ELYRA EMBERFALL

I am not a queen because I rule, I rule because I am THE QUEEN.

Birthed in my heart. Alive in my veins…

***************

West Gate, Crown City, Capital of the Northern Realm,

General Elyra Emberfall- standing tall at six feet six with vivid crimson hair like smoldering coals, high cheekbones, and proud arched brows looked on the oncoming wave of over one hundred Free Land soldiers, alone.

She had not warned the elders of the impending assault, knowing their spirits would break at the knowledge of their enemies’ growing might and their weakening powers.

The death of their chosen ruler had dimmed her magic, but the strength in her eyes, the fire in her heart, and the weight of her blood-forged legacy would not falter.

Beauty did not earn her the title of General.

She was steel, tempered by war, she was an Othrel’sarn – of the Magic Province of Fire- and she would burn them in her wrath.

Failure was not an option known.

General Ivan Juno Cassius had not entrusted her and a select few, with this crucial task to have it end in defeat.

It wouldn’t.

She stood on the high wall of the West Gate, her eyes fixed on the advancing soldiers.

Hair tied for war, steel breastplate over black cloth, dark wool cloak with fire emblem clasped at the collar, boots to the knee, bow and quiver strapped crosswise over her back, and in her right hand, a massive, single-edged great blade, its jagged edge forged for brutal, cleaving strikes.

Less than sixty paces for them to cover- she lifted her gaze to the heavens and shut her eyes.

‘‘Thalrien suven dorakai. Marn ek sira, velar shai kor.

Vostrae Hal’mir, enflayr os’dren, kelthar myn vahl.’’

(Thalrien suven dorakai. Marn ek sira, velar shai kor-

I bow in shadow and flame. Take me if you must, but leave none untouched.

Vostrae Hal’mir, enflayr os’dren, kelthar myn vahl-

O vast heavens, fill my bones with fire, steady my hand this day.)

Using a taut rope, she dropped from the wall, landing light-footed next to her mount.

She snapped her helmet into place, raised her blade, let out a war cry, and charged on horseback.

With anger and determination, the opponents advanced towards the lone warrior. It showed how far the North had weakened over the years and they were bent on claiming the riches and treasures they heard lay in the City of the Crown.

Closing in, General Emberfall released the reins and drew her hand along the length of her blade- what she could touch- whispering, ‘‘Ignivar!’’

‘Ig-nih-vare’

Flame coiled along the length of her mithral greatblade- a rare alloy, light as whispersteel and strong as tempered truth, a living ribbon of fire devouring the cold gleam of metal.

She held it high- defiant and radiant, and the oncoming soldiers slowed, their charge stuttering at the spectacle. Five men at the rear drew and fired.

She batted the first two aside with a single sweep, dipped beneath the third and when the sky offered no time to count the rest, she seized the reins firmer with one hand and dismounted mid-stride- still clutching her steed’s harness and they surged together, synchronized.

This horse was trained, one of her own and knew the rhythm of her battles as if born from her breath.

The remaining arrows missed their mark, hissing past her in vain. The horse peeled away in a curve, while all eyes remained fixed on its rider, wrapped and married in fury.

She brought down the first three warhorses in a single breathless sweep. Her mithral greatblade clove through one, bit halfway through the next, and the fire that trailed her swing scorched the last with such precision and strength, it was as if her blade itself had struck.

Her fire cleaved through bone and hide like molten severance and she moved without a pause. More riders bore down on her.

Some leapt from their saddles, blades drawn. Fools.

Her sight welcomed them.

She dove into their midst lifting four from the earth in a single upward stroke.

Her bow- unstrung of arrow- became a bludgeon of precision. She slammed its curved wood into faces and chests, the bowstring taut and humming like a serpent’s hiss.

One man took it fully to the face- the drawn string snapped against bone, and the crack echoed louder than a scream. She spun, striking blindside threats with eerie awareness, blinding those who dared come too close.

She fought as if each hand was its own warrior. One swung flame; the other danced with force. Like a storm born of two spirits- each hand guided by its own will.

In the distance, several foes had broken away, reaching for the gate. She slid her sword to the clasp at her hip, raised a bow, and gave a low, sharp whistle.

Her steed returned- thundering into those who thought her vulnerable. She turned- precise and calm. Twice she fired a trio of arrows, each flight as swift as thought. Two volleys. Three arrows each. Six men fell.

A lone soldier reached for her horse, and her blade returned to her hand in a flash of motion. With a dancer’s grace, she spun- a burning vortex.

Steel and fire sang together.

When the flames began to fade, she dragged her hand along a side of the blade, fingers grazing ember and soot. Her voice rang out with the motion, ‘‘IGNIVARE’’

‘Ig-nih-vare’

The fire surged back to life, brighter, hotter. Most of them shook.

A line of blood slipped from one nostril, but she paid it no thought. She twirled in arcs of flame, crouching low, then springing skyward; crouching and soaring.

Sometimes she loosed arrows. Other times, she struck with the weapon itself, snapping the air like thunder.

She was not one warrior.

She was war.

She fought on- steel, flame, bow- her limbs moved as if powered by something greater than flesh, her rhythm a brutal symphony of fire and motion.

Her movements were unorthodox, of slaughter and survival. Until her breath grew ragged. Until her vision blurred. Until even then… she did not stop.

Not when two soldiers broke through and struck her hard enough to send blood spilling over her tongue. She answered them with the most efficient kill she had ever delivered- no pause, no grace, just fury and finality.

Not when she was forced to summon flame again, her voice cracked and barely human as she rasped, ‘‘Ignivare.’’

And again-… ‘‘Ignivare.’’

She staggered the last time, eyes dimming. It took everything.

Fire returned to the blade, but so did the cost- blood ran freely now, from her nostrils and ears. Her knees quivered, her vision pulsed, her strength ebbed.

But Elyra Emberfall stood upright till none remained. She refused to fall- not while a single enemy still drew breath. Until silence settled like ash over the field.

She shook her head violently, as though to cast off the darkness curling inside her. Then, with sudden force, she yanked her helmet and hurled it- striking a fleeing man at the back of his skull.

He dropped.

Her red hair spilled out- loose, wild, untamed. It fell to her waist, heavy and tangled, looking as if it hadn’t known a comb in moons.

Her bow was gone- buried in the skulls of too many men, heads of the fallen. Her quiver held nothing.

No more foes came forward.

She stood alone as her legs trembled. Still, she looked forward…

At the far wall, near the western gate, she saw a few of the men about to reach it.

It wasn’t over.

She couldn’t summon her voice to whistle but her horse came anyway, galloping to her like a soul recalled from beyond.

She was bleeding from more places than she could count, and even her own fire had scalded her skin. But she would not look. Not yet.

Instead, she drove her blade into the ground, using it to hold herself upright. Both hands gripped the hilt- etched with the flame sigil of her line.

She closed her eyes. Tilted her head skyward. Her voice was a whisper at first, then a breath of force:

‘‘Thalrien suven dorakai. Marn ek sira, velar shai kor’’

Her molars clenched, her lungs burned, and her eyes flared open, glowing with some last surge of strength- summoned from will alone.

She took up a fallen bow and an enemy’s full quiver. They felt light and unfamiliar, but they would do.

She mounted her horse. Her body screamed, but her mind was on fire. Pain followed her, but determination cut deeper. As she closed on them, the men ahead had reached halfway up the wall.

She loosed arrow after arrow. They struck and they killed.

She scanned the field- no movement forward, no movement behind.

She nodded once, quietly. Finally.

Then her body betrayed her. She fell from the saddle, crumpling into the earth like the last ember from a dying pyre, the pain at last silencing her will.

‘‘Thank the Heavens,’’ she breathed, barely audible, her blurry eyes on clouds above.

And the darkness caught her, pulling her senses beneath her control.