The battlements rang with the sound of steel upon steel, and the screams of men. Ahren took another step back, his boots slipping on the blood of those already fallen, friend and foe alike. The downward arc of the battleaxe caught the late afternoon sunlight, glittering blood-red and dripping with the promise of death. His sword felt leaden, and his body ached, as he raised it to parry the blow, but even as he shifted his weight he knew he was too slow, too weary.

It had been dawn when the first assault had started, the long wall between I-Ashper and the great white wastes of the south assailed by the Dark Lords hordes. He'd warned them, but only the Prince of the Pass had taken heed, for the rest, it was too vast a distance, too far away a problem for them to take seriously. The minor kingdoms would never unite against a common foe, not without decades of worthless bluster and unheeded demands.

His knees buckled under him as the axe caught the edge of his sword and slid down, shearing the hilt like butter, slipping over the plating on his gloves and biting deep into his arm. The hordes were too great, he knew that deep in his heart, they could not stand against them, even with the pass held by stone and fire arrow.

He looked up into the burning eyes of the monster that wielded the axe, willing the end to be swift, but mercy wasn't something these creatures knew. Behind him, in the vastness of the Prince's keep the long low mournful howl of retreat sounded, and the last shreds of hope left him. That could only mean the horde had broken the first bailey, now only the inner wall and the remains of the Prince's guard stood between them and the rest of Ikhaya.

He felt the bones in his arm shatter, the slow blossom of heartblood welling around the white shards that poked through the remains of his chainmail. He waited for the agony, but he was numb, the world around him had slowed to one heartbeat at a time, drawn out and crystal clear. He watched his lifeblood drip onto the already gore smeared stones of the first wall, the blade of the axe buried so deep in his forearm he knew it was only the strips of steel reinforcing his vambrace that had stopped it slicing clean through.

His laboured breath was loud in his ears, and the thunder of his heart drowned the screams of the dying. He'd failed, and the weight of it bowed him more than the knowledge he too was fading, more than the weariness of body, he'd failed, and now his people would suffer. He could see with clarity now. Beside him Draven, his brother in all but blood, bled his last sprawled against the cold unforgiving stone of the mountain. Below, on the craggy mountainside, the hordes swarmed and massed, like a seething sea of black chitinous insects, their polished armour catching the fading sunlight, making the device glow blood red, the Wyrm of the West.

Once they had counted the Dragons their friends, but not now, that time had past, the walls of peace had been broken. It had taken so little to turn once allies into bitter enemies, had he but known the cost, the heartache. Yet perhaps he still would have done it, nothing could have stopped him falling in love with her, what came after was a cruel and unexpected bitter blow. But how could he have known, it had never been done before, even they did not know.

He could still see her face, so beautiful, her skin soft and warm under him, the long nights spent planning their future, and the days enraptured by her every whim. His heart clenched in grief, and his vision blurred, tears tracing the rough windburnt skin of his cheeks.

She was immortal, yet she had died, died giving him a stillborn son, a double blow of loss. They had blamed him, her father swearing vengeance upon all humans and halfbreds alike, damning them all. He'd offered himself up, a life for a life, so deep in his grief he welcomed the embrace of death like his lost lover. But Obsidian had rejected that, as he rejected the notion that Ahren hadn't know. Cursed as a murderer he fled to his home in Ane-e-Tokes, resuming his place as high prince, and rallying his people to stop the dragons wroth from consuming their whole land.

But he had failed; now the Dragons would sweep the lands, wiping out halfbreds and humans alike. The first stab of agony shot through his arm, and he bit through his lip, holding in the howl. Time skipped, sped and slowed irrationally as an arc of blood drops followed the angle of the axe wrenching back. The next blow would take him in the chest, or the neck, but he no longer cared, he could see her standing on the crenellations, beyond the Dire Beast hacking at him, beckoning, her dark waterfall of hair blowing around her. A welcoming smile on her face.