The sound was relentless, a drumbeat of booted feet striking the ground and iron plates striking together, growing louder until the whole room seemed to vibrate. Dust trembled in the tall shafts of light that stabbed the hall. Every eye in the chamber fixed itself forward: the great timbers of the door were close to splintering.

  In the centre of the room the six of them stood shoulder to shoulder, Tyron at the front like a beacon, his sword catching the pale light. Behind him, half in shadow and half in the glow from the large round window at the end of the hall, were the others: Freya, small sparks licking at her fingers; Samantha, pistols gleaming at her hips; Zara, quiet and watchful; Lazarus, rifle at the ready; and Cid coiled like a spring, all motion waiting to be unleashed.

  “They’re here!” Samantha called, voice steady and sharp. Instinct took over and her words fell into order. “Everyone spread out. They’ll fan across the room. Tyron, the captain’s yours; he’ll make a straight line for you. Lazarus, take the high ground behind those chairs and pick them off. The rest of us, hold the gaps.”

  Samantha flicked her wrist and spun the pistols once, confident and strong. Nothing happened but the small ring of light at the barrels. Her jaw tightened. Her hands shook despite her control, the memory of frozen time pressing at her skull. The wood of the doors finally gave with a roar; the splinters flew like rain.

  Freya stepped forward without hesitation. She gathered a breath and poured it into a single, immense motion, a column of living flame that surged into the center of the doorway and slammed into the first wave of Shoven. They tumbled back, shrieking, bodies scattering like rag-dolls under the blast.

  Zara caught Samantha’s eye and nodded once, a silent anchor.

  “Come on!” Tyron shouted, rallying them. “Show them what we’ve got!” For a brief heartfelt moment, Tyron wondered if a sword was enough to hold five lives together. Whether it was he still had to try.

  He vaulted through the smoke. In a blur of movement he closed with the Shoven captain, a terrible figure in dented armour, and drove his sword home with brutal efficiency. The blade sang as it passed through scale and bone; the captain crumpled to the stone with a muted thud.

  At the same moment Lazarus slid behind an overturned dais and picked off two approaching guards with surgical calm. Zara loosened arrow after arrow from the shadows, the shafts finding chinks in armour and bringing men down to thumping silence. Samantha spun and fired, the tips of her shots blooming into streaks of fire and ice that tore the ranks apart. Cid streaked the perimeter like wind incarnate, his gauntlets a meteor strike as he smashed three stragglers into the wall. He finished with a brutal, acrobatic landing in the centre of the hall that sent a pulse through the floor; a dozen enemies staggered or fell.

  They were a storm. They were also, Tyron realized with a rising, cold worry, cutting a line through an ocean of enemies that did not thin. More poured in. Wave after wave. The hall’s marble glinted in the firelight, painted with blood and the slick of armour. For every Shoven that fell, two more filled the space they’d died in. The smell in the room becomes over bearing, a heavy iron smell from blood spilt, sweat and grime undertones drift through the air.

  “We can’t hold them!” Cid yelled over the clash, bullets and splinters speckling the air. “We don’t have the manpower!”

  Then, thunderous and impossible, the great doors swung wide again and a new force poured in: Royal Guards in white and silver, their breastplates immaculate, banners snapping behind them. They moved like a professional tide, setting up rows of heavy cannon and forming a defensive ring around the Chosen. Already some of them were bleeding, armour scorched before they’d even formed ranks. Tired from the constant on going battle.

  The captain of those guards strode up to Tyron, voice bellowing above the din. “You need to withdraw now,” he said without preamble. “You are not strong enough.” He says almost in a crushing blow. “On the landing pad there are six personal craft; they’re armed and ready. Coordinates are locked to the navigator. Get to them, we’ll buy you the time.”

  “Won’t they track us?” Tyron asked. His throat felt tight in spite of the armor covering it.

  The captain’s eyes were grave. “We’ve placed a veil over the crafts and the hideout. To anything tracking the signal it will appear as if the craft malfunctioned and crashed. Go. May the gods grant speed.”

  Tyron swallowed and looked to his teammates. “Right. Cid, you take point. Clear the path. Samantha, Zara, back line, pick off stragglers. Move!”

  A cold unease crawled up Samantha’s spine, sharp and unearned.

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  They flowed from the hall like a single organism trained to one end: escape. Adrenaline hammered the Chosen forward through a maze of corridors, across a courtyard slick with spray and smoke, toward the hangar where their small crafts waited.

  A dozen paces from the pads the corridor narrowed. Six Shoven and a figure that at first looked like a boy blocked their way. Samantha’s pace stuttered, and then she recognized him. She remembered him laughing, remembered trusting the sound.

  “Korla?” she breathed, stepping forward. She reached to embrace him, heart soft with relief and foolish hope.

  He stepped back and something almost human smiled. “Sorry,” he said too lightly.

  Something cold slid down Samantha’s spine. “What do you mean?”

  He indicated her belt with a casual, arrogant tilt. “You brought us here, you know. Pretty gadget. Built-in tracker.” He laughs, almost non human.

  Time slowed. Lazarus’s jaw went slack. Zara went pale. Cid’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles gleamed under the light.

  “Samantha,” Lazarus said, voice a blade, “you brought them here?”

  No one moved, and for a breath the team felt dangerously close to splintering.

  Samantha’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t know, I thought he was just...”

  Zara’s whisper cut across her. “He’s not what he seems, I have seen this man, in halls in the palace”

  The boy laughed, and there, in a hideous ripple, the lie fell away. His limbs lengthened. Muscle swelled beneath his skin. His face pushed forward; his nose drew out into a snout. Shaggy, dark plates rose along his scalp like a crown of thorns. He tore out of his clothes as if they could not contain him; the fabric shredded, falling away. Where once had been a boy now towered a Shoven Lord of War, looming and reeking of blood and old sweat. A guard at his side tossed him a filthy bloodstained robe; he draped it about his shoulders with a flourish all aristocratic scorn. The robe looks like it has never been washed, covered in the blood of those he slaughtered.

  “You frost-cursed, ash-eater.” Samantha spat, fury sharpening her words into knives. “I trusted you.” Every instinct screamed to pull time apart again, and she didn’t, she composed her self, as well as she could.

  Tyron grabbed her arm. “We don’t have time for this, move!”

  Samantha wrenched free, rage flaring. “Not until I make him pay.” She shoved both hands to her pistols and leveled them straight at the Lord of War.

  Tyron unsheathed his sword at the same instant, the other four already drawing weapons. They braced themselves. The hangar filled with a sound like thunder as two packs collided: raw, animal force against the resolve of six chosen by the gods.

  Blades bit. Bolts sang. Cid darted through the fray, a comet that snapped limbs and sent armoured men reeling. Freya called lightning from the rafters; it split the air with a crack and scoured the backs of two Shoven into smoking tangles. Lazarus’s rifle barked, three shots, three soft returns; each man he touched folded, no drama, no wasted breath. Zara’s arrows went for necks and gaps in armor; Samantha’s pistols found joints and faces, each impact singing with elemental spark.

  At last the six Shoven lay still. The giant Lord of War no where to be seen, in the fight he had managed to scarper and leave his servants to do the rest for him, cowardice living behind a shield of his own men.

  In the distance of the hangar a Shoven ship raises from behind a row of ships, inside is Korla, the Lord of War waving at all of them, Samantha fires at the ship running along the hangar towards him, tears stream down her eyes, she feels useless and stupid for trusting him.

  In the wink of an eye he was gone. A hole hung in the air where his robe had been, as if a door had been drawn and shut.

  Samantha swore and cursed, shoving her pistols back into their holsters. Rage flamed in her chest but there was no time to chase a phantom. Samantha knew with terrible certainty that this was only the beginning of him, she knows she will have to face him again, next time he won't get away, not this easily.

  “Forget him,” Tyron ordered, throat tight. “Get to the ships. Lose that tracker.”

  Samantha tossed the belt from her waist and hurled it to the floor, the clink of metal like a small, blessed sound. She met Tyron’s eyes, all fire and grief and something like resolution.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.” Looking down at the belt she was given, a promise unclaimed.

  They moved like a single entity, soldiers who had thunder beaten out of them and still marched. The hangar doors roared open; the white crafts waited, humming with power. The captain who had promised them time gave the signal and cannon fire roared in a steady, terrible rhythm to cover their withdrawal.

  Freya stumbled once, pain flaring bright enough to steal her breath.

  Tyron launched through the hanger, sword at his side. Cid vaulted after him, Lazarus followed with a rifle across his back, Freya and Zara swept in with practiced speed, and Samantha, last, with her eyes burning once at the emptiness the Lord of War had left behind.

  “God speed,” the captain had said once, and as the wind rushed through the hanger, Tyron felt it like a prayer. They were battered and exhausted and very far from finished, but they were together. For the first time since the prophecy’s whisper in their childhood tales, the six stood as one.

  Ahead, unseen in the clouds, danger waited. But so did purpose. The Chosen had been forged by loss and fire; they would answer the call.

  None of them said it aloud, but something fundamental had been broken tonight.

  Thanks for reading!

  Every time someone spends a few minutes in the world of Shahero, it honestly means more than I can properly put into words. Seeing people follow the journey of Tyron, Samantha, Lazarus, Freya, Cid, and Zara makes all the hours of writing worth it.

  If you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to leave a comment or follow the story. I read every comment, and it genuinely helps the story reach more readers here on Royal Road.

  A few people have also asked how they can support the project as I work toward eventually publishing the book. If that’s something you’d like to help with, there’s a support link below that goes toward editing and preparing the story for print.

  No pressure at all though—reading the story is already huge support.

  Question for readers:What moment in this chapter stood out to you the most?

  See you in the next chapter.

  — Matthew Cooke-Sumner