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I don’t know Rúan that well yet, sorry 🙂 If someone does something out of character it’s a rule you can go back and rewrite if you want.

(Ohhh, okay — thank you for letting me know)

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Energy pulsed through Rúan’s left arm in heartbeat flow, stirring the fire in his soul. He closed his eyes to briefly succumb to the sword’s ever-giving rhythm of warmth.

“It’s interesting,” Aydin remarked cautiously, bringing Rúan to the present. “Is whatever you call it supposed to be glowing?”

“Leaghadh,” Rúan corrected with a quirk of his lips. “It is hard to pronounce if you are not raised with the Kindran language. It took me while to master it.”

The warm, familiar energy cut suddenly as he sheathed his sword. “And yes, it is supposed to glow red. It should when in the presence of its maker’s bloodline.”

His relaxed sort of demeanour fell suddenly as an imaginary scream pierced his consciousness. The flashback had returned.

(Author note: If you do not like violence, I would recommend skipping through the part in italic 😊)

…

I madly swung Leaghadh in battle while Yulenna fought fiercely beside me. Tears blinded my vision, reducing the many Empiric soliders to obscure blobs that danced across my view.

 Screaming, I ran a solider through with the Blazing blade, but when I yanked it out, the red glow began to fade.

No …

Whipping around, I noticed my mother, Fernya, on the ground, being dragged off by four Glacia soldiers, along with the short Skotor captain I’d seen earlier

“MOTHER!” I roared, nearly dropping Leaghadh in my panicked hurry to the  queen.

But an agonized grunt-shout cut me off, and Yulenna crumpled beside me.

“Osløn!” I growled, torn painfully between running after my mother, or confronting the person that would take Yulenna’s life.

The searing fire that suddenly ripped through my calf made my decision.

I fell to the dust, blood filling my mouth as I flipped over, Leaghadh in hand, to see the smug Glacia captain, no older than I, grasping limp Yulenna’s forearm and holding her up. Blood poured from her side.

“Give in, brother.” Osløn mocked the last word. He twirled his halberd in the hand not gripping Yulenna.

“I am no brother to you,” I spat, struggling to stand, but crumpling to one knee, my calf nearly cold with the icy, burning sting. “We aren’t even half-brothers.”

“Then come and get her,” Osløn taunted, nodding at Yulenna, who was getting paler and paler.

Yulenna’s eyes fluttered, and she mouthed weakly “I’ll get myself out of this.” Then, “Go.”

As if moved only by Yulenna’s willpower, I turned and sprint-limped away.

…

Rúan snapped into the present, shaking and pale. His wide-stretched sea-green eyes were hollow portals into a realm of guilt, pain, and grief.

“Mother … Yulenna … Osløn …” he panted, his voice trembling with rage, guilt, and pure shell shock.

I was too slow.