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Springing into action, several guards stumbled and grappled over each other, desperately trying to fling themselves upon the ring and necklace, but before any of them could reach it, they were thwarted by Kalen’s body weight slamming into the cluster of them and sending them flying backwards, tumbling onto the carpet painfully. While trying his best to right himself with his tied hands, Agatha picked up the slack and wriggled haphazardly, a fish caught in twine, until she was semi-righted into a strange frog squat. Leaping forward she crossed the distance, a sharp prick in her side where the bite of her ring met soft skin as she landed, scrunching her nose up at the definite assurance of a bruise. Meanwhile Kalen had been able to surge upward after a short period of struggle just in time to be met with a vigorous thrust to the nose, head flying back in sheer force and bringing his weight scuffling backwards a step or two as a result, almost knocking into one of the columns breaching into the hallowed ceiling.
“Spades, that hurt,” he groaned. The guard who had delivered the blow paced in front of him, drawing his sword with a high metallic shrill.
“Blackwell, the boy is mine.” Excelzia sibilated from amongst the fray, shockingly unrumpled with face dispassionate. The fact that the stone-faced woman herself put a claim on his life chilled him; dying at the hands of a witchblade… a fate no kinder for any warlock. Slowly the woman crossed the room, knuckles white in her grip on her blade, her men parting for her even through the throng of chaos. Kalen glanced over at Agatha, who had maneuvered so the ring was clenched in her teeth as her lips lifted into a snarl. The amulet was tucked tightly in a fold of her shirt, between her side and her forearm, and a small light shone off of it as Kalen stared towards it.
An idea framed inside his mind. The last time he had attempted such a thing was in the boundaries of his bedroom, among the silence of his bedsheets and books, and even then his concentration had failed and wreaked havoc on his home. If he had more time a better plan would have been more appealing; however they were lacking in the former, so it was the best idea he could summon.
“Agatha, close your eyes,” He bellowed from his position. Excelzia stopped her advances, as well as the soldier, Blackwell, who had halted his pacing in wake of his commander nearing. “You have lost your amulet, son of evil. Do not fool us with your petty bluffs,” The king yelled, cowering behind his wall of metal knights blocking the throne.
Kalen breathed, attuned to his heartbeat only. He grappled for the string in his mind that tethered him to his artifact, searching, searching for the rush of sensations that came with it’s abilities. Deep in the red of his soul stained with memories, he found it. Glowing and whispering foul secrets it had curled in on itself, but now it burned an angry hue, and he felt it all come back as he touched it.
“Kalen, do it,” Agatha said through the metal in her mouth.
“Goodbye, warlock,” Excelzia growled.
Ignite, He thought.
And as the world disappeared around him, Prince Kalen of Kingdom Bellamy, Warlock, breathed a cloud of fire into the throne room of Castle Mundoch.