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There was so much going on in the Throne Room that it was difficult for Vultrel to keep track of it all. He wanted to run to his father's side, but Truce's relentless attacks held him prisoner to his own blade. Sartan's grin was infuriating, and comments he made between strikes heated Vultrel's blood so that the tears running down his cheeks seemed boiling hot. Truce would pay. If it was the only thing he ever accomplished for the rest of his life, Vultrel would make sure that each and every single one of the Vermillion Mages suffered for what happened to his father.
Arus, why couldn't you have resisted the control of that bloody implant like Anton did? I thought you were stronger than him!
His arms and legs ached from overuse. Eaisan had managed to keep each of Arus' strikes from penetrating his defense until the last, but Vultrel hadn't be quite so lucky with Truce. He'd received an assortment of fine cuts and slices in addition to the one Arus had given him, streaking his arms with blood. Every wound stung with each movement, but if he didn't keep up with Sartan's attacks, he would quickly find himself lying beside his father.
"Don't worry, boy," Truce was saying. "When I'm through with you, you won't even know who Eaisan Lurei was."
"I'm going to make sure you never forget who Vultrel Lurei is," he shot back, swinging his weapon with all of his might. "And you'll never—"
The rest of his sentence was drowned by a blood-curdling scream from the center of the room. Truce, startled, glanced away for a moment, and Vultrel made the most of the split-second distraction. In that heartbeat of an opportunity, his sword was raised, and he brought it down hard on the Mage's bare shoulder, stopping only when it found bone. Truce grimaced and knocked the sword away with his own and then pressed his free hand to Vultrel's chest. An explosion of fire burst his palm, sending Vultrel sprawling across the floor a short distance from Eaisan's lifeless body. Searing heat burned in his chest; he almost thought the jerkin itself was on fire. He rolled onto his knees and tore the armor off—it really was on fire!—and stopped dead when his eyes fell upon her.
Kitreena stood hunched over in the center of the Throne Room, fists clenched at her stomach, mouth open in an eternal scream of anger. Amethyst light glowed like magma in her eyes, and tendrils of smoke rose from every inch of body. A cold wind began to whirl around the room, growing in intensity until Vultrel was forced to shield his eyes just to keep them open. The air was icy despite the summer heat, and mist began to rise from the floor around her. Streaks of electricity snaked around her hands like lightning, occasionally slithering along the rest of her body. It was the same as had happened in the Mages' underground lair.
Behind her, Damien was shouting something Vultrel couldn't make out. Something about control, he thought. The towering blue-skinned man was on his knees, tapping his fingers on some kind of machine he'd set on the floor. His mouth moved, presumably with words meant for Kitreena, but the howling wind silenced his voice. Was this all part of some elaborate plan of theirs? Or had Kitreena lost control again? Either way, the expression on Damien's face spoke of shock, surprise, and most disturbing, fear. What in the world were they up to?
Her scream intensified further, if that was possible, and a brilliant glow of red light surrounded her. She rose, lifted, floated into the air as though it were quite normal for a person to do. Damien's eyes grew wider, and his lips formed words that almost looked like "I can't believe it." Higher and higher she rose, until her head nearly bumped the wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Her fists moved together as she curled into a ball, and all the mist, all the lightning, all the wind, all the smoke, everything was drawn into her center, until it erupted with a massive explosion that knocked every soldier to the ground with a thunderous blow. Vultrel felt his body sailing through the air until his back found the wall, and his head rattled off of the stone before he slumped to the floor.
For a moment, there was only silence. Vultrel half-wondered if he was dead, but he could still feel the cold stone floor beneath him. The world spun as he opened his eyes, and what he saw could've been nothing short of a hallucination.
The fighting had ceased. Every soldier was either out cold or staring up in wonder at a figure that could only be Kitreena floating high above them all. She had transformed into something, but those purple eyes looked down on them with an icy familiarity. Her body, no longer recognizable to those who hadn't witnessed her ascent, was made up of a pure white light surrounded by a glowing red aura. The only familiar features Vultrel could see were her hair—it was just as much made of light as the rest of her, but it was the same flowing mane that she'd had in her human form—and those eyes. Thick bolts of electricity streamed around her torso and limbs in a constant motion, never flickering, never fading. Her glowing hand still gripped her whip, the weapon now made of fire, and she unconsciously flicked it back and forth like the tail of an angry tiger.
When Vultrel looked down, the only two standing were Arus and Damien. Both had their eyes fixed on Kitreena, and Truce, clutching his bloody shoulder, stared in open terror at the young woman from where he sat. The red eye of Arus' implant blinked. He's going to use that light-weapon again!
Without warning, Kitreena screamed again, and as she threw her arms out to either side, a wave of fire and wind burst from her body in all directions, shattering the stained-glass windows above the throne and throwing everyone into the walls like weightless specks of dust. When Vultrel's head hit the stone wall again, darkness dominated, and consciousness faded away with Kitreena's endless wail.
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END OF VOLUME ONE