(KOTG) Ch 12: Firing Of The Green Beam, A Kings Anger!

Kyvareth's hand lowered gently, her massive fingers uncurling like the petals of a steel flower as Thron stepped off her palm and onto the dusty, blood-soaked canyon floor. The tremors of her movement rolled beneath his feet, but he didn't falter. Not now.

Thron's boots crunched over shattered stones and discarded weapons, weaving between fallen debris and smears of war as he made his way toward the old knight. The man hadn't moved, still standing at the front of the Vytharion forces, though his troops now looked far less willing to fight and far more like a group of kids caught stealing sweets from a royal pantry.

Thron stopped just short of the knight's towering frame. The old man was armored from neck to toe, thick iron plates engraved with the sigils of Vytharion's warhouse. His beard was white and wild, his face lined by age and the wear of decades of battles. His hand still gripped his sword, though he hadn't drawn it.

"What's your name?" Thron asked, voice firm, though his legs were definitely trying to wobble beneath him.

The knight looked down his nose at him, clearly unimpressed. "Sir Edron Malvay. Commander of the Vytharion front."

Thron gave a slight nod, breathing slow through his nose. His heart was still hammering in his chest from earlier, but now wasn't the time for nerves. He looked around at the remaining soldiers, the ones still standing, some shaking, others simply stunned. He couldn't blame them. Their weapons had done nothing. Their leaders had underestimated what stood before them. And in just minutes, these massive women had turned into monsters.

But Thron... he was supposed to be their king. Their balance. Their voice.

"I am King Thron Marcellus," he declared, straightening his back. "Ruler of the Vorshaldians. And I have no intentions of giving up that title."

He tried to puff his chest out a bit. Not too much though—last time he did that, he pulled something.

"If you or your kingdom bring war to my people again—if you think you can walk into our lands, and threaten my people with weapons or armies—I promise you, that will be your last mistake."

His voice dropped lower, trying to hit that stern, gravelly tone he'd heard other rulers use. Hopefully, he didn't just sound like he was coming down with a cold.

Edron's lips curled into a sneer. "You're a child playing dress-up in a graveyard," he growled. "You have no idea who you're challenging. The world buried Vorshalda for a reason. And now the world is ready to remind you why."

He stepped back, his arm flying up. "Fire the cannon!"

Then he dove to the ground.

Thron's stomach dropped. A sound like thunder cracked through the air as a blaze of green lightning ignited behind the enemy lines. His eyes widened.

"Oh shit."

A massive cannon—twenty feet high and humming with glowing energy—lit up in the distance, its mouth gathering power. The crackling bolts of green electricity licked the sky, and before Thron could even think, he heard—

"Thron!!" Kyvareth's voice, panicked.

She tried to reach for him, but another shadow was already there.

It came from above—like a storm cloud with eyes—and before Thron could speak, Lysera's massive frame landed in front of him. Her cape billowed, her body hunched over protectively like a wall of living stone.

"Wait—Lysera—!"

BOOM!

The cannon fired.

The world turned white.

A concussive wave of heat and pressure slammed into Thron like a god's fist, sending him tumbling backward. His ears rang, dust filled his lungs, and all he could do was cough and cover his head as chunks of rock and soil rained down around him.

"Lysera!!" he shouted, eyes stinging. He stumbled forward into the swirling haze, heart thudding.

"Don't scream so loud, my king," came a voice through the smoke. "You may hurt your throat."

The dust parted, revealing Lysera crouched over him, still shielding his small form with her massive frame. Her face was calm. Confident.

Thron's shoulders relaxed in a flood of relief. She was okay.

But then his eyes dropped to her right arm—and he saw it. A burn, dark and red, stretched across her skin, seared raw by the blast. He winced.

"Your arm..."

"I've had worse," she replied casually. "This is barely a scratch. You should've seen what a drake did to my leg once."

The other Vorshaldian warriors rushed in behind her, their footsteps shaking the earth. They helped her to her feet, their faces painted with anger and worry, but Lysera simply waved them off, eyes never leaving Thron.

Then Kyvareth arrived, her long strides carrying her to him in mere seconds.

"Your Majesty, are you hurt?" she asked, kneeling low, her voice filled with concern as her shadow fell over him.

Thron said nothing.

He just... stood there.

Still.

His fists clenched at his sides.

Everyone felt it. The air changed. Like the world had inhaled and now held its breath.

A strange pressure rolled off Thron's body—like heat rising from smoldering coals. A golden hue began to flicker faintly around him, radiating outwards in invisible waves that even the Titan-born could sense. The warriors around him shifted uneasily, their eyes turning toward him with something just shy of awe.

He didn't speak yet.

He walked.

Step after step, his gaze fixed on Edron Malvay. His hair shaded his eyes, casting a shadow over his face, but as he drew closer... a golden glow pierced through.

He raised his head.

And Edron flinched.

"You..." Thron said, his voice quiet, low, and laced with something dark.

"...you bastard."

His words, heavy like anvils, cut the air.

And for the first time... the great Commander of Vytharion looked unsure.