Chapter 505: Royal Final Battle (2)
"Drop your weapon," she said, voice husky with unshed smoke. "Or I will break you against that pillar."
"Doubtful," he murmured, but he made sure the respect in his eyes reached her. She fought despite fear; he honored that.
He drew a measured breath, letting Arturia’s white mana soak his muscles, a cool bloom under the skin. The glaive hummed. Up close the runes looked like fresh snowflakes caught on silver branches—beautiful, yes, but also a reminder of burdens carried farther than most human bodies could endure. Griselda’s spark flowed beneath, wanting release.
Not yet.
The mage lurched. Reflex more than intent spurred him; Lyan’s arm snapped out, palm facing, Griselda’s power trickling down invisible wires to the cracked orb. A thin arc leapt from the relic to his fingers, and in that instant he felt the star-magic recoil, felt the artifact scream as if a violin string were twisted past breaking. He wasn’t destroying it—merely grounding its tantrum, siphoning off enough charge that it dimmed to a low whine.
The mage gasped, relief and horror braided together. Eyes wide, he looked at his tormented relic as though seeing it for the first time. Lyan met his gaze. "Let it go," he said quietly. "It’s done with you."
For a heartbeat the mage seemed willing—then the King snarled, "Cowardice infects even my arcanists. Perhaps I should have bound your tongue as well as your wrists, Iskar."
The mage flinched as though struck. Lyan felt fury coil cold around his heart. This was beyond arrogance; it was a monarch starving on his own reflected power, demanding others swallow the poison in his stead.
(Light him up,) Griselda urged, sparks licking hungry across the thought.