Chapter 5 - THE SIEGE OF NEWPORT
The outer gates of the Blackwood estate were masterpieces of nineteenth-century engineering—massive slabs of forged iron and reinforced oak designed to withstand artillery fire.
By mid-afternoon, they were splintering under a different kind of force.
Lord Marcus Vale stood atop the parapet of the outer barbican, his dark ceremonial cloak snapping in the coastal gale. Below him, two hundred private guards in tactical gear formed a defensive crescent across the courtyard, their automatic rifles pointed toward the dense fog rolling in from the harbor.
"Hold your positions!" Marcus shouted over the howling wind. "If anything comes through that fog, you open fire without hesitation!"
From the shadows of the estate's sprawling ancestral gardens came a low, rumbling vibration that shook the rain-slicked stones.
Then, the fog parted.
They didn't come in a terrifying rush of fire and blood. They came in silence.
Dozens of silver-scaled hatchlings emerged from the mist, moving with terrifying grace. But behind them, towering shapes shifted in the gloom—massive, serpentine silhouettes with wingspans that blotted out the gray sky. The middle-aged dragons, untouched by human hands for over two centuries, had arrived.
Marcus raised his hand, his face twisted in panic. "Fire! Fire at will!"
A deafening volley of gunfire erupted from the parapet. Bullets rained down toward the approaching creatures, but before the lead could strike them, a shimmering dome of golden energy flared into existence around the vanguard. The bullets flattened against the barrier and dropped harmlessly into the mud.
From the center of the courtyard, the heavy oak doors of the main hall swung wide open.
Olivia stepped out into the rain.
She wore no armor, carried no weapon, and wore only her dark mantle and the silver embroidery of her house. Vesper flew from her shoulder, soaring upward to circle the stormy sky above the estate.
"Hold your fire!" Marcus screamed down at his guards, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shoot her! Shoot the girl!"
Not a single guard raised a weapon. The mental pressure radiating from the gathering dragons—and channeled directly through Olivia—had frozen their limbs in place.
Olivia walked down the stone steps, her boots splashing softly in the puddles. Every step she took echoed with a strange, musical resonance that seemed to calm the howling wind.
Marcus drew a heavy silver revolver from his holster, pointing it directly at her chest from the parapet. "You have ruined everything, you little fool! This dynasty belongs to the council, not to a bastard child!"
May you like
Olivia stopped at the foot of the steps, looking up at him with cold, unbroken calm.
"The dynasty belongs to history, Marcus," Olivia said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the silent courtyard. "And history has moved on."
