Hooking her elbow down and back swiftly, the heir of steel felt bone meet bone against Anryth's rib cage. The sickening crack startled her long enough for him to dislodge from her hair and stumble away.

Chyrie couldn't feel anything as she lunged at him, her lengthy nails slashing through his intricate tunic and leaving emerald threads in their wake.

For half a second, she felt skin.

Anryth reeled, attempting to dig his heels into the loose gravel and anchor his next blow. A large, open-handed swing slapped against her cheek before she could defend herself.

"You wretched little thing..." he seethed.

Chyrie swallowed roughly, panting past her sore muscles and the already creeping exhaustion. She searched the ground for tools or weapons, analyzing their enclosed terrain as quickly as she dared before crouching lower.

About five inches to her left was a piece of jagged scrap metal.

Anryth stood in front of her latest craft, completely unaware of how easy it might be to strike her down. She knew he'd notice soon, soon enough to even kill her.

"What was the point?" Chyrie hissed back. "What was the point of this game? To bind me to Niukka's Forge and bid me to create something out of nothing?"

"Rymedör was founded on justice—"

"You know nothing of justice!" She screamed, sweeping up the brittle shard of metal and staring him down. "So our people made weapons to be stolen and instead of enacting a Rite, you slaughtered my family! You imprisoned me, tortured me, starved me! We are not the people who destroyed your lands. We are not those who bathed in your blood and asked you to suffer. Yet here you are. You know nothing of justice..."

Anryth's eyes widened, first with shock and then with rage.

Chyrie didn't see the blow that knocked her to her knees. The paranormal strength sent her gasping for breath as her voice broke over the air.

The King of Rymedör wound his hand through the dreaded braids greased to her scalp and ripped her chin upward to face him.

Watery vision broke over the elf, revealing the madness writhing within those bloodshot eyes.

"You know nothing," he said.

Anryths knee collided with her stomach, deathly close to her sternum.

Her vision blackened.

"Nothing!"

Chyrie prayed to Niukka, to Setryr, to the land and the ocean as her body crumbled against the floor. Her arms burned, legs trembling like a newborn fawn. All her concentration now offered to those gods who smiled upon her parents.

She could almost laugh at the absurdity of it all, feeling her spirit giving way to dust.

A man off his head and for nothing.

Then her mind flickered to Dailes, lurking somewhere in the shadows. The drakeling was under strict orders not to mess with the king, but perhaps if she crept closer to death he might forsake those orders.

Burn Anryth alive, perhaps.

Yet, nothing would stop his men from sacking Emberlin and murdering its people. Her people. Without Anryth, she saw no victory.

Chyrie struggled to inhale again, sliding her fingers over the dirty rocks and feeling the warmth flow around them. She had to play this right.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice stripped of all its power. "I-I'm sorry..."

The King laughed. "Sorry?" he asked, stooping down to grab her by the neck. "Tell me, are you sorry for your endeavor to poison me or your hidden weapons?"

Her body shivered against him, refusing to move. "I'm sorry..." she rasped again, choking on his grip.

"Sorry for what, Chyrivelle?"

A soft tenor cleared their throat, a voice different from the mad king.

Standing over Anryth – ax pressed to his neck – was Xiran.

The Captain's fingers were crusted with blood, as if he'd been hunting and gutting one of the bigger forest creatures. His aquatic eyes were short of menacing.

He said nothing as he towered over Anryth, sizing him up and assessing the damages around the cave. Xiran's gaze seemed to linger on her face a second longer than the rest, eyes flashing with waves of anger he kept buried deep inside.

Steady.

His presence was always so steady.

Chyrie's mind stopped tumbling frantically through all the sloppy moves she'd learned and forms he'd attempted to instill.

"I suggest removing your hand," Xiran said at last. "If you'd like to keep it, that is."

Anryth's focus narrowed, eyes squinting as he stared up at the towering Captain.

"A Grim?" he asked, blatantly ignoring Xiran's request. "I thought you were extinct."

Watching the hand around her throat with lethal precision, Xiran's energy remained frosted and unyielding.

"Perhaps I need to repeat myself," Xiran considered aloud, a brow raising. "I've been told my understanding of your tongue needs improvement."

Chyrie wanted to laugh at his unflappability.

"Unhand the girl."

"Or what?"

Xiran sighed, his expression growing bored. "Or I'll make you."

Anryth considered where his hand lay and how inclined he felt, his demeanor switching from manic to panther-like. His motions became languid and smooth, nearly lazy as he lifted each finger from her neck one by one.

Chyrie knew before the pressure of his strange hand left her throat, dragging over the smooth column near her collarbone, that he was planning to strike.

To defend what he claimed as his.

There was no warning as Xiran took the butt of his weapon and jammed it into the king's chest. The blow knocked him back long enough for Xiran to step on his chest and pin him into the earth.

Anryth chuckled, face contorting with rage. "I let her go."

"You know as well as I do, that was not the last action you were planning to take," Xiran replied, his stoic frost hardening. The temperature around them dropped. "I suggest you leave now."

"Do you?"

The Captain's face wouldn't flinch.

Chyrie's heart hammered low, hovering in the depths of her twisted guts. She couldn't push past the fear running through her veins, stuck in the paralysis of worn out muscles and joints.

Her energy dipped, conserving enough for one final opening.

Anryth appeared behind Xiran in a blur of light and sound, transitioning through the space and knocking him off his feet.

She never knew someone to move so fast.

Not as the two of them engaged in a combat barely perceptible to the eye.

Chyrie tried and failed to watch as they parried each other's blows and threw one another onto the floor. Her materials scattering in their wake.

Yanking a broken sword from the gravel at the last second barely saved Xiran the pain of stabbing his own arm.

Anryth reached for Xiran's arm and missed, blocked by a cracking headbutt that sent the king stumbling back. He palmed his nose, launching a wind of shadow and vine through the forge.

Bracing himself, Xiran used the opportunity to kick out Anryth's unguarded legs.

They were the storm of ice and water clashing through a dark forest, battling with magic she couldn't possess.

Not now.

Her useless body shuddered beneath her.

Chyrie felt her mouth dry out when she saw through their violent dance.

Anryth was seconds from slamming Xiran's head through the horn of her Anvil, the sharp steel prepared to cleave his skull.

She couldn't bear it.

Not as the king punched the back of Xiran's neck and sent him flying.

Her last reserve of strength positioned her between his body and the anvil, taking the brunt of the impact through her side.

She felt the blood rushing down her hip, soaking over her sheer, skirted pants and the thick waistband. Pain blurred with a numb tingling she barely recognized.

"Chyrie..."

Her name snapped her out of the dense trance.

Xiran had caught her from falling on the ground, his frame rigid with distress.

Chyrie watched him panic for the first time, his hand slipping off her waist with blood.

Terror.

There was terror in his eyes.

An advantage Anryth took as he wrapped the steel of a curved knife around Xiran's neck.

The disoriented Captain only continued to stare at the blood streaming down her side, forced to submit to Anryth's madness.

"Alright, Chyrivelle," Anryth sneered, baring sharp canines at her. "You want to apologize? Fine. Considering the task I presented you looks to be too easy, now I'll add two more. Now, you will forge this Grim's sword, and mine too. You've three swords completed already, what's three more?"

Chyrie's body went utterly still as he dug the tip of his dagger into Xiran's throat, her fists clenching.

Anryth's grin was nothing short of evil as he laughed. "You have three days."

Her world stopped, throbbing consumed all sound.

"Three days for three swords," he said again, wicked eyes gleaming. "I'll be taking your guardian as collateral—or revenge for my own men. I've yet to decide."

The light had washed out of Xiran's eyes, his entire body stiff.

Chyrie quickly grabbed a charcoal towel and draped it over her wound.

"Do not hurt him."

Anryth only laughed.

"We're leaving for Courmasse, anything that happens to him will be of his own choosing."

Three more guards stepped up to the forge gate, returning from patrol. One of them bore chains.

Chyrie swallowed roughly, watching as Xiran regained his composure and dragged his attention away from her torso.

He marked the men, his awareness honing in on the situation as if he'd been absent.

She frowned, fighting the urge to ask.

"Three days, Chyrivelle. I expect excellent craftsmanship."

Anryth turned to leave, shoving Xiran from the cavern and into chains with little regard.

Chyrie could only stand and watch as they bound him, ripped away his ax, and threw it off the cliff face.

"And I expect him to be alive," Chyrie snapped back.

"We'll see about that."

She ignored the guard, looking at Xiran one last time.

As he was thrust forward, she swore his familiar ghostly smirk revealed a wink in the darkness.