“Never,” Quinn growled.
Fire was building in the palm of her hand, but with Alana in his arms, he knew she couldn’t risk another attack. Quinn thought quickly, seeking an escape. She was still some fifty yards distant, but she was moving slowly, her aging frame betraying her. He started to back away, matching her stride for stride.
“You think you can escape me?” Her voice chased after him, harsh and mocking.
Quinn shook his head but didn’t reply. From the corner of his eyes, he caught the glint of three specks on the horizon. He smiled, keeping the relief from his face.
“Who says I wish to escape you, my lady?” he asked.
A frown appeared on the woman’s face. She spun towards the horizon, spying the specks of red hovering to the south. They were already growing larger. Returning to Quinn, she pointed a finger.
“Give her up, Quinn,” she hissed. “Now!”
It was Quinn’s turn to grin now. “You know what approaches, stranger. Even your magic cannot defy three Red Dragons. Perhaps it is you who should give up?”
The woman bared her teeth, rage showing on her face. She took a step towards him, her flames crackling, but Quinn pulled Alana’s unconscious body in front of his chest, forming a human shield.
“Go ahead!” He laughed as the woman lowered her hand.
“You truly are a coward,” she hissed.
A tremor went through her, and for a moment it seemed she would attack him, regardless of Alana. He pulled her closer against his body and held his sabre to her throat. “One more move, and she dies,” he snapped.
Slowly, the fire died in the woman’s hand. Her eyes shimmered, returning to a crystal blue. She stared at him a moment longer, fists clenched, then she sheathed her sword and swung away. Moving quickly, she retreated to the gate tunnel and vanished into the darkness beyond.
Quinn allowed himself a long breath out, his shoulders slumping in sudden relief. He watched the shadows of the gate a moment longer, then turned to watch the southern horizon.
Agony tore at Devon’s leg as he staggered after Kellian. His friend had sheathed his knives and taken the boy, but still Devon struggled to keep up. With each step he could feel the crossbow bolt grating against his collarbone. Fire radiated from the wound in his shoulder, but he still held kanker clenched in one hand. With sheer bloody-minded determination, he stumbled on.
Ahead, the darkness receded, giving way to the courtyard beyond the gates. His heart pounded hard in his chest as he moved out into the dying shadows, joining Kellian in the cobbled centre. With Braidon slumped over one shoulder, his friend had drawn to a stop and was looking back the way from which they’d come. Following his gaze, Devon’s stomach clenched as he saw the silhouette of the old woman approaching.
Alone.
“Alana,” Devon murmured. Without thinking, he stepped towards the tunnel, but a hand from Kellian held him back. Devon swung on him. “We can’t just leave her with him!”
“We must,” Kellian replied softly. He nodded to the boy. “Her brother lives. She would want us to save him—you know that!”
Devon swallowed, words abandoning him. The last of his strength fled into the void and he slumped against his friend. Kellian staggered but held him tight, supporting his weight. Eyes tearing up, Devon looked away, his gaze drifting upwards.
He frowned as a shadow swept across the sky. The hairs on his neck stood on end as, moments later, a roar echoed through the courtyard. Kellian tensed beneath him, and, gritting his teeth, Devon forced himself to take his own weight. Bile rose in his throat as his head swam, but he growled in defiance and hefted kanker above his head.
“Come on, dragon, come and get us!” he screamed at the sky.
A roar from above answered him, followed by the rush of wind and a violent crash as the beast came barrelling down into the courtyard. The ground shook beneath their feet as it struck, causing Devon to stagger and fall to his knees. The courage went rushing from him as he stared up at the beast.
The dragon towered over them, its jaws like an open doorway, stretching wide to swallow them. Giant claws sliced through the cobbled ground like it was butter. The scales glowed golden in the last rays of sunlight. Its massive tail lashed out, smashing through a cluster of pillars and causing a low roof to topple inwards. The great blue eyes blinked as the long neck twisted around to inspect the damage.
Sorry.
Devon blinked as the voice spoke in his mind. He stared up at the creature, taking it in, struggling to comprehend. It was far larger than the dragons he’d seen in the Tsar’s thrall. His fear slowly trickled away, replaced by awe. Pulling himself back to his feet, he shook his head, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Its scales were golden.
The Gold Dragons had fought alongside the Three Nations against Archon, and been wiped out during the final conflict. Yet here one stood, its head lifted high, its glistening blue eyes staring down at them with unmistakable intelligence.
Looking into those eyes, Devon suddenly realised it had been speaking to them. He glanced at the ruined pillars, then back at the dragon. He waved one shaking hand.
“It’s nothing…” he hesitated, trying to remember the name the priest had used. “Dahniul?”
A low rumble came from the dragon’s chest. Very well. There was a pause as the blue eyes flickered to the tunnel. You must be quick, if we wish to survive.
Beside Devon, Kellian still stood staring at the dragon, his face frozen with fear. Devon nodded for him, and the beast crouched down, offering a forearm. Gripping his friend by the arm, Devon dragged him towards the creature.
“What are you doing?” Kellian gasped, coming back to life.
“Gold Dragons are allies, remember?” he replied. “We’re going to ride him!”
“Are you insane?” Kellian yelled, but some of the fear had gone from his eyes and his resistance ceased.
Together, they made it to the dragon’s side. Even crouched, it was twice the height of a horse, and they were forced to use its forearm to climb up. With Kellian’s help, they managed to get the unconscious Braidon on the dragon’s back. Devon followed him, only the adrenaline thumping through his veins keeping him upright. Scrambling up, he glanced back and grimaced at the trail of blood he’d left on the golden scales.
Reaching down with his good arm, he helped Kellian up behind him. His friend’s face was pale and he settled into place without a word. They had both seen what these creatures were capable of, had watched as the Tsar’s Red Dragons burned entire fields of men alive.
“Now what?” Kellian yelled, his voice several octaves higher than usual.
The dragon shifted beneath them, its great head turning back towards the tunnel. Shadows flickered in the darkness as the green robes of the old priest appeared. Tillie was limping now, moving slowly. The dragon lowered its head to meet her, and Devon sensed words pass between them.
A second later, Tillie appeared. Her face was dark, her lips drawn tight. Her blue eyes flashed back at them as she sat in front of Devon.
“You have Braidon?”
Devon sat frozen by the power in her gaze, but Kellian’s voice came from behind him. “We have him.”
“Then go, Dahniul!” Tillie shouted.
Dahniul crouched, and leapt into the sky with a roar. Devon gasped as his stomach fell away. The air crackled as the great wings swept down, sending dust swirling across the courtyard. Below, the walls shrank as they lifted higher, unveiling the great expanse of the fortress beneath them. Devon glimpsed a dark-cloaked figure standing beyond the gates, looking up at them. A body lay on the ground beside him.
“Can’t you help her?” Devon screamed, his heart aching as he looked down at Alana.
But the dragon was already turning beneath them, its giant wings beating hard, heading north.
Tillie did not look back, but her words carried to him over the rushing wind. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sad. “I tried, but even Dahniul cannot fight three.” With her words, she pointed to the south.
His hope falling away, Devon twisted to look at the horizon, where three scarlet specks hung in the air. They grew larger as he watched, the great beasts rushing across the sky, trying to cut off their escape.
As though in response, Dahniul unleashed an awesome roar. It rose higher in the sky, until it seemed the air itself would turn to ice around them. Trembling with the cold, Devon’s thoughts fell away as he concentrated all his energy into just hanging on. Through the clouds below, a desert was flashing past, a myriad of rocky escarpments and rolling dunes. They began to lift, growing and stretching, becoming rolling hills, then jagged mountains that reached up towards them. His gaze travelled on, the white-capped peaks rushing closer.
Devon glanced back and saw the Red Dragons had fallen far behind. Their smaller wings couldn’t keep pace with Dahniul, and now they were little more than specks on the horizon again. They would soon lose them in the mountains.
Despair welled in Devon’s heart he looked at the distant fortress. Fort Fall was just a black dot in the narrow neck of land that was The Gap now, its giant ramparts and spiralling towers reduced to miniature. Somewhere beyond, Alana lay unconscious, imprisoned by the vile lieutenant of the Stalkers. Closing his eyes, he sought to stem the pain, to assure himself they’d made the right decision. Alana would have wanted them to escape with her brother.
It was no good, and he found himself falling into the familiar trappings of guilt. If only he’d fought harder, had killed Quinn before the archer could stop him. If only he’d stayed, tried to save her. But he hadn’t, and now the fiery young woman was gone.
Devon remembered her words around the campfire then, the spark in her eyes as she told him she would go back for her brother. A sudden resolve came over him, a soft determination that cut through his pain and despair. He knew what he had to do.
He would regain his strength and march south. With an army or by himself, it didn’t matter. One way or another, he would free her from the dark clutches of the Tsar. He just prayed to the Gods Alana would survive that long.
Beneath them, the dragon drifted lower as they entered the clouds that clung to the mountains. Water formed on Devon’s beard, but he wiped it away, his eyes turning to the woman riding in front of him. He thought back to their first meeting in Sitton Forest. Where had she come from, this powerful Magicker? Why had she travelled with them all this time, helped them, saved them?
As though sensing his thoughts, the old woman stood suddenly. Balancing precariously on the dragon’s neck, she turned and sat down once more. Now she was facing them, Devon could see her eyes were blue again, their sapphire depths clear and piercing. He swallowed as she looked at him, remembering how she had carved through the Stalkers like they were amateurs, not accomplished swordsmen.
The question came to his lips unbidden, slipping out before he could catch himself. “Who are you?”
A smile appeared on her aged face, the wrinkles seeming to vanish for a moment, so it seemed a much younger woman sat before them. Her eyes danced as she spoke.
“My name is Enala,” she said, “and I was sent by the Goddess to find you.”
Consciousness came slowly to Alana. It began with the faint tug of wind in her hair, the awareness of a cushioned mattress beneath her, the warmth of the air in her nostrils. Light seeped through her eyelids, shaking away the last dregs of sleep. A frown creased her forehead as an unknown fear touched her, and she sought to return to her dreams.
An image floated through her mind, of a man with black hair streaked with blonde, and brown, piercing eyes. He stood over her, sword poised, the blade glistening as he prepared to strike.
A scream tore from Alana’s throat as she jerked upright, throwing off a heavy blanket and scrambling to escape. She yelled again as she tumbled sideways and fell from the bed. Stars flashed across her vision as her head struck something hard, followed by the thud of her body hitting the floor. Groaning, she struggled up, sanity creeping back into her thoughts.
Alana took in her surroundings, her confusion mounting. The bed on which she’d lain was massive, its heavy duvet thrown back, the silken sheets still tangled around her legs. Four columns at the corners of the bed held up a rich oaken panel and velvet curtains. The curtains were a vibrant red and sported embroideries of great dragons and shining knights in their plated armour.
Jerking back the curtains, Alana checked to see if anyone else was hiding in the bed, but it was empty. Shocked with the strangeness of it all, she looked around the empty room, hardly able to believe the riches surrounding her. Woollen carpets covered the floor, spilling out across the room like discarded afterthoughts. A meticulous mural had been painted on the far wall, showing a group of mounted nobles in a hunt. At one end of the wall, the men were gathered with bows raised, arrows already in flight, while at the other, an enormous feline fled their party. Shivering, Alana studied the faces, but there were too many to recognise any.
Alana rubbed her head where a bruise was starting to swell, and swore at the bedside table she’d struck it on. She stood and kicked it on its side. Realising suddenly that she was naked, her eyes alighted on a trunk at the foot of the bed. She moved cautiously towards it and flicked it open with a toe, fearful this was all some trap her captors were waiting to spring.
Nothing happened and, looking inside, she found a set of leather riding pants and a black jerkin with studded steel on its wrists. A couple of dresses lay beneath them, but otherwise the contents could have been mistaken for a man’s wardrobe. Hesitantly, she pulled on the clothes she’d chosen, feeling sick as they slid comfortably around her small frame. Somehow, she knew everything within the trunk would fit her perfectly.
Sucking in a breath, she turned, taking in the rest of the room. Beside the bed, two sofas had been arranged around a granite fireplace. Behind the steel mesh, glowing coals still burned, warming the room. Past the sofas was a massive archway, and beyond that, she glimpsed the grey light of a cloudy sky. On the other side of the room was a massive set of mahogany doors. Guessing they would be locked, Alana chose the archway.
A cold wind blew across to meet her as she started towards it. Noticing a heavy down jacket discarded on one of the sofas, she paused to pull it on. If she was going to escape, it wouldn’t be to end up freezing to death in the wilderness. Without any idea where she was, she moved to the archway and stepped outside.
Alana’s heart fell into her stomach as she found herself on a marble balcony, looking out across a shimmering garden and spiralling towers. Hope curdled in her chest. Beyond the towers, she could see the familiar red rooftops and shining blue lake of Ardath. Quinn had dragged her right back to where she’d started. Worst of all, she was now trapped in the citadel, at the very centre of the Tsar’s power. There would be no escaping this place.
Looking out over the balcony, Alana stared down at the six-storey drop to the stone paving below. She gripped the marble railing tight, gathering her courage. The walls on either side of her were smooth, unassailable, but if she just climbed onto the railing…
The slam of the outside door opening made her turn. Forcing the despair from her face, Alana turned and watched as Quinn paused in the doorway, a smile on his face. Seeing her awake and standing on the balcony, his smile grew and he stepped into the room. He carried a sheathed sword in one hand, and wore another at his waist.
“Awake at last, I see!” he said brightly, moving towards her.
“Stay away from me,” Alana growled. She shrank back, until the railing of the balcony brought her up short.
He paused, a frown replacing the smile. “You still do not remember me? I thought the room…” he shook his head, waving a hand. “I apologise. Here, take your sword, if it makes you feel better.”
He tossed the sword across the room. Alana watched it twist through the air as though it were a snake. It made a soft thud as it landed on the carpet. She stood for a moment, still staring at it, before darting back into the room and snatching it up. Leather scraped on steel as she drew it and advanced on him, blade raised.
Quinn didn’t move, but his smile returned. “Magic or no, you have lost none of your fire, Alana.” He shook his head. “But my power has returned. You cannot defeat me with that.”
As though to emphasise his words, a soft breeze whirled across the room from the balcony, touching Alana’s cheeks. She stared at him for a moment longer, teeth bared, and then lowered her sword. Still holding it tightly in one hand, she glared at him.
“What have you done with my brother?”
His face tightened. “I am afraid your friends took him. I do not know if he survived without our healers’ aid.” He shook his head. “I am sorry for what my man did. He has been…dealt with.”
Alana’s heart fluttered at the thought of her brother free. For the first time since awakening, a smile touched her lips. She stared at the hunter, defiant.
“What do you want with me, Quinn?”
“You truly do not know?”
She shook her head, lips pursed. “I only know you tried to kill me.”
“That…was not me. The Tsar was…desperate not to allow you to escape his realm.”
Alana laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “The Tsar, desperate?” she shook her head. “What are my brother and I to the ruler of the Three Nations?”
Quinn sighed. “Let us find out, shall we?” He stepped aside, waving a hand at the open doors through which he’d entered.
Alana narrowed her eyes. Hesitantly, she stepped around him, and saw two guards standing in the corridor, waiting for them. Gripping her sword tightly in one hand, she considered charging them. Perhaps she could slay one and then flee before Quinn could react…
“Coming?” Quinn asked lightly, stepping past her.
Watching him join the guards in the corridor, her shoulders slumped. He would not let her escape. Even if she could slip past the guards and Quinn’s magic, the citadel was full of armed men. It wouldn’t be long before they all came hunting her. No, no one could escape this place without the Tsar’s leave.
“Would you like to come willingly, or be dragged before the Tsar in chains?” Quinn asked, his voice still light, as though discussing tomorrow’s weather.
Alana flashed him a glare, but she gave a curt nod. Ignoring the three men, she stepped out into the corridor.
“Which way?” she all but spat.
Chuckling to himself, Quinn moved around her and took the corridor to the right. The guards fell into place either side of Alana as they started off. They looked at ease, as though Alana posed no more danger than a child. She grated her teeth. Was that why Quinn had returned her sword? Did they truly consider her so little a threat?
Moving through the long corridors, Alana studied her surroundings, seeking potential escape routes. At every branch in the passageway, a pair of guards stood in full armour, equipped with spears and short swords and daggers. It would have taken an army to escape through the halls they walked along.
When they finally reached the throne room, Alana could hardly bring herself to step through the golden doors. She knew Quinn was marching her to her death, that she would likely never leave this place again. Perhaps the Tsar had invited all his nobles and courtiers to attend her execution, to remind his followers of his power, of what became of those who defied him.
Yet, as Alana stepped inside, she was surprised to find the throne room almost empty. Open space stretched out from her, marked only by the scarlet carpet leading up to a raised dais. A dozen guards stood there, the bulk of their armour shielding the throne from view. On either wall were enormous silken tapestries, each depicting a scene from the second battle of Fort Fall, when the men and women of the Three Nations had made their last stand against Archon.
In the tapestry to the right, she glimpsed a giant figure standing atop the walls, a familiar hammer in hand. Her heart ached as she thought of Devon, Kellian, and her brother. Silently, she prayed Quinn had spoken the truth, that they lived.
Movement drew her gaze back to the raised dais. The ring of guards shifted, parting slowly to reveal the throne behind them. A tremor went through Alana as her eyes alighted on the man who sat there. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.
The Tsar was not a large man, standing only a few inches taller than Alana, but about him he carried an undeniable power, a sense of invincibility that could not be denied. His jet-black hair had been slicked back close to his skull, and while there were streaks of grey there, his face was unmarked by the passage of time. His eyes flickered down, catching her in an ancient stare.
Alana froze, her body suddenly quivering, as if struck by an invisible bolt of electricity. Her mind ground to a halt. It felt as though, with a single glance, she had surrendered all control of her body to the man on the throne. Unbidden, her legs started down the red carpet, past Quinn and the guards, across the empty room. The blue eyes followed her every step as she approached the dais. Only at the stairs did she finally stumble to a stop. With a half-choked cry, she fell to her knees.
Chainmail rattled as Quinn joined her, bowing low. “Your majesty, I have returned her.”
Returned?
Movement came from the dais, and Alana watched as the Tsar started down the marble stairs. A shiver swept through her, an awful terror rising in her throat. Yet she remained on her knees, unable to move, trapped in the cold gaze. Looking into their eerie blue, Alana imagined herself in the grips of some ancient power, her mortal strength nothing before the man’s might. She felt death staring back from them.
And still Alana could not look away.
She knelt, frozen, as he walked down the steps and approached her. So close, she could feel the power radiating from his body. It seemed to ripple the very air around him, to distort the essence of reality. It reached out for her, and Alana gasped as she felt something inside her respond. Opening her mouth, she tried to scream, but no sound came out. Fire sprang to life in her chest, swirling, writhing, reaching out for the power emanating from the Tsar.
As quickly as it had appeared, the pain vanished. Tears streaming down her face, gasping at the sudden release, Alana looked up and found the Tsar standing over her.
Wordlessly, the Tsar reached out a hand. His skin was warm to the touch as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. Alana shivered, unable to move, struck now by the unexpected kindness of the gesture. His touch was soft, almost familiar, as though this scene had played out many times between them.
A smile touched his lips, transforming his face. Gone was the coldness, the silent judgement, the executioner. In his place was a friend, a comrade, a hero. Silently, his warm hand cupped Alana’s cheek and drew her to her feet.
“My daughter,” his words echoed in the silence of the throne room. “Welcome home.”
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