The Blade of Mercy
The swords clashed again.
Theron was not a young man. His burned hands were stiff, his scarred face was numb, his leg ached from the old wound that had never healed properly. But he had been a knight once. A knight of the old king. A knight who had sworn to protect the throne with his life.
Malrik was younger, faster, stronger. His blade sang through the air, each strike aimed at Theron’s throat, his heart, his eyes. He fought with rage, with desperation, with the knowledge that everything he had stolen was about to be taken from him.
But Theron fought with something else.
Guilt.
Grief.
Hope.
Rhaena watched.
The crown was heavy in her hands.
Corin stood beside her, his sword raised, ready to defend her if the guards regrouped. But the guards were dead or fled. The nobles were gone. The servants were hiding. Only Malrik and Theron remained.
“Your Grace,” Corin said, “we should go. While he is distracted.”
“No.”
“You cannot watch this.”
“I must.”
“This man killed your father.”
“This man is trying to save him.”
Theron stumbled.
Malrik’s blade caught his arm, opening a deep gash from elbow to wrist. Blood sprayed across the white and black stone. Theron grunted but did not fall. He raised his dagger with his good hand, blocking Malrik’s next strike.
“You are weak,” Malrik hissed.
“I am strong enough.”
“You are dying.”
“We are all dying. Some of us are just taking longer.”
Malrik pressed his advantage.
He drove Theron back, step by step, toward the doors of the great hall. His sword was a blur of silver and gold, each strike faster than the last. Theron’s dagger was slowing, his arm was weakening, his breath was ragged.
“Theron!” Rhaena shouted.
He looked at her.
His good eye was bright.
“Your Grace.”
“Do not die.”
“I will try not to.”
Malrik lunged.
Theron did not block.
He stepped inside Malrik’s reach, inside the arc of his sword, and plunged his dagger into the usurper’s chest.
The blade went deep.
Malrik’s eyes widened.
His sword fell from his hand.
It clattered against the stone.
“You,” he whispered.
“Me,” Theron said.
“Why?”
“Because she asked me to.”
Malrik fell.
He did not scream. He did not cry. He simply collapsed, his body folding like a puppet with its strings cut, his blood pooling around him on the black and white stone.
His eyes stared at the ceiling.
His lips moved.
No words came.
And then he was still.
Theron knelt beside him.
He placed his hand on the usurper’s chest.
“Go in peace,” he said. “Go in peace, and be forgotten.”
He closed Malrik’s eyes.
He stood.
His arm was bleeding.
His face was pale.
“Your Grace,” he said. “The throne is yours.”
Rhaena walked to the throne.
The golden monster gleamed in the torchlight.
She placed her father’s crown on her head.
It was too big.
It was too heavy.
It was perfect.
She turned to face the empty hall.
“Rise,” she said.
Corin rose.
Theron rose.
The shadows rose.
The kingdom rose.