His hand, iron-hard, crushed her windpipe against the rough olive bark. The air, already thick with Khenzor’s rage, became a suffocating shroud. Her vision swam under the pinprick glare of his obsidian pupils. She bit the inside of her cheek until coppery warmth coated her tongue.
“You are *lying*, Senneh,” he repeated, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her bones. “My tutor would never misspell the word chrysanthemum.” His thumb, calloused from sword hilts and parchment, brushed against the soft skin of her jaw, a feather-light touch that promised agonizing pain. “I taught her that word myself. Every syllable. Every curve of the script.”
His wrist twisted, driving her spine harder against the gnarled trunk. She thought instantly of the pens, of Roshari, of the fragile quiet built across three seasons. Black soot bled from Khenzor’s skin into the courtyard dirt, cracking the cobblestones beneath their boots.
A muzzled whimper rose from the nearest stall. The iridescent plumage of a nesting storm-weaver flared erratically, its feathers flattening against slate tiles. Frost crept over the troughs as his control frayed.
From behind the stable, a guttural shriek tore through the silence. General Varkos, who had been holding Roshari, cursed as the ground beneath them split. “Your Majesty!” he yelled, struggling to maintain his footing as the fissure widened. “Your power—!”
Khenzor didn’t even glance at him. His gaze remained fixed on her, black flames licking behind his irises. “You thought to fool me with such a paltry trick?” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “You thought to make me hate her? To make me *forget* her?”
[Warning! Cataclysmic magical surge detected! Environment stability critical!]
Red warning runes strobed across her vision, ignored. Dust swirled in hot spirals, splitting mortar, while the blue sky bruised to mottled slate.
Roshari wrenched free of Varkos’s grip with an elbow to his sternum. She didn’t run, but instead, she reached into the pouch at her waist, pulling out a small, obsidian whistle. A sharp, piercing note cut through the groaning air.
From the deep pens behind the main dwelling, a terrifying roar erupted. It was a sound that shook the very foundations of the farm, a primeval call that spoke of ancient wilds and untamed power. A hulking shape burst forth. Its hide showed the oily sheen of twilight, rippling like dark water, and slit pupils fixed on the perimeter.
The abyssal-drake, Raxus, banked low, leathery wings churning grit and loose straw. It crashed down between Roshari and the retinue, its barbed tail sweeping aside two armored retainers into the stable fencing. The shadow-tendrils curling off Khenzor buckled against the creature's thick scales.
“Raxus! Intercept!” Roshari screamed, pointing across the yard. “Keep him back!”
Khenzor released his chokehold to face the drake. The iron grip dropped away, and she dropped to her knees, heaving air into bruised lungs. Raxus lunged at the royal line, jaws snapping shut on bronze shields while steel clattered against stone.
But Raxus was not alone. The storm-weaver, shaking off the oppressive magic, let out a high-pitched cry and dove from the stable roof, its talons extended, raking across a Sentinel’s helmet. A shaggy-maned griffin burst from its pen, tawny feathers bristling as it screeched at the imperial flank. Even the usually timid glimmer-husk, a creature of light and air, began to pulse with blinding intensity, disorienting the approaching soldiers.
The orphans she had nursed and fed were throwing their bodies into his line of fire. She could not let them be slaughtered for her sake; reckless panic took over her feet before her mind could catch up.
Her gaze snapped to the luminous basin of the Divine Healing Pool at the courtyard center, its font shining against the soot.
“Roshari! Back to the pens!” she yelled over clashing iron. She bolted toward the font, slipping past an errant wing-stroke. Khenzor turned his head sharply, cutting through the melee with a gaze stripped of everything except her silhouette.
“Senneh!” Khenzor’s voice, sharp and laced with possessive rage, cut through the din. He moved, not with the languid grace of an emperor, but with the predatory swiftness of a predator hunting its prey. The flags splintered beneath his boots as he closed the distance, swatting the charging griffin aside with a backhanded pulse of black flame that sent the creature skidding across dirt.
She reached the font's carved lip, plunging her bare hands beneath the shimmering surface. The water carried thick, mineral warmth. Spinning back to face him, she threw two cupped handfuls straight at his chest.
The droplets, each a tiny star, struck Khenzor’s chest. For a fleeting second, the black fire around him sputtered out. A flicker of surprise, then pure, unadulterated fury, crossed his face. He lunged, faster than she could react, his powerful hands closing around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.
“You think a mere baptism can wash you clean of me?” he snarled. His grip tightened around her ribs, lifting her off her feet, and with a brutal downward twist, he hauled both of them over the rim into the deep, churning waters. The pool flared blinding white, searing as the enchanted disguise began to wash away. The purifying currents unraveled the spell layer by layer, dissolving the coarse skin and sun-bleached hair. Her true features resurfaced beneath the liquid gold, and Khenzor, his grin razor-sharp beneath the spray, whispered, “Tirnani.”