Asta gasped, sucking in a visor-full of dirt. His head jerked up.

“Father!” The dust caught, he wheezed, and wretched. Something touched the side of his helm.

“Asta.” A familiar voice.

“Asfidel.” Memory came, and with it the sharpness of pain. The roof had fallen. He’d leapt for her.

She was still alive.

“Asfidel, are you hurt?”

“I don’t—” He started to move, then grunted. “Yes. My leg, but the…”

He started to push up, drawing his arm out from beneath her, and the armor creaked, the sound of shorn metal scraping his ears. Stone pressed in against his back, fragments slipping in through a crack in the metal.

“The armor. It’s useless,” he said. Despair swept in like a wave, trying to suck him under, but he fought it, swallowing down the fear for his friends, his father, and trying to get up again. The stone had tumbled down over his legs nearly up to his waist. Pushing up with his arms though, he managed to make a gap, just enough for Asfidel to pull free.

He tried not to get distracted as her body slid beneath his chest.

When she was out, his arms gave, landing him flat against what remained of the building’s first floor. He could pull himself a little, but he was going to need some help. As Asfidel started moving stones, he slipped the visor up into its hooded form, blinking back dust and coughing.

“Cisero?” he called. “Acionna? Thar’as! Is anyone there?”

As Asfidel lifted the last of the heavier stones, Asta pulled his legs free. The armor had been crushed and twisted by the falling stones and one of his legs was bruised from the impact, but it was not so bad that he could not walk, even with blood seeping down and out of the damaged metal. As he gained his feet, a weak call caught his and Asfidel’s attention. It sounded like their thief.

“Here,” the man cried, voice raspy from pain. “I’m over here. Please. Help.”

Asta ran, ignoring the pain in his leg. Soon, he found their rogue, one leg buried under a pile of red-stained stone, arm pinned by another. Broken bottles bit at the thief’s side, potions mixing to stain his clothes purple and black.

“Your highness…” Cisero muttered, eyes fluttering under drooping lids.

“Don’t talk,” said Asta, pushing aside stone. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out.”

“Don’t…talk…you always say that….”

Asta turned, looking for Asfidel. She was standing still, ten feet away, both hands lifted to cover her mouth. He followed her gaze, his own breath catching when he did.

Thar’as. Badly burned, half-covered in rubble. The wizard’s chest moved, but only barely.

Asta shoved harder at the broken pieces, trying to free their thief. His shoulder struck up against a larger piece, and he realized it wasn’t just a larger stone, but a massive portion of a pillar. Any closer, and the rogue would have been killed. He put his entire weight against it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Damn it,” he cursed. He looked out and saw guards picking their way through, a few that had been in the room even starting to rise.

“Over here!” he shouted. “Please! We need help! Cisero, we’re getting help. Don’t move. Just, just rest. I need to check on Thar’as, but I promise, I’m right here.”

The thief’s free hand raised in a weak salute, going limp as the man either lost consciousness or came very close.

Stumbling off the wreckage, the prince ran to the wizard, half-falling as he joined Asfidel at his side. The look she gave him confirmed what he already knew.

The wizard was not going to survive.

Ripping off his gauntlet, he took the man’s hand. He didn’t squeeze, not wanting to cause him more pain, just held it, lightly, like a bird.

Rubble nearer the center of the room clacked, thin trickles of water ousting the rocks. Dimly, the prince saw Acionna, rising ice-flecked from the wreckage. Spotting them, she trotted over, slowing as she saw the man’s condition.

“What…”

“The armor is broken,” the prince said flatly. “Please, is there anything you can do?”

Asta took a deep breath as the wizard’s hand went limp in his own. As he rose to his feet, he took in another.

Raised with the finest education, taught by the greatest swordsmen, clothed in armor that could make him immortal, and still he had failed. Still, they had lost.

“Damn it,” he said, picking up a stone.

“Asta…”

He threw it as far as he could. “DAMN IT!”

He kicked the earth, pain biting through his leg. He balled his fists, closing his eyes.

A hand landed on his arm.

He shrugged it off with a jerk. Still, it was enough, a reminder of what he ought to be, what he had to be. They had lost one of their own, yes, but that didn’t mean the others didn’t still need him, and many more besides.

Taking in another deep breath, Asta turned to face the women. The other guards who had survived were approaching, still more from farther afield making the distance. He took off the hooded ring of his helmet, tucking it under his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was…foolish. Are you both alright?”

Acionna gave him a dumb nod, drenched to the bone but otherwise unharmed. Asfidel nodded, too. She gave him a searching look, but he forced up his defenses. Despair rose at the base of his throat, and he swallowed, averting his eyes and choking the emotion down.

“Good. It would seem Cerys’ cult has made my father their latest target. Though I understand there is much that still needs to happen here, it is my hope to be off as soon as possible. Acionna, if you can, please help the guards with the rescue and retrieval of any of the remaining men in the rubble, starting with Cisero. Asfidel, if you could please help with his care, it would be much appreciated. I will tend to Thar’as. We will make sure his body is handled according to Kalathi custom. Though I hesitate to say he was always a good man, I believe there was much good in him, or at least the capacity, and I and my family remain in his eternal debt.”

By this time, the living guards had gathered, dust smearing their faces and clothes, blood striping the layers beneath. Of the faces he could see, most looked lost, others swallowed by grief. All of them looked shocked. He raised his voice.

“Guards, welcome. I am glad to see you are still here. In killing my uncle, the former Duke Duvane of Valantia, Cerys Bruvona and her cult, the Discorgoroth, have hereby made themselves enemies of the royal crown of Valdor and all who would claim loyalty to the name. She is personally responsible for the death and destruction of two dear friends and the lives of countless others, and she will be hunted until such a time as she and her ilk face the same. I am sorry for the losses you all have faced today in the defense of this kingdom, and I promise I do not take lightly your grief or service. As we face this new challenge together, I assure you I will give my utmost to finish these tasks and to make their sacrifices worth while. On this, you have my word.”

In the short time Asta had known of Cerys Bruvona, she had taken much from him. Thar’as, Brodwin, the armor, even his uncle, poisoned by her schemes.

But she had not taken it all, and what he was going to take from her in return was going to be much, much more. Because despite his loses, despite what she had taken, he was Prince Astaraveyn Stavanis, former Ghost King, and Cerys, for all her power, couldn’t stop what she couldn’t kill.