The Sacred Blade
1352 Words
ELARA POV
The white blade hissed. It vibrated in Baelor’s grip.
He lunged at my chest, his eyes wide with a cold, desperate hate.
Darius didn't wait. He moved like a shadow. He shoved me aside, his heavy hand catching my shoulder. I stumbled into the stone wall. The iron chain rattled, the collar biting into my throat as he stepped into the path of the blade.
Fifty warlords filled the hall. They watched from the tables. Vespera stood near the front. Her lips curved into a sharp, thin line. She watched the steel fall. Waiting to see the blood. She was Malakor’s daughter, and she wanted the life drained from me.
Darius roared. The sound filled the hall, a raw, primal challenge that rattled the torches. His black daggers blurred. They met Baelor’s white blade with a crack. The force of the strike blew the air from my lungs.
I scrambled up. My mind felt thick. The tonic I drank every morning, the bitter brew I trusted, moved through my veins like poison. It made my thoughts slow and my body heavy. My fingers shook. I pressed my palm to the wall to stay upright.
Thorne stood near the door. His hand rested on his sword, but he did not pull it. He looked at Darius, then at the Council. He was torn between his oath to his King and his duty to the Elders.
"Alpha," Thorne said. His voice was a low, hard rasp. "Baelor comes for an execution. The Council has already decided her fate."
Darius did not look back. He blocked a heavy blow from Baelor. His muscles stood out under his shirt, thick and corded. He moved like he’d done this a hundred times. Like he expected it.
He was a predator protecting his kill, yet he was my enemy. I felt a surge of rage, followed by a sick, hot wave of relief.
Why did he guard me?
But I felt heat from the man behind me. His pulse beat fast in my chest. The pull between us felt tighter than the iron collar on my throat.
He is afraid, I realized.
The thought cut through the fog. Darius, the monster who burned my home, was terrified. Not for himself. He was terrified for me. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to spit in his face.
Why should he care if I died?
He had spent weeks breaking me. Yet, here he stood, a wall of muscle and hate between the Elders and me.
The hall erupted. Chairs screeched. Warlords rose. I looked up at Darius. A vein pulsed in his neck. He was on the edge of a slaughter, but I saw something else. He was calculating the odds of reaching Baelor before a dozen blades found his back.
Let them kill him, my mind screamed. Let them end the monster who stole your life.
The thought died the moment he leaned closer, his voice a jagged promise against my ear. "Do not let go of my hand, Elara. Whatever happens, do not break the link."
"Why?" I challenged. "So you can keep your shield?"
"Because…," he growled, his scent spiking with a sudden, violent surge of protectiveness.
"Kill them both!" someone shrieked.
I scrambled to my feet. Darius held Baelor, his muscles straining, his face contorted in a mask of malice. But the warlords were moving. They were circling the hall, closing the exits, their eyes glowing with a hungry, predatory gleam.
Darius twisted, throwing Baelor back, but his left side was exposed. A heavy, curved blade swung from the shadows, aimed directly at his ribcage.
I didn't think. I lunged forward, my hand snapping out to grab the hilt.
The moment my skin touched the cold metal, a jolt of ice-cold energy raced up my arm. It surged.
The ground beneath the keep woke up. The iron collar at my throat flared, turning red-hot against my skin, branding me. My flame cut the slave collar on my neck asunder, and the iron fell in halves.
The man holding the blade gasped, his grip faltering as if struck by a hammer.
The room tilted. My vision tunneled into a pinpoint of white.
"What did you do?" Baelor screamed, dropping the white blade to clutch his chest.
I felt the answer. It was a hunger. I looked at the warlords surrounding us, and for the first time, I did not see enemies. I saw prey.
Baelor scrambled backward on the floor, clutching his chest where the heat had seared him. His eyes rolled back. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs before he finally collapsed to the stone floor, his chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps.
He was down, but he was alive.
The hall went quiet for one breath. Then it broke.
"Kill her!" someone shrieked from the shadows.
Steel came out. Warlords moved. They circled us like wolves closing in on a cornered doe.
Darius spun around. His eyes were not human. They were bright, burning pools of raw fire.
He looked at me, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Elara?" he choked out.
Vespera stood in the front row, her face a mask of sudden shock. She did not shift. She did not attack. She merely stood, her hands pressed over her mouth, playing the terrified noble. She met my eyes for a split second, her gaze icy and sharp, before she looked away.
A guard charged at me, his sword raised high. I didn't think. I thrust my palm out.
The white flame answered. It burst from my palms, swallowing the air, and hit the guard square in the chest.
The impact sent him flying across the room. He slammed into the stone wall and crumpled.
Panic rippled through the hall. Seeing the fire, warlords began to shift. Fur burst from skin, and claws tore through fabric. Vespera threw her head back, shifting alongside them to maintain the ruse.
She dropped to all fours, a blur of white and grey, and bolted for the door with the rest of the pack, choosing flight over certain death.
Silence settled again. Heavier this time.
My hands were still burning. The flame licked up my arms but did not touch me. It felt like breathing. Like it had always been there under the tonic.
Lord Malakor walked from the shadows. He was sixty-nine, the man who had served my father as Beta and advisor for decades. He was the one who had manipulated King Voss into the war against Blackthorn, using him as a pawn until his death.
He looked at me with cold, sharp eyes. He was not afraid. He was calculating the cost of my life. He stepped over Baelor’s shivering frame without looking down.
"The girl," Malakor said. His voice was smooth and deadly. It cut through the smoke. "She is a witch, Darius. Look at the steel."
Warlords who remained shifted their footing. Some lowered their blades. Some didn’t. Darius took a step toward me. He reached out a hand. His face was tight. His chest was rising too fast. The bond between us pulled. Hard.
"Elara, stop."
The flame was still on my skin. I could feel it humming.
"I can't," I whispered.
The ground beneath us cracked. A shockwave of pure, silent force rippled out, blowing the torches from the walls and plunging the
Great Hall into suffocating, absolute darkness.
In the sudden void, I heard Darius’s breath hitch. He was not looking at the Council anymore. He was looking at me, and his fear had vanished, replaced by a raw, devastating recognition.
He lunged through the dark. His hands clamped onto my waist, his body slamming into mine with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.
"You," he growled into the dark, his voice a frantic, desperate prayer. "You're not a Silverfang. What are you?"
My answer caught in my throat.
The flame died out on my skin.
And in the dark, all I could hear was Malakor’s voice, quiet and steady, speaking to someone behind him.
"Get her out. Now. Before he realizes..."
- Writer
