Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 59–Forgive Me for What I Must Become

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Faline lurched through the jagged opening that had once been the North Gate of Landros. Her boots crunched over shattered stone and splintered wood, the aftermath of her devastating spell. Around her, Drachnorian soldiers pushed forward, shouting victory cries as they flooded into the city. Fires bloomed throughout the outer districts, casting long, dancing shadows across broken buildings.

But Faline barely registered the chaos. Her body betrayed her with each step—limbs leaden, muscles seizing with violent tremors. The casting of flumen venti had exacted a terrible price, draining her reserves of strength to near emptiness. Dark spots swam across her vision. Her lungs felt as though they were filled with broken glass.

That last spell nearly finished me.

The familiar anger rose within her—anger at Gall, at the loss of her dark arts. Once, she could have leveled the entire city without breaking a sweat. Now, this single spell had left her trembling like a novice after their first casting.

She dared not risk another. At least, not yet. Not until she reclaimed what was rightfully hers.

But she was not without options.

Faline stumbled against a half-collapsed wall; its stones still warm from nearby fires. She closed her eyes, shutting out the physical world to focus on the ethereal bonds that connected her to the Shatain. The connection was tenuous—a mere shadow of the control she once wielded—but it remained.

She reached out through that dark thread, summoning the Shatain.

Break the Inner Keep. Find Gall. Destroy him.

Even that lesser effort of mental exertion sent a fresh wave of nausea cascading through her body. Her knees buckled. The world tilted alarmingly as she began to collapse toward the debris-strewn ground.

Strong arms caught her before she fell. Parthos, the commander of the remaining Shatain, supported her weight effortlessly. Unlike the Drachnorian officers who feared her, who whispered behind her back about witchcraft and dark pacts, Parthos had served her faithfully since before her exile. He had seen her at the height of her powers and remained steadfast through her fall—unlike Gall.

“Easy, my lady,” he murmured, his scarred face betraying rare concern. “The battle is won. The city will fall. There’s no need to push yourself further.”

But Faline barely heard him. Her body convulsed with another round of tremors, each more violent than the last. Cold sweat beaded on her ashen skin. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. The draining aftereffects of using magic without sufficient reserves to draw upon—her body was consuming itself to pay the debt.

But through her haze of pain and exhaustion, she witnessed her will made manifest.

Six Shatain materialized from the shadows as if born from the darkness itself. They moved with perfect synchronicity, their black robes absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Each was unique in its twisted and warped form, yet they shared one common feature: utter silence. No footfalls, breath, or clank of armor disturbed the air around them.

They marched past Faline without acknowledgment, walking two abreast in perfect unison. Drachnorian soldiers instinctively stepped aside, some making warding gestures against evil. The Shatain paid them no mind, their faceless hoods fixed on the Inner Keep ahead.

Arrows rained down from the keep walls, rocks and debris arced through the air, hurled by desperate defenders. The missiles seemed to curve around the Shatain, striking the ground beside them or glancing harmlessly off their enchanted armor. Those few projectiles that found their mark disappeared into the darkness of their forms, absorbed without effect.

The six reached the eastern Inner Keep gate—massive oak reinforced with iron, sealed against the invaders. They stopped as one, their movements so precisely coordinated they might have been puppets controlled by a single hand. Slowly, their faceless hoods tilted upward, and they regarded the defenders atop the wall.

As one, they drew their Mordblades.

The weapons slid from their scabbards with a sound like the last breath of the dying—a soft, terrible exhalation that somehow carried over the din of battle. The blades seemed formed of solidified shadow, their edges defined by the absence of light rather than its reflection.

The effect on the defenders was immediate and visceral.

A wave of supernatural dread emanated from the weapons—an ancient magic that bypassed rational thought and struck directly at the mind’s primal centers. Men who had stood firm against overwhelming odds suddenly found themselves paralyzed with inexplicable terror. Hands that had never trembled in battle now shook uncontrollably. Throats constricted, making it impossible to shout commands or warnings.

Faline, even in her weakened state, could feel the rippling sensation of fear coursing through the air like concentric waves in a disturbed pond. She had wielded this power directly when her magic was at its peak. Now she experienced it secondhand through her servants, but it was no less satisfying.

Along the keep walls, even the most battle-hardened defenders broke. Some dropped their weapons, the clatter of falling steel punctuating their gasping breaths. Others backed away, stumbling in desperation to escape the nameless dread that gripped them. Within moments, the wall above the gate stood abandoned.

Faline’s pale lips curved in a smile of savage satisfaction despite her physical agony. She extended her will once more through her connection with the Shatain, focusing it like a blade point.

Kill Gall.

The Shatain responded instantly to her mental command. Two stepped forward, placing their gauntleted hands against the massive gate. The others raised their Mordblades in perfect unison.

Faline’s smile widened as Parthos helped her to a nearby building where she could recover her strength. Soon, very soon, she would have what she came for. The throne of Bretagne and the key to her powers lay within those walls. If not Britta, then she’d use Gall’s blood to unlock her abilities.

“Soon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Everything will be restored.”

* * *

The first prickle of wrongness crawled up Gall’s spine like ice water. He froze mid-sentence while conferring with a guard captain, his words dying in his throat. The hairs on his arms and neck rose beneath his robes. A cold sweat broke out across his brow. All unrelated to his injuries.

He recognized the sensation, having felt it days before in these very streets. Mordblades.

The ancient swords of the Shatain were forged in darkness and quenched in despair, wielded by those who had traded their humanity for blind obedience. These weapons were designed to destroy the rebellious Forsaken or drive them back into the Void. Now their sacred purpose had been twisted to serve Faline’s hunger for dominance.

Around him, soldiers who had never encountered such magic began to falter. A young guardswoman dropped her spear, hands trembling. A seasoned archer slumped against a wall, breathing in panicked gasps. The unnatural fear radiated through the keep like a plague.

“Steady,” Gall commanded, his voice cutting through the growing panic. “This is not natural fear. It is magic meant to weaken us.”

But even as he spoke, he felt the corrupting influence pressing against his mind—memories of past defeats, visions of failure, faces of those he had failed to protect.

With supreme effort, Gall pushed himself up from the bench where healers had been tending his wounds. Pain lanced through his broken ribs, but he ignored it. Physical pain was nothing compared to what would happen if the Shatain breached the Inner Keep.

He hobbled toward the eastern gate, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch. Each step sent agony through his chest. The few remaining defenders parted before him, some looking to him with desperate hope, others too consumed by dread to notice his approach.

Gall reached the stairs leading to the wall-walk, then stopped. His broken body betrayed him—he could not climb. Instead, he positioned himself behind the portal, far enough back to have room to maneuver. From here, he could see the massive wooden doors, reinforced with iron bands and ancient enchantments—strong, but not invulnerable.

He could sense them through the thick wood—six shadow warriors, their weapons drawn and hungry. Six was unusual. In the old days, Faline had commanded twelve. Her power must indeed be diminished. A small mercy.

Across the bailey, his eyes met those of Riasean. The normally cold-blooded assassin trembled under the influence of the fear magic, his face ashen, his knuckles white where they gripped his sword. Yet determination remained in his eyes.

Gall raised a hand and gestured toward the reservoir’s pump room. Time for their contingency plan.

Riasean hesitated, visibly battling the supernatural dread. Then, with a resolute nod, the assassin darted along the edge of the wall. He moved like a man being chased by nightmares, but he moved.

Gall watched him go, a flicker of pride cutting through the gloom. This was how Faline would be defeated—not just because of walls or armies, but because of people like Riasean, who faced their fears when every instinct screamed at them to flee.

A sudden boom against the gate brought his attention back. The massive doors shuddered but held. Another impact followed, then another. Not the methodical rhythm of a battering ram, but something stronger, more deliberate.

Gall’s hand moved to the hilt of the black sword at his side. The enchanted blade pulsed beneath his fingers, resonating with dark magic. Like called to like. He hated drawing the Mordblade, unleashing what lay dormant within its length. But against shadow warriors, no other weapon would suffice.

The gate shuddered again. Dust and wood fragments showered down. The ancient enchantments woven into the structure flared briefly—a network of faint blue lines across the wood that then faded.

They wouldn’t hold long. Nothing held against the Shatain forever. Their magic could cut through more than physical barriers—they severed hope, courage, and resolve.

But Gall had faced them before. Had survived when others fell. He would face them again, regardless of his broken body.

As the gate trembled, Gall’s grip tightened on his sword. He cast one last glance toward where Riasean had disappeared. The flood would buy them time—perhaps enough for the Queen and others to escape south.

The gate shuddered once more. A crack appeared down its center, widening with each impact. The enchantments flared and faded, growing weaker.

Through the thick barrier, he heard it begin—low, guttural chanting in a tongue that had no place in this world. Each syllable grated against his consciousness like rusty blades. The massive gate began to shake violently, dust cascading from ancient hinges.

Summoning what strength remained, Gall extended his arm toward the gate. His fingers spread wide, trembling with effort. The words of the counter-spell rose to his lips—not the corrupted incantations of the Shatain, but the pure, ancient language of protection.

His voice, though ragged with pain, carried power as he began to chant. Each word seemed to glow in his mind’s eye, symbols of resistance against the pressing darkness.

The gate’s violent rattling faltered, then diminished. For a heartbeat, Gall felt hope flicker.

Perhaps I can hold them. Perhaps I can buy enough time.

His daughter’s face flashed in his mind—as a baby when he left her at Avalir, as a young woman coming to terms with her burdens, as a compassionate healer. Thank the Creator she wasn’t here to witness Landros’s fall.

The momentary distraction cost him dearly.

The pressure against the gate intensified suddenly, the Shatain’s chanting growing louder. Dark energy flowed like a tide against Gall’s defenses, and his magical resistance began to crumble.

Gall gritted his teeth and pushed back harder. The effort made his limbs feel as though they were encased in lead. His head pounded mercilessly. Sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes.

The two forces warred against each other, meeting in the center of the ancient gate. The wood between them became the battlefield, groaning under the strain of opposing magics.

Slowly, inexorably, Gall felt himself losing ground. His vision blurred. Blood trickled from his nose. He was reaching his limit, while the Shatain were only beginning to exert their full power.

I’m sorry, Aurea. I couldn’t protect Britta as I failed to protect you.

With a final surge of defiance, Gall pushed everything remaining into his spell. For one glorious moment, the gate steadied.

Then his strength failed him.

Gall dropped his arms, staggered backward as his wounded leg nearly gave way. There was nothing more he could do—nothing but prepare for what came next.

With a groaning creak that seemed to last an eternity, the massive gates collapsed inward. They didn’t simply swing open—they disintegrated, ancient oak reduced to splinters and dust. The wave of destruction rolled outward, raising a choking cloud.

Gall coughed violently as dust billowed over him, the spasms sending fresh daggers through his ribs. He raised an arm to shield his face, squinting through watering eyes at the yawning breach.

As the dust settled, six shadows materialized in the opening—figures darker than night, their outlines shifting like liquid darkness. The Mordblades in their hands created pockets of absolute blackness around their impossible edges.

The Shatain advanced in perfect unison, each step measured and purposeful. Their faceless hoods revealed nothing, but Gall could feel their focus fixed upon him—could feel Faline’s hatred guiding them toward their target.

His hand moved to the hilt of the black sword at his hip. The weapon pulsed beneath his fingers, eager to be unleashed. He had hoped not to draw it again, but that would mean nothing if Landros fell, if Britta died, if all he left behind were ruins and graves.

As the Shatain advanced toward him, Gall drew the Mordblade. The blade sang as it cleared its scabbard, a sound like distant screams carried on winter wind. The translucent blade absorbed all light that touched it.

“Forgive me for what I must become again,” he whispered as the daemon from the sword slid into his body. He raised the blade against the approaching shadows.