“I have no more to give.”

Outside, the bright globe of the moon rode the skies high, and celebrations erupted.

Inside, the might of two armies fought the three who dared challenge the Darak Or, and attempted to swipe the irksome bird from the ceiling.

The darklings hissed, for the constraints of space frustrated them, although not as much as their inability to deal with a woman, a man obviously not made for battle, and one who was, but who was also exhausted. The soltakin made not a sound, but their amber eyes fixated in expectation.

All knew it was a matter of time.

Phet tried to find a way through the water hole, dodging swords with much squawking, and returned nearly drowned.

Too small, he sent, even for me.

“Our goose is cooked, my friends,” Lanto said.

All three were bloodied blue and red, their swords slippery.

“Lanto?” Saska murmured.

“Nice knowing you, truly an honour,” Lanto said, and tossed his sword into the air. It passed through an astonished soltakin before lodging in a particularly nasty darkling slashing at Phet. “Yes!” Lanto crowed, and sank onto his haunches amid dead and dying darklings, laughing hysterically.

Saska reached down with one hand to drag him up.

He shook her off. “I have no more to give.” His head lowered.

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The Drowned Throne

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Author: theloreseries

Reader and writer of the extraordinary.

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