The practice steel vibrated with the impact.
Aerion blocked the downward strike from Sir Gainard, his muscles burning from the effort of two continuous hours of combat.
Sweat stung his eyes, but physical pain was the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay.
"Highness!" The scream broke his concentration.
A messenger burst into the dirt courtyard, slipping in his own hurry and falling to his knees.
Dust rose in a choking cloud.
The man stayed there, with his forehead glued to the ground, shaking like a leaf in the middle of a gale.
The silence that followed was heavy. The instructors went quiet. The recruits lowered their weapons.
Aerion took off his helm and let it drop.
"Speak," he ordered.
"Prince Ayres..." The messenger raised his head. His face was pale, drained of blood. "He has disappeared, my lord."
Aerion's world stopped.
Raziel's vision flashed in his mind: 'Ayres on the throne. A crown of black iron. Phaedra burning under the whim of a mad tyrant.'
