He staggered backward. His legs failed him. The hall fell silent. Even Fabio froze. His mouth parted in shock.
Theon stood there. His hand was still gripping the knife buried in Drexo's chest. His shoulders trembled. Tears rolled down his face.
"I am sorry, Drexo," he whispered. His voice broke. "But I choose greatness." His grip tightened.
"I choose a noble name for my generation to come." His expression hardened. The pity vanished.
"I will not live under your shadow like my parents did." His voice rose louder, and stronger, as if he was trying very hard to drown his own guilt.
"I will not allow myself to die and be forgotten in history."
Drexo tried to speak. His lips moved. No words came. Only blood. His knees hit the floor.
"Drexo!" Maria screamed. She ran to him. Fell beside him. Her hands pressed against his chest.
Blood soaked through her fingers.
Hot, and endless.
Drexo's shaking hand reached for hers. He grabbed it. Weak, but desperate.
"Our child…" he choked. Blood bubbled from his mouth. "Our child must survive."
He forced the words out. "Fight your way out of here."
Maria's face crumbled. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She nodded once.
Then she rose. She lifted her sword. Her heartbeat thundered inside her chest. They knew her. All of them.
They knew her name. They knew her blood. They know the legend standing in front of them with a sword in her hand.
Maria Woodland. Of House Woodland. Daughter of Snowland. A dependent of the first man. A race that descended from the union of a Norseman and a Neanderthal woman."
She stood between them and her dying husband. Between them and her unborn son. For a moment, no one moved.
Even the enemies hesitated. Then Fabio spoke. Cold, and sharp. "Don't just look," he said. "Kill her."
They came. Maria moved. Her blade flashed. One man fell. Then another. Then another. She cut through them.
Faster, and deadlier.
Blood sprayed across her dress. Across her face. Across her hands. They kept coming. More, and more.
And more.
Her breathing grew heavier. Her strength faded quickly because of her pregnancy. Her body slowed. Yet, no one could stop her. Until Felicia Kenwool joined the fight. She was fast, ruthless and excessively aggressive.
Felicial's blade slipped past her guard. It cut into her shoulder. She gasped. Her grip faltered.
She staggered. Just once. It was enough. Friya moved. Her sword drove forward. Pierced through Maria's heart.
The sound was small. Almost gentle.
Maria froze.
Her sword slipped from her hand. Blood filled her mouth. She fell to her knees. Her hands moved to her stomach.
Still protecting, and holding it. Her eyes lifted. Found Drexo. He was still alive. Still fighting to open his eyes. Still hoping she would escape.
"I am sorry," she whispered. Her voice barely existed.
Drexo jerked. His fingers clawed against the floor.
"HAAAH!"
Havana's scream tore through the hall. Then it ended.
Drexo turned his head. She lay in her own blood.
Still, and broken.
Gone.
Drexo watched them. Both of them. The women he loved.
Dying.
And he could do nothing.
Maria's hands held her stomach tighter. Her breathing slowed. Her lips trembled. "Freya," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "The White dove and God of the first men." Her tears fell. "Save my child."
Her eyes glowed, blue, and bright.
Unnatural.
Then a white bird jerked outside. Its eyes glowed likewise.
Maria's body went still. Her breath faded. And Maria Woodland died. With her child inside her.
Drexo jerked. His body convulsed around the blade buried deep in his chest. But the pain there was nothing.
Nothing compared to what he felt in his soul.
Maria.
She lay only a few feet away.
Still, and silent.
Her hand resting on her stomach. Protecting a child that would never breathe. His child. His throat tightened. He tried to cry, but nothing came out.
No tears. No voice. Just a hollow emptiness that swallowed everything inside him.
He opened his mouth. He tried to call her name.
Maria.
But even the word never formed. Only blood slipped past his lips. Warm, and thick. He choked on it.
His fingers clawed weakly against the cold floor as if he could drag himself to her. As if he could still reach her.
Save her, or even save them both. But his body refused. His strength was gone.
His dragons were gone. His throne was gone. His house was gone.
And in that moment, only one thing remained. The prophecy. He hated the fact that he had believed it.
The memory rose inside his fading mind.
Clear, bright, and cruel.
He saw the temple again. He smelled the dust. He heard the crackling fire of Ago.
He stood before the eyeless high priest. Old, and fragile.
Ancient beyond understanding.
Drexo had asked the question with a steady voice. "Will I die in the battles to come?"
He remembered the silence that followed. The way the old man trembled. The way his blind eyes rolled behind his lids.
"And will my house perish with me?" The high priest had inhaled sharply. Then he spoke. "I do not see you dying in a battle. I see you dying with a belle full of wine, in a place of merriment."
Relief had flooded Drexo's chest.
Hope.
Power.
Destiny.
But the priest had not finished..His body had jerked. He groaned in pain. His fingers dug into the stone floor.
Then his voice came again. This time, it was stronger.
Filled with something divine.
"I see House Dragarian ruling Astarous for the next five thousand years to come."
Drexo had smiled.
He remembered that smile. He remembered believing everything without a single doubt.
"I see your name, Drexo Dragaria carved on the Golden Crown."
He remembered the pride. The certainty.
"And I see dragons roaming the sky of Astarous once again."
Dragons.
The beasts that made Dragarians gods. The beasts he is praying fervently to revive.
He had believed every word. Because the high priest of Ago never lied.
Never.
Drexo's broken body trembled on the cold wedding floor. His lips parted. A weak, broken sound escaped him.
"I guess…" Blood spilled down his chin. "…even the gods betrayed me."
His chest shook. He tried to laugh. It came out as a wet choke. "They lied to me." His eyes found Maria's body again.
Her stillness crushed what remained of him. "I am dying." His fingers twitched. "Maria is dead."
His vision blurred.
"With my unborn child in her womb."
His breathing faltered. Each breath was weaker than the last. Each breath was closer to nothing.
He jerked again.
Pain shot through his body. "I am the last of my house. House Dragaria dies with me."
His lips trembled.
"The dragon age is over." His vision darkened. The hall faded. The blood. The bodies. The betrayal. All of it slipped away.
Then, he heard a voice.
Soft, familiar, and ancient.
It echoed inside him. Not in the hall. Not in the world. But inside his soul.
"The gods are not men that they should lie."
He knew that voice. He remembered it. He remembered his face.
The high priest of Ago.
His fading mind clung to those words. The gods are not men. They do not lie.
Drexo tried to respond. Then the image of the high priest stood in front of him, with his finger across his lips.
"Sheeeeee!"
"The battle is not over yet, it has only just begun."
Darkness closed in. Drexo's chest rose, then fell.
Rose again, then fell. Then, it stopped.
And Drexo Dragaria, the last of the dragon blood, died.
Around him, his warriors lay slaughtered. His aunt, his wife, his unborn child were all gone.
The sacred wedding hall had become a tomb. Blood covered the stone. Wine mixed with it. Red upon red.
A mockery of celebration.
A mockery of love.
A mockery of the gods.
And that night would never be forgotten. Not by men, not by the gods, and certainly not by history.
It would be remembered forever as the Red Wedding of Ashford.
Silence filled the hall.
Heavy, and unmoving.
Fabio Kenwool stood among the dead. His face was calm. His hands were steady. As if he had not just murdered a king.
He turned to his son. His voice was cold, and practical.
"Hurry to King's City." Festus nodded quickly. Fear flickered in his eyes. Fabio's gaze hardened. "Inform King Robert Rendell."
He glanced at Drexo's corpse.
At Maria. At her stomach.
"…that the last Dragarian has died." His lips curled slightly. "With his wife."
He paused.
"And their unborn child."
He turned away. Already finished with them. Already done.
"The dragon age is over." His voice echoed in the dead hall.
Final, and certain.
"And it will never come again."