fled. "My wing is torn. I can barely fly straight these days. I could barely beat those griffins. I'm old and wounded, and I'm tired. It's over, kid."
Kyrie shook his head in disbelief. How could Benedictus say this? How could their great king, the Vir Requis who had killed so many griffins, speak this way?
"But don't you hate Irae?"
In a flash, so fast Kyrie could not react, Benedictus grabbed Kyrie's throat and slammed him against a tree. Kyrie could not breathe, could not struggle, could not move, could only stare at Benedictus's burning eyes. Stars floated around him, and he thought he would die.
"Dies Irae kidnapped my daughter," Benedictus said, voice cold, his fingers tight around Kyrie's throat. "I hate him more than you can imagine. You cannot know how I feel."
Kyrie could not breathe. He could barely speak. Sure he would pass out any second, he managed to whisper hoarsely. "He murdered my family. I know exactly how you feel."
Benedictus let go. Kyrie fell to the ground, clutching his throat, taking ragged breaths. Stars still floated before his eyes.
"I want you gone by tomorrow," Benedictus said, walking away into the trees, leaving Kyrie gasping and coughing on the ground. "I told you. The war is over."
DIES IRAE
When his hall's doors slammed open, and Gloriae limped in bloody and bruised, Dies Irae did not need to be told.
He knew at once.
Benedictus still lived.
"Daughter," he said, rising from his throne.
Dirt and blood covered Gloriae's breastplate. She dragged her left leg, which was a bloody mess. She carried her helmet under her arm, and her face was ashy, her hair tangled. As she limped across the marble tiles, her blood trickled. The lords and ladies of the court gasped and stared.
"Father," she said, limping toward his throne. "I would not rest. I come bearing news. Benedictus— he— he's—"
"He's alive," Dies Irae said, voice icy.
Gloriae nodded, panting. "He slew us all. My men. Our griffins. The boy Kyrie Eleison flies with him. Let us go. Now! On the hunt." She drew her sword, then wobbled. Dies Irae dashed forward and grabbed her, holding her up.
"Daughter," he said and caressed her cheek. She looked up at him, green eyes so large and beautiful. Dies Irae kissed her bloody forehead. "You are hurt. Come sit by my throne."
She nodded, and they walked across the hall. The nobles of the court stared silently, the light from the stained-glass windows glinting in their jewels.
Light filled his court this day, glistening upon these jewels, upon golden statues of his likeness, upon filigreed columns and chandeliers. This court was a place of beauty, of light and truth, of righteousness and splendor... but today it seemed dark to Dies Irae. All the gold and jewels in Osanna, his empire, could not light his eyes today.
He sat Gloriae on the stairs by Osanna's Ivory Throne. Servants rushed forward to bandage her leg, to pour wine into her mouth, to remove her bloodied armor. Dies Irae watched them work, then turned his gaze to his left arm, the deformity Benedictus had given him. And now... now Benedictus was back.
With sudden rage, Dies Irae grabbed his crystal goblet and tossed it with a howl.
The lord and ladies of his court, a hundred jeweled nobles, started and stared at their feet. Only Gloriae, the servants bandaging her leg, did not flinch. Blood speckled the marble stairs beneath her, and her eyes burned.
"You failed me," Dies Irae said to her. "You failed to kill him."
Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment Gloriae looked ready to scream. Then she lowered her eyes. "Forgive me, Father. I have failed you once, but I will not fail again. Let us fly on the hunt. I know where he is. We will find him. We will kill him. I will kill Kyrie Eleison, and you will kill Benedictus." She drew her sword with a hiss.
Dies Irae began to pace the hall. Around him the nobles spoke in hushed tones, daring not meet his eyes; a wrong glance now could kill them, they knew. Gloriae shoved away the servants tending to her, rose to her feet, and limped beside him. Pink splotches spread across her cheeks, and fire blazed in her eyes. Her hand trembled around the hilt of her sword.
"Is he plotting a return?" Dies Irae wondered aloud.
Gloriae spat onto the marble tiles. "He flies with the boy. The weredragons plan an attack against us, Father. They will gather more. They will fly upon this city."
Dies Irae nodded, the