His body slumped.
On the throne. The spear still through him. The black skin. The withered flesh. The open mouth. The dead eyes.
The ministers were still charging.
Ada twisted. Her hand on the spear shaft. She pulled — not the spear out of the king. She pulled the spear itself. The weapon came free from the throne. From the body. The blade — wet, black, bloody — emerged.
She swung.
Not at a single target. At the room. The sweep was horizontal. The blade — seven feet of dragon-scale shaft, two feet of curved, poisoned steel — arced through the air. The edge cut through the space.
The energy surged.
From the blade. The mana — concentrated, compressed, the stored energy of a dragon heart — released. Not as a spell. Not as a technique. As raw force. A wave. A wall. A surge of energy that expanded from the blade in a semicircle — forward, outward, encompassing the entire room.
The ministers were caught.
