Page 39 of Zepharali: Lord of the East Winds (Lords of the Wind Book 3)

Lazaar

Lazaar clapped loudly when the maroon drapes opened to a dramatic backdrop of Olympus.

Zepharali watched his beloved’s reactions more than the performance.

Lazaar missed live plays of stories about gods and great battles of the titan warriors—he’d once thought were fictitious—he’d seen in Chessuven.

During intermission, Lazaar leaned over and snatched Zepharali into an appreciative hug, pressing his mouth against his ear.

“Thank you, my lord. You have pleased me greatly. This is by far one of the best events you’ve shown me in your world.”

“Our world, my love.”

They kissed, and their love radiated across the theater, receiving oohs and aahs from the large crowd.

Lazaar was on the edge of his seat.

His excitement was out of control as the talented cast performed the climactic act of Helios driving his four-winged steed-drawn chariot when a sharp pain filled with evil and rage stabbed him in the center of his core.

He wasn’t able to hold in the wounded cry that made him double over.

Lazaar heard Zepharali grunt in reaction to his discomfort before Elephaa yanked him out of his chair.

There was no mistaking the demonic whispers burning under his skin.

His mother was coming.

Zepharali

Zepharali clutched his chest.

If the transferred pain from Lazaar’s core hurt this bad inside him, he could only imagine how devastating it felt inside Lazaar.

Myst’s warning screech was loud enough to create panic in the crowd as the people leapt from their seats and scattered in a dozen directions.

Zepharali’s heart pounded as bloodred clouds billowed over his suns.

“To the armory!” Dorema yelled, her guards already running ahead of her.

Zepharali wanted to bolt into the sky and try to end this before it began, but he had to ensure the safety of his heart’s love and his people first.

The wardens were ushering the patrons toward the underground bunkers, but the ground was shaking hard enough for him to know the army of the dead was closing in on them fast…maybe too fast for all of the patrons to get to safety in time.

Lazaar kept pace beside him, his eyes trained on the sky.

“Everyone won’t make it in time!” Zepharali shouted at his personal guards. “Leave me and protect them.”

Before they could break formation, Lazaar leapt off the ground and executed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. He waved his arm in a wide arc and cast a spell that created a shadowy barrier across the main square.

Without missing a step, Lazaar fell back in stride with him.

He could’ve used his speed and blinked toward the armory, but he clearly didn’t want to leave Zepharali’s side either.

Zepharali sent his thanks and amazement through their link. Lazaar had been working on his defensive spells.

He only hoped what he’d learned so far would be enough.

The bell tower continued to sound the alarm as the undead horde, stretching as far as he could see, crested the bordering hills.

The dead were in all shapes and sizes—some tall, short, big, and small—skeletal figures with lifeless eyes.

Some looked like creatures of mixed species with sharp claws and bared teeth.

Zepharali wasn’t as concerned with them as he was with the hovering woman in a tattered red gown, wielding a staff that dripped blood as black as oil.

Her inky hair matched her eyes, which were trained on her one and only target—Lazaar.

Zepharali’s first instinct was to have him hauled off to the bunkers, but he’d promised to never make that mistake again.

He thought she would swoop down and snatch Lazaar, but she stayed out of reach.

Lazaar still hadn’t harnessed his flying abilities, and Zepharali wasn’t about to leave him on the ground with hundreds, if not thousands, of dead demons.

As if sensing their disadvantage, she smiled with gray-tinged fangs. Using her scepter, she shot black flames hotter than hellfire at the watch tower, disintegrating and vaporizing it.

The cries of the wardens before they collapsed into a mound of ashes made rage flood his veins.

The blasts created a thunderous shock wave that shook the foundation and sent the surrounding buildings crumbling to the ground.

His fearless infantry stayed on their feet.

Dorema and Aoide led the charge to fight the possessed soulless demons.

Zepharali was given his sword and shield by the armory’s guards. He snapped it around his back.

Lazaar raised his arms, summoning a vortex of darkness that rotated around him. He extended his hand and shot a rod of fire that crackled like lightning into the sky.

The strike sent the mage-vampire flying backward, but it didn’t take her long to right herself with a taunting cackle.

Lazaar released a guttural roar and unleashed a torrent of fireballs that weren’t strong enough to disable her.

Zepharali understood Lazaar was still hesitant to pull too hard from his darkness, but now wasn’t the time for him to hold back.

“Gods!” Lazaar yelled with fear in his eyes.

A stinging pain of sorrow hit Zepharali’s core, foreign and intrusive, before he realized it was Lazaar already conceding defeat.

But Zepharali was a titan. Defeat was not a word in his vocabulary. Even on his last breath, there would be no surrender.

He yanked Sun Strike from behind him and stabbed into the ground, the long blade igniting with energy, and harnessed his distressed easterly winds.

He whispered into the hot steel.

“Titan brothers.”