Dawn broke gray and cold over Thornwick, the light weak and watery, as if the sun itself was tired of shining, as if it wanted nothing more than to sink below the horizon and never rise again.
They were too late.
By the time Thorne and Lyra emerged from the tavern, the village was already surrounded. Fifty men in white robes, their faces hidden behind silver masks that gleamed in the weak light, their holy light staffs glowing in the morning mist like captured starlight. At their head rode a man on a white horse, tall and imposing, his white robes trimmed with gold, his posture perfect, his bearing that of someone who had never doubted, who had never questioned.
High Inquisitor Valerius Lightbringer.
Thorne had seen him once, seven years ago, on the day his life had ended, on the day the Church had burned his knightly order, had slaughtered his brothers, had hunted him across the kingdom, had made him a heretic, had made him a runner, had made him dead in everything but name.
"Kaelen Blackflame," Valerius's voice carried across the silent village, carrying the weight of authority, of power, of a man who had never been told no. "The heretic. The dragon-blooded. The last of the Black Flame Knights. I've hunted you for seven years, across seven kingdoms, and now, here you are. Wounded. Weakened. Alone."
Thorne stepped forward, sword in hand, despite Lyra's attempt to hold him back, despite the weakness in his body, despite the poison that still worked its way through his veins. "Valerius," he said, his voice filled with hatred, with seven years of running, of hiding, of losing everything. "I've been waiting for this day. I've dreamed of this day. The day I kill you."
Valerius laughed, a sound that held no humor, only the confidence of someone who had never lost, who had never been truly threatened. "Have you? I've been hunting you for seven years, Thorne. Seven years of tracking you across seven kingdoms, of following every rumor, every sighting, every whisper of dragon fire. And now, here you are. Wounded. Weakened. Alone. Your dragon blood can't save you now. The poison's too deep, the wound too cursed. You're going to die here, today, and I'm going to watch."
"I'm not alone," Thorne said, and Lyra stepped up beside him, her small frame defiant, her silver light beginning to glow around her wrists like captured starlight.
Valerius's eyes shifted to Lyra, and for the first time, his expression changed. Not fear—recognition. Cold, calculating recognition, the look of someone who had just found something he hadn't expected to find.
"Lyra Moonwhisper," Valerius said softly, his voice carrying the weight of memory, of a death that had mattered. "The granddaughter of the last Archmage. I wondered where you had disappeared to. The Church has been looking for you for twenty years."
Lyra stiffened, her body going tense, her silver light intensifying. "You know my grandmother?"
"I killed her," Valerius said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather, as if he were commenting on a pleasant day. "Twenty years ago. She refused to reveal the location of the Moonwhisper Tower. She refused to betray her people, her magic, her heritage. So I burned her alive. I burned the tower around her. I burned everyone inside it. And I watched her scream, and I didn't look away."
Lyra's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white, and silver light began to glow around her wrists, brighter and hotter, responding to her rage, to her grief, to the power of her heritage waking in her blood.
"Kill them both," Valerius commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument, carrying the weight of authority, of a man who was used to being obeyed. "But bring the girl to me alive. I have questions for her. I want to know where the Moonwhisper mages are hiding. I want to know where the tower's secrets are buried. I want to know everything she refused to tell her grandmother."
The white-robed men moved forward, holy light staffs raised, their movements synchronized, practiced, the movements of men who had fought together, who had killed together, who were an army in everything but name.
Thorne looked at Lyra, saw the rage in her eyes, saw the grief, saw the power that was waking in her blood. "Can you fight?"
Lyra nodded, her eyes burning with purple light, with a power that went beyond sight, beyond magic. "I can. I've been running for too long. It's time to fight."
"Then let's give them a hell of a fight," Thorne said, and his right eye began to glow, golden light burning in the gray morning, and for a moment, the village was filled with the heat of dragon fire, with the power that had destroyed kingdoms.
The first wave of inquisitors charged, their holy light staffs raised, their movements confident, certain. They had fought dragon-blooded heretics before. They had killed them. They knew how to do it.
Thorne met them with black fire, sword cutting through holy light as if it were smoke, as if the Church's magic meant nothing to dragon fire. Lyra raised her hands, and silver light erupted from her palms, forming a barrier that deflected their spells, that sent their holy light back at them, that made their confidence waver.
They fought back to back, dragon blood and one ancient magic against the Church's holy light, against the power that had burned kingdoms, that had hunted magic for centuries. For a moment, it seemed they might hold, seemed they might survive.
Then Valerius raised his staff, and blinding white light erupted from it, light so bright it burned, so holy it made the air itself feel sacred, made the very light of dawn seem profane by comparison.
The light hit Thorne like a physical blow, knocking him backward, driving the breath from his lungs. His black flames flickered and died, overwhelmed by the holiness, by the purity that the Church had cultivated for centuries. The wound in his side tore open, and he fell to his knees, his blood mixing with the mud, his strength fading.
"Your dragon blood is strong, heretic," Valerius said, walking toward him, his steps measured, certain. "But it is no match for the Holy Light. The light of the gods themselves burns brighter than any dragon fire, and the Church wields that light. You're going to die here, today, and I'm going to watch."
He raised his staff for the killing blow, the white light gathering at its tip, bright enough to blind, hot enough to burn.
Lyra screamed, a sound that went beyond fear, beyond rage, a sound that came from somewhere deep, from somewhere that had slept for a long time and was now waking up. Silver light exploded from her body, brighter than anything Thorne had ever seen, brighter than the sun, brighter than hope itself. The light formed a spear, driving itself toward Valerius, carrying with it all her rage, all her grief, all the power of her heritage.
Valerius caught the spear with his bare hand, holy light and silver magic colliding in a blinding flash, a collision of powers that had been enemies for centuries, that had been destined to destroy each other. He staggered back, his hand burned and blackened, the flesh seared away by silver magic, by the power that had slept in Lyra's blood for twenty years.
"You," he snarled at Lyra, his voice losing its calm, losing its certainty. "You'll pay for that. You'll pay for every burn, every scar. I'll make you watch while I burn everything you love, everything you are. I'll make you scream like your grandmother screamed."
He raised his staff again, but before he could strike, the ground beneath them shook.
Not an earthquake. Something worse. Something that shouldn't exist, something that defied the laws of the world itself.
From the forest beyond the village, figures emerged. Not human. Not alive.
The walking dead. The Iron Plague had come to Thornwick.