CHAPTER 129: THE LAST STAND BEGINS
CHAPTER 129: THE LAST STAND BEGINS
Steel met steel with a scream that shook the corridor.
The first soldier lunged before the echo of the closing gate had faded.
Tyron met him head-on.
His sword swept across the narrow passage in a silver arc, knocking the spear aside before driving the man into the stone wall with enough force to leave him unconscious before he slid to the floor.
"Move!" Tyron barked.
Kristine was already moving.
There was no time to mourn the bridge.
No time to think about Eli, Kamal, or the baby disappearing into the forest without them.
If they stopped now...
Everything they had sacrificed would mean nothing.
The corridor exploded with noise.
Boots thundered from every direction.
Torchlight danced wildly across the walls as soldiers poured through intersecting hallways, shouting over one another.
"There!"
"The prisoners!"
"Kill the warrior!"
"The woman belongs to the King!"
The last command made Kristine's blood run cold.
Belongs.
Never again.
She ripped the dagger from her belt.
With her other hand, she reached over her shoulder.
For the first time since entering the palace...
She drew the silver sword.
The blade sang as it left its scabbard.
Not loudly.
But with a clear, crystalline note that seemed almost alive.
Torchlight struck the polished metal.
The corridor brightened.
The soldiers froze.
Only for a heartbeat.
But Kristine saw it.
Recognition.
Fear.
One older guard actually stepped backward.
"No..."
His voice cracked.
"The Silver Blade..."
Another whispered the words every child in the kingdom had grown up hearing.
"The prophecy..."
"It exists."
Panic rippled through the front ranks.
Some tightened their grip on their weapons.
Others hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.
They all knew the story.
The blade was forged beneath the moon.
The weapon no king could survive.
The sword destined to drink Zedrak's blood.
Kristine had never believed in prophecies.
She believed in choices.
Tonight...
She chose not to hide anymore.
Tyron glanced sideways at her.
A smile flickered despite everything.
"So that's why you kept insisting it wasn't decoration."
"I told you."
"It has good balance."
He laughed once.
Short.
Breathless.
Then the soldiers charged.
The corridor became chaos.
Kristine stepped into the attack instead of retreating.
Her silver blade swept upward, deflecting a descending axe before her dagger found the opening beneath the man's arm.
She twisted free before his body hit the floor.
Another came.
She spun.
Steel flashed.
The silver sword cut through a spear shaft as though it were dry wood.
The broken weapon clattered uselessly across the stones.
The soldier stared at the ruined spear in disbelief.
Tyron's blade struck him from the side.
They moved together without speaking.
Back-to-back.
Forward.
Always forward.
Every time Kristine turned, Tyron was there.
Every time Tyron's guard opened, Kristine closed it.
The rhythm felt familiar.
Not because they had practiced it.
Because they trusted each other enough that practice wasn't necessary.
A sword swept toward Tyron's neck.
Kristine caught it.
An arrow flew toward her chest.
Tyron knocked it from the air.
The palace seemed endless.
Every doorway produced more soldiers.
Every staircase echoed with approaching boots.
There were too many.
Always more.
Somewhere behind the advancing ranks, a captain shouted,
"Don't let her reach the throne room!"
Another answered,
"The King wants her alive!"
Kristine smiled grimly.
Good.
Conflicting orders made armies slower.
She intended to make them slower still.
She surged into the center of the formation.
The silver blade blurred.
One soldier stumbled backward clutching his wrist.
Another dropped his shield entirely after the enchanted steel sliced through its iron rim.
"They're afraid of it!"
Someone shouted.
"Don't touch the blade!"
The fear spread faster than the fighting.
Legends were dangerous things.
Especially when they suddenly became real.
A spear slipped through the confusion.
Kristine saw it too late.
"Tyron!"
He turned just enough.
The spear missed his heart.
Instead...
It buried itself deep beneath his ribs.
The impact drove him backward.
For one impossible second...
The corridor became silent.
Then the spearhead glowed.
Not with fire.
With pale blue light.
It spread beneath Tyron's skin like liquid lightning, tracing strange patterns across his side before fading into his bloodstream.
The alien wound.
Kristine had seen nothing like it before.
Tyron snapped the wooden shaft in half.
His jaw tightened.
He pulled the blade free himself.
Dark blood splashed onto the floor.
Mixed within it shimmered faint streaks of blue.
The nearest soldiers recoiled.
"What..."
"What is he?"
Tyron answered by cutting two of them down.
But Kristine saw it.
The smallest hesitation.
His breathing had changed.
One shoulder sagged.
His movements remained deadly.
Just...
Slower.
"Tyron."
"I'm fine."
"You are bleeding."
"I've done that before."
"You've never glowed before."
He almost smiled.
"That's new."
Another wave crashed into them.
Tyron met it.
His sword remained unstoppable.
His body did not.
Kristine stepped farther ahead.
Without discussing it.
Without asking permission.
She deliberately made herself the target.
"Come on!"
She raised the silver sword.
"You've been chasing me all night!"
The soldiers answered exactly as she'd hoped.
They rushed toward her.
Leaving Tyron a precious moment to breathe.
She became the storm.
The dagger blocked.
The silver sword killed it.
Every movement carried her farther ahead of him.
Every strike drew another soldier away from his position.
Tyron understood immediately.
"No."
"You stay behind me."
"I'm not hiding."
"Neither am I."
She cut another spear in half.
"But one of us still has enough strength to run."
His silence told her she was right.
The corridor widened.
The shouting changed.
The echoes grew larger.
Kristine recognized the carved pillars before she saw the room itself.
Her heart stopped.
"No..."
They burst through the massive bronze doors.
The grand hall.
The very place where they had first been dragged inside wearing chains.
The marble floor where prisoners knelt.
The towering banners.
The twin thrones.
Everything was exactly as she remembered.
It felt less like coincidence...
And more like fate drawing a circle closed.
The hall stood eerily empty.
No guards.
No ministers.
No frightened servants.
Only silence.
Waiting.
Tyron slowed beside her.
His breathing had become noticeably heavier.
"Something's wrong."
Kristine already knew.
This room wasn't abandoned.
It had been prepared.
At the far end of the hall, beneath the towering banners of the kingdom, a lone figure stood before the twin thrones.
Hands clasped behind his back.
Perfectly still.
As though he had been expecting them all along.
King Zedrak.
He wasn't surrounded by soldiers.
He hadn't hidden behind walls.
He had come himself.
The torchlight reflected in his dark eyes as a slow smile spread across his face.
"So..."
His voice carried effortlessly through the enormous chamber.
"You finally found me."
Kristine tightened her grip on the silver sword.
Across from her, Zedrak's gaze settled on the blade.
For the first time...
The smile faltered.
Only slightly.
But it did.
He knew exactly what she was holding.
And for the first time in many years...
The king looked at death—and recognized its face.