The Forsaken Hero

My words lingered in the long silence that followed. Alveron was quiet, a slight frown creasing his lips, and Elise let out a half-sob.

"Why?" she asked, pleading at me with wet eyes, her voice breaking. "Why won’t you just trust him? We could be together again!"

Alverin sighed and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, drawing her close. "I’m sorry, my love," he said, his voice laced with regret, "but we tried our best. You know what I have to do now, don’t you?"

Her lower lip trembled, and she looked as though she might break down at any moment, but she nodded slowly. "Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "don’t make her hurt too much."

He nodded grimly and raised his arm, allowing Elise to step back towards the parapet. "I didn’t want to do this, Xiviyah," he said, his voice a low growl as he strode towards me. "I tried to be kind, to be gentle. I gave you every reason to accept my embrace peacefully. Don’t forget: it was you who forced my hand."

He drew the sword from the scabbard at his waist, raising it menacingly. The moment it left its sheath, I gasped, a tremor of fear running through me. The hilt was ornate gold, befitting a king, but it was the blade that chilled my blood. Long and slender, it shimmered with insubstantial wisps of coiling, black mana.

A familiar power emanated from the darkness, the same unsettling aura that clung to Jessia. Was this another surprise she had orchestrated? If so, there was no way my spells could protect me from this weapon.

"Don’t look so afraid, my dear," Alverin said, his voice a soothing purr as he stalked towards me. "I’m not going to kill you. Just make you a little more... receptive to my suggestions."

I backed away, my tail lashing in fear. His smile widened, and as he took another step, he blurred, moving with a speed that defied perception. Before I could react, he was upon me, his blade sliding through my wards as if they weren’t even there.

I screamed as the tip drove between my breasts, directly where the center of the slave crest had once been engraved on my flesh. There was no blood or even visible wound, nor did I feel the cold touch of steel. The sword was ghostly and insubstantial as a shadow–but the effects were all too real.

A searing pain ravaged my body as ribbons of black lightning arced from the blade, the same torturous energy as the slave crest’s punishment. It was a pain I hadn’t felt in over a year, the sparks tracing lines of fire across my skin. The agony intensified as the lightning crawled over the sunpurge, overwhelming my senses. I could hear someone screaming and distantly recognized it as my own voice, but it felt far away, detached from the torment wracking my body.