Gradually, agonizingly, the suffocating veil of smoke began to clear. And there, revealed in the settling quiet, was Zehrina. She was reclined, almost insolently, in a dainty, intricately woven hammock of pure black dust, feigning sleep. One delicate hand propped her chin, her eyes half-lidded in a posture of utter, supreme boredom. The ground before her was a blasted, smoking crater. Her barrier, though visibly thinner and flickering erratically, had held.
"Oh? Are you quite done with your little tantrum?" she asked lightly, her voice carrying easily across the devastated clearing. She quirked a delicate eyebrow at the stunned Brask. "Took you long enough. I was about to nod off."
Brask stared, his face a mask of slight disbelief. Even Cyanthros, the mighty primeval dragon, let out a low, confused rumble and shook its colossal head, baffled that its incredible might had achieved so very little. Roy let out a shaky laugh bubbling up from his chest. She actually did it. The absolute madwoman.
Brask slowly lowered his arms, the fierce turquoise flickers of energy dying away, leaving his armor dull and battle-scarred. Though his shoulders sagged with a fatigue that was more than just physical, he gave Zehrina a stiff, almost reluctant nod of respect.
"So that's that…" His lips tightened into a thin, grim line. "A truce, then. There's no point in any further… posturing."
Zehrina floated delicately out of her dust hammock, which dissolved into swirling motes as she touched the ground. "A truce," she agreed, her voice smooth and confident once more. "We'll hold it for a few months, yes? Give you time to lick your wounds and rethink your life choices." She turned her gaze pointedly toward Roy, who hastily schooled his relieved grin into a more neutral expression as he met her eyes. He was just glad to see no lethal glares being exchanged. For now.
Evarran, who had been clutching a tree for support, let out a shaky, shuddering exhale. "This is complete, unadulterated madness," he sputtered, his face still pale. "All of this destructive energy… someone might very well have roused Loe himself from his eternal slumber if you'd kept that infernal racket going any longer!"
"No one asked for your geriatric opinion, old man," Brask retorted, though his voice lacked any real venom. He turned on his heel, exhaustion evident in his movements, and headed stiffly toward the patiently waiting Cyanthros. As he mounted the dragon's broad, scaled neck, he cast Zehrina one final, contemplative, almost bewildered look. "Your strength… it is astonishing. But I will be back. Eventually. And when I return, I will surpass even that."
Zehrina merely smirked, a dangerous, promising glint in her eyes. "Do what you must, bum. I'll be waiting."
Satisfied, or perhaps just too drained to argue further, Brask motioned for his battered allies to gather. Gradually, silently, the members of the Bloodthrone Rebellion formed ranks behind their leader, looking battered, bruised, and thoroughly outmatched, but not entirely defeated.
A swirl of wind, carrying the scent of scorched earth and dragon musk, kicked up dust as they made their exit. Cyanthros spread its magnificent wings, and with a beat that shook the ground, conjured five smaller dragons made of fire. With another beat it launched into the sky. The rest of the rebellion hopped on a dragon and trailed behind on their respective, and significantly less impressive, mounts. They left Roy's crew standing in a slowly settling, utterly devastated clearing.
Evarran, still pale and visibly shaken, shook his head again, his voice a low mutter. "Fools. The lot of them are absolute, unadulterated fools." He paused, his gaze flicking to Roy, then to Brask's retreating form, a new, unsettling thought dawning in his ancient eyes. "But… that's precisely why that boy, Brask, terrifies even me. Despite being a cold-blooded killer, despite being emotionally unmoving for the most part, he possesses no discernible ego. He doesn't care about how retreating looks, or about perceived weakness. He should have been killed today. I should have killed him, months ago."
-
Inside the Nightshatter's surprisingly spacious medical bay, soft antiseptic lights glowed over several occupied cots. Lutrian rested on one, a comically oversized ice pack pressed against his bruised shoulder, his other hand dramatically clutching his forehead as if warding off a migraine of epic proportions. Warrex occupied another, a patchwork of fresh stitches adorning his brow, a testament to Belaris's relentless assault. Across the room, Eryndra reclined in a surprisingly plush chair, meticulously polishing the vents on her armor with a soft cloth, humming a jaunzy, off-key tune.
Roy, looking utterly drained, slumped against a cool metal wall, datapad clutched loosely in his lap. "I still can't believe how quickly that whole thing escalated," he said, his voice hoarse. "One moment, it's friendly neighborhood ping-pong, and the next, a literal primeval dragon is leveling half the damn forest with a turquoise death beam."
Eryndra snorted, not looking up from her polishing. She tapped a hidden latch on her gauntlet, and a tiny cleaning drone whirred out, expertly buffing a hard-to-reach spot. "Honestly? It was kinda fun," she teased, her eyes glinting with mischief. "But I can definitely still feel the strain from that Apparition Mode. My everything aches."
Near them, Zehrina idly stroked the shimmering black dust that swirled and danced around her fingertips, an indulgent, cat-like smirk playing on her lips. "You do realize, darling, that you nearly broke poor Roy's mana reserves with your little show, right? He was looking decidedly peaky there for a moment."
Eryndra shrugged, completely unrepentant. "Oops." There was no trace of genuine remorse in her tone, only a playful, unconcerned grin.
Takara, ever the diligent one, bustled in, her arms laden with fresh bandages and small pots of healing salve. "Lutrian, hold still, you big baby," she insisted, dabbing a fragrant ointment onto a cut above his eyebrow.
He winced dramatically but stayed silent, allowing her to tend to his wounds. She flashed Roy a quick, reassuring glance. "I'm heading down to the workshop later. If you need any repairs on that poor drone we used for the overhead footage of your… performance…"
"I'll let you know," Roy said, managing a slight, appreciative grin. "And nice job, by the way, the idea of a feed live to the brig was well received. Father Skeleton apparently gave Kaelor a stern talking to that was… disturbingly enthusiastic."
Takara's cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink. She mumbled something about "it's nothing, really" and quickly turned her attention back to Lutrian, carefully wrapping his arm with a fresh bandage.
Meanwhile, Warrex, who had been half-dozing on his cot, cracked an eye open, a low rumble escaping his chest. "Next time," he murmured, his voice thick with grim determination, "I'm definitely keeping my axes. That Belaris fellow is no joke. My everything still hurts." A lopsided, almost painful grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Roy exhaled, a wave of profound relief mingling with a gentle sense of camaraderie washing over him. All around him, the battered, bruised, and stitched-up results of the day's insane battles sat or lay in varying states of recovery. Yet the morale in the room felt surprisingly warm, almost familial. Like a dysfunctional, super-powered family that had somehow managed to get through a chaotically violent holiday reunion and emerged, if not entirely unscathed, then at least closer for the experience.