NOVEL NEXT Vol 3. Chapter 6: Live With Honour, Die With Glory
The throne room doors burst open with a thunderous crash, and Soren staggered in, his body slick with blood and his face pale beneath the grime. Deep gashes tore across Soren's arms and chest, but his voice carried across the room like he had an amplification crystal to speak through.
"They are here!" Soren bellowed. "We cannot hold them back for longer! Stand ready for my father's arrival!"
Lukas' breath caught. He bit down hard, fighting the burn in his throat. No, not yet. It was too soon. But before he could speak, Magnus stepped forward, raising a steady hand. "You swore an oath to keep Rosalia safe," the old man repeated once more, his voice low but firm. "And you must keep it."
Lukas' jaw clenched tight.
Magnus was right—Lukas knew Magnus was right—but that didn't make any of this any easier.
Behind them, Soren and the last of the surviving guards slammed the doors shut and threw their weight against them. The wood groaned under the pounding from the other side. "Hold it!" Soren roared, his voice raw with desperation. "Hold the door!"
But they all knew it was hopeless.
Daerion and his men would be through those doors in a matter of seconds.
Lukas turned back to Magnus. The Head Mage's face lined face was calm, almost serene, as he extended a hand towards him. Reluctantly, Lukas took it—and felt something pressed into his palm.
It was a necklace, a crystal pendant, cold against his skin; the surface swirling faintly with an inner light.
"This," Magnus told him quietly, "is my final project. Inside this crystal is everything I have learned in my lifetime…all the discoveries that the Magic Tower has uncovered."
So this was what Magnus had been working on? This was what Thomas Harrow had been helping the Head Mage with?
Then, Lukas remembered the true meaning behind this final project of his. The night before the graduation ceremony where the old man had led him to the Highest Floor in the Magic Tower, Magnus speaking of his dream—a vision of a day when humanity would have its freedom from the immortals they had been forced to worship because of tradition and history. It was a ream that would not be realized in his lifetime.
"One day," Magnus had told him, "you will meet a mind so bright that they will lead humanity into that future. All we can do is plant the seeds and hope they grow into something beyond our wildest imagination."
The pounding on the doors grew louder. The hinges screamed in protest as Soren roared in defiance, his shoulder braced against the great wooden doors.
Lukas nodded once, firmly, closing his fingers around the crystal. He turned to Jesse. The young dragonborn was still cradling Rosalia in his arms, waiting for his Lord's orders. Lukas reached out, and Jesse handed the princess over to him.
"Go," Lukas said to him. "Head back to your ship and leave Easthaven with the men you came with. Quickly now. Leave while you still can."
Jesse hesitated, but Lukas' eyes left no room for argument.
"We'll meet on the way to Ilagron Village," Lukas continued. "If not, we will regroup there. Use the Crown to find me. I will do the same once we have left Easthaven behind us. Understand?"
Jesse nodded.
The doors shuddered again, and the sound of splintering wood filled the hall.
Lukas held Rosalia in one arm and Varian's chest in the other as his wings unfurled, the gust of wind scattering dust and broken tiles across the throne room floor. He lifted up into the air, his eyes locking on Magnus one last time.
The old man met his gaze and gave a firm nod.
"Tell Rosalia," Magnus whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, even as the pounding on the doors grew deafening, "that I love her. That I am proud of the woman she has grown to be and the Queen that she will one day be. She will do more for the people of Easthaven than I ever could. Everything I have done…it has been for her. Tell Rosalia that her mother would be just as proud to see how far she has come."
Lukas swallowed the tightness in his throat and nodded.
Magnus' expression softened just for a moment. "Live with honor, my boy."
The Dragon Lord's lips curved into a tragic smile. "And die with glory, old man."
Without another word, Lukas burst upward, smashing through the ceiling in an eruption of stone and moonlight.
The wind roared in his ears as he broke free into the skies.
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Below, the throne room doors exploded inward.
The shockwave hurled Soren and the remaining guards across the floor.
Through the Crown, Lukas reached towards Magnus' mind—and in an instant, he saw through the old man's eyes; watching what was to be Magnus Elarion's final stand.
King Daerion stepped into the ruined hall, towering like a mountain in black steel with the Admiral Maelis at his side, eyes sharp as a blade. Behind them came the strongest warriors Nozar had to offer—marines, mages, and killers forged for war.
Daerion's gaze tracked upward through the shattered ceiling, catching the sight of Lukas soaring away with Rosalia. The King of Nozar was not surprised to see him, perhaps because he did not recognize Lukas in his half-draconic form. Daerion had likely seen the great dragon soaring through Easthaven's skies, letting out a roar that was heard throughout this kingdom.
A flicker of rage passed over Daerion's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Instead Daerion's lips curved into a cold smile. Not all was lost. Because now the Kingdom of Easthaven was his. Daerion turned his attention to Magnus now. "This battle does not need to continue, old friend. Tell your people to stand down, and let your son take the throne that is his by right."
Magnus chuckled—deep, genuine, unshaken. "I don't think I will." Magic rolled off the Head Mage in waves, the air bending with the immense power that now unravelled from within the old man.
Soren groaned and pushed himself up, using his greatsword as a crutch.
Magnus placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Are you with me, Soren?"
It was a genuine question. Magnus did not know where Soren's loyalties lay. For all the old man knew, Soren may very well have decided right there and then that he would bend the knee to his father. But Daerion's bastard son bared his teeth in a grin, as Lukas had come to know, Soren was a man of character. "Of course. I am on the side of justice."
Magnus' laughter filled the room. "Then it would be an honor to fight alongside you, Soren Ittriki."
Daerion's face hardened. The false courtesy vanished, replaced by a quiet, killing disdain as his eyes settled on his son that had been born out of wedlock.
"So be it then," Daerion said at last. "You've always been just a bastard. What's eighteen more years? You will die with him, Soren."
Through the link of the Crown, Lukas saw the old man's final fight.
Thunder rolled across the throne room. Lightning tore through the air in blinding arcs, painting the shattered throne room in stark flashes of white. Magnus Elarion was no longer a man—he was a storm given flesh. The old man did not hold back. There was no need to any longer. This was his last battle, and he would spend every drop of his power here.
Age had carved lines into his face, slowed his step, but when Magnus Elarion moved now, he was untouchable.
Even Daerion—King of Men, a mountain in armor—and Maelis, heir of the same Divinity that flowed through Magnus' veins, did not dare meet him in direct combat. They hung back, sending wave after wave of soldiers to wear him down; acting as mere meatshields who were torn apart by the pure power of electricity that now coursed through Magnus' veins.
They were afraid. Afraid of what might happen if they truly tested themselves against him. Afraid that if Magnus touched them, even once, the fight would end in an instant.
The magic of the Ittriki Clan meant nothing if Daerion was not fast enough to land a blow against Magnus Elarion. And not a single soul gathered in that throne room could do so.
Magnus became living lightning, moving too fast for the human eye to follow. Spears shattered, shields splintered, and armored men were hurled away as bolts of pure electricity cut through them.
Not a single strike found its mark. Not one.
Seventeen hours.
That was how long it took before the thunder began to fade.
Magnus' body flickered back into flesh, the sparks dying on his skin. He stood alone among the dead, his enemies circling, yet none dared take a step closer. They had spent countless of lives, hours, and strength beyond measure trying to break him—they feared what he might do in his final moments.
Lukas felt tears burning in his eyes as the connection weakened.
Magnus walked to the throne and sat heavily, the same seat he had claimed for over a hundred years. In all that time—in all those seventeen hours—not one blade or fist had drawn his blood.
This was Magnus Elarion.
This was the Head Mage of the Magic Tower, the rightful King of Easthaven.
And he would die as he had lived—on his throne, unbroken and untouched.
Magnus reached for the amplification crystal that had been embedded in the throne, something he had used to make announcements for all of Easthaven to hear. When his voice rang out, it carried across the entire kingdom.
"My name…is Magnus Elarion." the old man whispered, his voice weak and raspy. "And I leave you with these words. Never give up the fight. This injustice…it will not last. It will not last if you do not bend the knee. Fight so your children may see a free and just world. Carry this flame in your hearts. My granddaughter Rosalia Elarion will return. And when she does…she will set you free. Until that day…hold fast. Endure. And never stop fighting. Believe in hope, my people. Because sometimes, hope is all we have."
Daerion's roar split the air. The giant king leapt forward, his fist wreathed in the burning red Divinity of Dissection, and drove it into Magnus' chest.
The impact shook the throne room.
Just like that, the connection between their minds was cut and Lukas let the tears finally fall as he continued to fly through the skies; realizing that the old man was no longer among the living.
But the words had already been spoken. The people had heard their King's final command and they would not give up.
There, upon the throne he had sworn to keep, beneath the shattered dome of his kingdom's heart, lay Magnus Elarion—King of Easthaven, Head Mage of the Magic Tower, the man who had lived with honor and, till the very end, had died with glory.