THE DRAGON'S RETURN

Unmaking the Throne

The high throne room smelled of sweet wine and fresh blood as forty steel doors slammed shut at once.

Thorn did not look at the heavy iron bolts locking the exits. He stood in the middle of the grand carpet, flexed his stone-gray fingers, and let his dark eyes rest on the high golden platform at the back of the hall.

"You came to die in your father's house, boy," the Grand Master shouted, his white robes puffing out like sails in a storm. "Did you think a gray arm makes you a god?"

"I came for the man sitting in that golden chair," Thorn said, pointing his stone index finger straight at the high seat.

The puppet Emperor sat frozen on his wide throne, wearing a crown made of green glass and heavy silver beads. His hands trembled against the armrests, but his pale eyes were completely hollow, glowing with a strange white fire that had no smoke.

"Protect the Emperor!" a dozen high guards screamed, drawing their long bronze swords as they formed a thick wall of steel around the platform.

"He does not need your protection," Lyra whispered from inside Thorn's collar. "Look at his chest, Thorn! His spirit is missing! A god is riding his skin!"

"I do not care who is riding him," Thorn said softly. "The skin still bleeds."

The scarred master, now weaponless, spat on the polished floor and backed toward the guard line. "Kill him! Cut his stone hand off first!"

Six guards lunged across the rug together, their bronze blades flashing with bright white aura. They moved like lightning, targeting Thorn's knees, ribs, and throat all at once.

Thorn did not swing his sword. He stepped forward into the middle of the blades, raising his gray left forearm to block the highest strike while driving his right elbow into the lead guard's nose.

The bronze blade slammed into Thorn's petrified forearm, making a sharp sound like iron hitting granite. The white aura vanished instantly, and the sword snapped in half with a dry crack.

"My sword!" the guard yelled, staring at his broken hilt.

"Your armor is next," Thorn said.

Thorn slapped his bare gray palm against the guard's iron breastplate, driving a heavy wave of chaos straight into the core of the metal.

"Unmake," Thorn thought.

The iron plate turned into gray dirt and blew away in the wind, leaving the guard's chest completely bare. Thorn drove his right fist into the exposed ribs, throwing the soldier backward into the rest of the guard line.

"He is dissolving our gear!" a soldier shouted from the back, taking two steps back toward the high platform. "Do not let him touch your armor!"

"Cowards!" the Grand Master roared, stepping over his own overturned dining table. He raised his right hand, summoning a massive phantom sword made of pure yellow light above his head. "I will slice this hall in half!"

"Try it," Thorn said, taking another step toward the throne.

The Grand Master brought his giant light sword down with a deafening roar. The yellow beam cut through the wooden roof beams, showering the rug with burning splinters as it slammed down toward Thorn's head.

Thorn raised both hands, crossing his stone left arm over his right wrist. He did not block the light. He targeted the law of form that kept the energy together.

"Unmake!" Thorn barked aloud.

The giant sword of yellow light hit Thorn's gray wrist and instantly lost its shape. The bright energy turned into a cloud of harmless warm mist that drifted uselessly across the room, blowing out half the candle chandeliers.

The Grand Master stumbled back, his face turning pale as paper. "My light! My domain! What did you do?"

"Your magic is just air," Thorn said, walking past the stunned elder. "And air is easy to break."

The noble lords and ladies in the corners shrieked as the grand ceiling beams began to crack and sag from the destroyed support pillars. Wooden planks crashed down onto the long tables, smashing crystal wine jars and silver plates into tiny pieces.

"The roof is coming down!" a fat lord screamed, beating his fists against the locked brass doors. "Let us out! Open the gates!"

Thorn ignored the screaming crowd. He walked up the three marble steps leading to the high platform, his gray boots leaving dark, dusty footprints on the red velvet carpet.

The puppet Emperor slowly stood up from the golden throne. He did not look afraid. His pale face cracked into a wide, unnatural smile that stretched his skin too tight across his cheekbones.

"Little prince," the Emperor said. The voice did not sound human. It sounded like three different women speaking at the same time through an iron pipe. "You broke your father's kingdom, and now you break my hall."

"Get out of his body," Thorn said, drawing his short iron sword with his right hand.

"This body belongs to the heavens," the entity inside the Emperor said, raising one finger. A ball of blinding white fire flared on the fingernail, burning the air around it. "You are just a broken vessel carrying a dirty stone."

"The dirty stone works," Thorn said.

The Emperor threw his hand forward, blasting a thick beam of white fire straight at Thorn's face. The heat was so intense it melted the marble steps beneath Thorn's boots into liquid red slag.

Thorn did not dodge. He thrust his stone-gray left hand directly into the middle of the white fire, using his palm as a shield. The skin on his hand made a dry, clicking sound as the heat hit it, but the gray color did not burn. It absorbed the light, turning darker and thicker up to his elbow.

"Is that all your gods can do?" Thorn gritted out, his teeth clenched tight against the sudden pain in his veins.

"Arrogant worm!" the divine entity screamed through the Emperor's mouth.

Thorn closed the distance in a single leap. He dropped his iron sword, grabbed the Emperor by the throat with his right hand, and slammed his stone-gray left palm flat against the center of the Emperor's forehead.

"Unmake!" Thorn screamed, pouring every drop of chaos energy in his chest straight into the puppet's skull.

He did not target the bone. He targeted the spiritual thread binding the god to the flesh.

A sickening snap echoed through the room, sounding like a wet rope tearing in half. The white fire in the Emperor's eyes died instantly, replaced by a look of pure, human horror.

The Emperor let out a long, wheezing gasp as his knees buckled. A thin cloud of silver smoke burst out from his mouth and ears, shrieking in agony as it dissolved into the cold air.

The Emperor fell backward onto his golden chair, lifeless and dark, like an empty sack of old clothes.

Silence fell over the ruined hall. The surviving guards dropped their swords, staring at the dead puppet on the throne in utter shock.

Thorn stood on the high platform, panting heavily. He looked down at his left arm. The stone-gray petrification had pushed past his elbow, crawling halfway up his biceps toward his shoulder.

"Thorn," Lyra whispered, her voice shaking with genuine fear. "Your arm. It is almost at your heart."

Thorn flexed his gray fingers, listening to the dry, stony click of his own skin.

"It still moves," Thorn said, turning his cold gaze back toward the grand brass doors. "Now break those locks."