After being struck by the white light, Veyga finally recovered.
She sensed that the wizard she'd sent to the other side hadn't entered.
"For the White Flame!" Nilfgaardian soldiers shouted loudly in the woods.
The others echoed the call, the Nilfgaardian troops still gathering in force.
Even with so many wizards aiding them, they couldn't stand against such numbers.
The White Flame was the name of Nilfgaard's emperor—the man who dug up his enemies' graves to pave his floors, earning the title "the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes."
It was faith in the White Flame that had allowed that small southern kingdom to grow into the mighty empire Nilfgaard was now.
The soldiers' morale surged, and Veyga prepared to unleash her secret weapon.
"Open the burial." The whisper of magic rippled outward.
At the spot where John had slain a wizard, a box with jagged seals creaked open.
Inside writhed tiny metallic insects, crawling toward the city gates.
While Triss still fretted over John, the insects slipped into the city.
They burrowed into people's ears, taking control of a few.
Through them, Veyga guided their hands—lifting explosives, turning them toward destruction.
Yennefer saw Sabina approaching and was just about to ask her purpose when an arrow pierced her abdomen.
She caught sight of the wriggling insect in the woman's ear—utter disbelief flashing in her eyes.
At that moment, the controlled villagers detonated their explosives.
BooOOOMMMMmmm
The deafening blast hurled both women through the air.
A massive explosion erupted within the city.
Veyga's scheme had succeeded.
That single explosion shattered all hope of Yennefer's victory.
Many of the mages were caught in the blast as well.
Amid the white mist, Yennefer stood dazed and disoriented.
She called out again and again, desperate for an answer.
When she finally stepped out of the city gates, Triss looked at her in astonishment.
Despite the explosion, she had somehow survived unscathed.
"Yennefer," Triss called softly.
Yennefer leaned on her for support as they walked out of the city.
Outside the city, the rescued sorceress Coral and the sorcerer Atlan struggled to their feet.
The soldiers, having lost their weapons, were slain in turn.
"Yennefer."
They called her name—it was their last hope.
The sky was growing dim. This long and grueling battle was finally nearing its end.
Yennefer looked at the few who remained, then lifted her gaze toward the heavens.
Following her line of sight, the others turned their eyes to the figure suspended in the air.
"John."
The white light had torn through the Nilfgaardian ranks, yet they were quickly regrouping.
That brief window of chaos gave the mages a moment to breathe.
John slowly descended, meeting the eyes of everyone below.
"Who are you, really?" Yennefer demanded, staring hard at him.
John chuckled softly. "I told you—John Wick."
It was a name that had never before been heard on the Continent.
Yennefer tried to see through him—to understand this man's true purpose.
With such immense power, why had he appeared at Sodden?
The sun sank below the horizon, and flames rose from the forest.
Every torch marked another Nilfgaardian soldier.
Of the ten mages they had sent out, only a few were still struggling to hold on.
Yennefer was out of time. She needed help—his help.
"I need your power, John." Her voice wasn't commanding but pleading. "I need your help, John."
The others turned their eyes toward him as the black-armored soldiers advanced.
John stood silent for a moment, meeting Yennefer's gaze. "Should I take that to mean you want to make a deal with me?" he asked.
Then, in a low murmur, he added, "If that's the case, what price are you willing to pay?"
Yennefer didn't answer, but her eyes were unwavering.
"A noble decision." John looked at her deeply and said softly, "I hope you won't regret it."
He accepted Yennefer's offer—whatever he demanded, she would have to agree to it.
Their hands reached out and clasped together.
Lines and circles—an intricate pattern—flashed briefly across the backs of their hands.
Yennefer felt a sharp sting, but when she let go, her skin was smooth as before.
...
The White Flame's army was already charging toward them.
Triss said gravely, "We have to hold out until the armies of the Northern Kingdoms arrive."
She turned to John and asked, "Can you do it?"
John didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, walking slowly toward the Nilfgaardian host, and asked in return,
"Have you ever seen golden fire?"
Triss froze, recalling the flames that never went out.
"What are you going to do?" Yennefer called after him.
John stopped, a grin tugging at his lips. "I'm going to become the fire."
He gripped the Silver Wick sword, and the nine runes etched along its blade began to glow.
Golden flames ignited from the sword's tip, then spread along its length—
—and finally, to his arm! WOOSH!
His body burst into flames.
The sight left the mages utterly stunned.
"Is he dead?" Coral asked nervously.
From within the fire came a deep, resonant voice.
"Those who seek my aid—call my name."
The flames climbed higher and higher, forming a vast, swirling vortex of fire.
Within that blazing whirlpool, John's true name shone forth.
Golden scales pushed through his skin, and wings unfurled from his back.
"The Shadow of Destruction, Votan."
Whispering his true name, John's form transformed into a golden dragon.
Grrr...
A colossal body, born from fire itself—seventy feet long—spread its wings beneath the starlit sky, drawing the light of the constellations.
He beat his wings once, and golden fire swept outward in waves.
The golden dragon soared into the air, its inextinguishable flames devouring everything in its path.
The mist was consumed, the black forest replaced by a sea of gold.
||Flames, burn eternal.||
In the ancient tongue of dragons, he summoned the everlasting fire—blazing torrents erupted from his golden maw.
The Nilfgaardian soldiers quailed, terror clutching their hearts. The White Flame they worshipped could not stand against the eternal gold.
One weary mage, surrounded and cornered by Nilfgaardian troops, was moments away from death.
A black-armored soldier raised his sword to slit the mage's throat.
And just as death was about to strike—Roar!!
Golden fire ignited the forest, a roaring wave crashing into the soldiers.
The flames spread outward like a plague, devouring everything in their path.
Yet the mage at the center stood untouched, unharmed, staring upward in stunned disbelief.
Above him, the golden dragon's wings shimmered, trailing inextinguishable fire.
It was hope—it was salvation.
But to their enemies, it was endless destruction and despair.
Veyga, the royal sorceress, could only stare blankly at the magnificent creature before her.
A breathtaking dragon—bringing with it merciless ruin.
Being so close to the stars granted John an endless flow of magic.
His flaming wings swept across the battlefield, burning tens of thousands of soldiers to ash.
It was a catastrophe.
Before the coming of the White Frost, the golden fire had already left an indelible scar upon the world.
It was the response of the magic world's king to the world itself.
Everywhere he passed, trails of crimson light followed in the golden dragon's wake.
As the blood-red light merged into his sword, John felt the tenth rune begin to fill.
A fireball shot toward him—he swatted it aside with a single claw.
It exploded midair, only to be devoured by his golden flames.
Looking down, John saw a Nilfgaardian sorceress below, trying to halt him.
Roar!
He unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, scorching the earth beneath.
Her fate was unknown.
The inferno unleashed by the golden dragon raged on until the armies of the Northern Kingdoms arrived at Sodden Hill.
The kings looked toward the blazing battlefield—and seeing the golden dragon's wrath, realized there was no need for them to act.
The eternal fire still burned, and there were hardly any Nilfgaardian soldiers left in sight.
Swoosh! thud thud...
John descended from the sky, staggering a few steps as he landed.
Such a wide-scale attack had taken its toll on him as well.
If not for the cover of the forest, things might have gotten far more troublesome.
The mages of the Brotherhood regrouped, staring at the sea of flames before them.
After the golden dragon had fallen, it never rose again.
Triss, anxious, asked, "Yennefer, have you found John?"
Yennefer was casting spell after spell, trying to locate him.
But the flames blocked all her attempts.
"Could he have…" Coral—the red-haired sorceress who had lost an arm—began softly.
She didn't finish the sentence, but everyone knew what she meant.
Nothing could have survived those flames.
Yennefer's emotions were tangled; part of her should have been relieved, no longer bound to fulfill their bargain.
Yet deep down, she felt it—he wasn't dead.
The strange feeling left Yennefer deeply unsettled.
As everyone waited anxiously, the armies of the Northern Kingdoms finally arrived.
They were slaughtering the black-clad soldiers who had fled to the outskirts.
There was no mercy on the battlefield.
Only the wall of flames halted their advance.
And just as everyone was wondering whether John was alive or dead...
The tenth rune on the Silver Wick sword lit up!
________
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