In the distance, a mountain was reduced to a spray of rubble.

“Or you could use it on the other Monarchs, if you like,” Kiuran suggested. “I do have a personal request. If you would like to execute Northstrider, please give him a chance to ascend first. He would hate that more than death. If you do, I can offer you a weapon from my personal collection to sweeten the deal.”

She was starting to wonder if she could use it on him.

“Oh, and if you’d rather kill the Eight-Man Empire, that’s fine too. I don’t like how they assumed it couldn’t be used against them. You remove one, and I’ll take care of the rest. What do you think?”

“I’m thinking I’d rather sit on it,” she said. “The threat seems sharper than the arrow.”

“Good judgment! You’re correct, but I’m afraid I can’t allow it. Sorry. Letting it sit in Cradle is too much of a disruption of the balance.”

Yerin was sure he’d withheld that particular rule on purpose. Everyone had assumed they could hold on to the arrow and use it when they wished.

Maybe he’d changed his mind just to mess with her.

Their protective bubble seemed to move itself, and then they were hovering over the Monarch battle.

The sandstorm was shredding Malice’s armor now, tearing it apart in streaming sparks.

She was so much bigger, Sesh only a tiny speck of sand inside the storm, but he felt stronger.

It was obvious to use it on him, and there was nothing wrong with doing the obvious thing.

“Can you show me Sophara?”

He smiled. “Easily.”

They moved again.

Sophara tried to end the battle quickly, but the nightmare only continued.

A blue dome of pure madra surrounded Lindon, catching her, and her dragon’s breath came out in a pathetic stream. As though something devoured her madra as it tried to leave her body.

While he maintained the field, his eyes looked like deep blue gems.

She swung her sword at him, but he ducked as though he could see it coming. She didn’t have any drops of ghostwater left, but he was still an Underlord. He couldn’t do anything to her, especially with this pure madra dome up, so he couldn’t use dragon’s breath of his own.

His white hand brushed her, and he consumed a sip of her power.

She jerked back, slapping at him with her tail, but a flying sword deflected her tail.

“Devoured,” he muttered. “Pure madra devouring...”

She tried to escape his field, but his Enforcer technique worked better than hers, and even without it he was stronger than an Underlord had any right to be. His body gave her the faint impression of more-than-physical strength, like Yan Shoumei’s Blood Shadow.

Which was a horrifying prospect.

He knocked her down before she could leave the roof, and though she came within a hair of slitting his throat, he slipped aside again.

And he drew more of her power into himself. He was like a whirlpool she couldn’t escape.

“Whirlpool. I am…a whirlpool.”

Was he trying to advance to Overlord?

She raised Quickriver, pouring her madra into the binding. Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t an Archlord, so she could cut him in two.

Something intruded into her mind, and her senses blanked out.

She saw, heard, and felt only whiteness and silence.

Sophara pushed the dream aura out of herself, but she saw Lindon beneath her, slamming a palm technique into her stomach. A Forged palm of pure madra overlaid his own, wiping out her spirit.

The Archlord technique around her weapon flickered and died.

She looked into his eyes, which had transformed into blue crystal. He was the end of her every technique, and as she stared into that merciless gaze, she realized he was her end.

White fingers brushed across her, and the blue crystal faded to ordinary human black.

He jumped back, suddenly looking brighter. “That’s it! A bottomless pit, emptiness, endless…that’s it.”

He pressed his fists together to her. “Gratitude.”

She snarled and ran at him.

“I am the end,” Lindon said.

Something trembled around her. Not the aura.

He’d triggered something, but it wasn’t Overlord.

Northstrider unleashed a shield of his own, and its binding covered a square mile.

A barrage of deadly rain fell from one of Shen’s city-destroying weapons. As Northstrider searched his projection for the prediction of where Shen would end up next, he sensed something in the distance.

A few miles away from Sky’s Edge, someone had manifested another Icon.

Fury? Had Fury really been sitting on not one, but two different sources of authority?

No, he realized in a moment. Not Fury.

The Blood Sage looked up. “This isn’t you. Who is this?”

Eithan dragged himself to his feet and gave him a bloody smile. “My apprentice.”

Yerin turned to Kiuran.

“I’m burying that dragon,” she said.

Sophara must have gone straight from the arena to an assassination attempt on Mercy and Lindon. Yerin could show her what that cost.

And the sooner she used Penance, the sooner she could take the Moonlight Bridge and join the fight herself.

Not that Lindon seemed to need help.

The Hound sighed. “I suppose the Dragon King doesn’t intend to advance. There was a chance he would, given the threat. Give me a moment.”

His eyes spun with violet script. Lindon would try to remember each of the runes, she was sure.

“Oh…oh, I see. No, this is even better.”

Yerin didn’t know what he was seeing, but she tapped her foot impatiently, hoping he would notice.

“Yes, you can go ahead. This will work quite nicely. A whole batch of recruits.”

“How do I use it?” Yerin demanded.

“How?” He chuckled. “You’ll learn that ‘how’ is a useless question. Just use it.”

For a second time, she wondered if she could use it on him.

Their bubble shifted back to the battle between Malice and the Dragon King, and Yerin pointed the arrowhead at the dragon.

“Kill him,” she said aloud.

The arrow vanished.

At the same instant, the power behind the sandstorm disappeared. A single, small body fell through the cloud of sand.

Just like that, a Monarch was dead.

Yerin had seen a lot of unceremonious deaths in her life, but this was maybe the most boring. One second, he was alive. The next, he was dead. No battle, no Remnant, not even a flash of light.

It scared her.

“Well, I look forward to meeting you on the other side,” the Abidan said. “No doubt you’ll be a Wolf yourself someday. And tell Judge Suriel’s favorite I hope to see him too.”

So it was common knowledge up there that this Suriel had come down to see Lindon. Yerin had wondered.

“If my memory’s true, I’m supposed to get another grand prize,” Yerin said.

He spread his hands. “The Monarchs are bound by oath to give it to you, so they will, but that isn’t my role. Good luck. When things settle, you’ll get it.”

He vanished, and Yerin reappeared in the center of the arena.