prince’s veins, but he had speed. He had
strength.
Aedion feinted with his sword, that
ordinary, nameless sword, and the prince
swung with his own blade—just as Aedion
slammed his shield into the man’s side.
Driving him back. Not toward the ladder,
but to the Mycenian who wielded the firelance
—
The Mycenian was dead.
The prince chuckled, and a whip of dark
power lashed for Aedion.
Aedion ducked, shield rising. As if it would
do anything against that power.
Darkness struck metal, and Aedion’s arm
sang with the reverberations.
But the pain, the life-draining agony, did
not occur.
Aedion instantly parried, a slash upward
that the Valg prince dodged with a hop to the
lily
(lily)
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