Chapter 10 #3
Rhea narrows her eyes on him as if she was able to read the entirety of what just passed inside him. She shakes her head at him, her sneer even more prominent than it was before. “You are such a coward,” she mutters under her breath.
Finlay has to temporarily look away from her, not able to glimpse the pain surfacing in her eyes.
But then a soaring metal tip forces him to revert his attention forward as a dagger races for his throat.
He erects a wall of ice just as the blade is about to pierce through his skin, and the dagger clinks off it, clattering onto the ground.
Finlay’s eyes are wide and wild as he looks back to Rhea.
That would have killed him. If he hadn’t thrown up his wall at the last second, her dagger would have absolutely pierced the artery in his throat. Not to mention, she was aiming to slice his throat open just moments before.
Finlay isn’t sure why, but the bitter realization she is actually trying to murder him right now slams into him like a lethal blow, causing his unchecked anger to corrupt him like poison.
He knows she hates him. He knows she wants to watch him rot in an early grave somewhere.
But Finlay never thought she would actually try to be the one to send him there.
The air around them plunges into a bone-chattering cold as Finlay surpasses mere rage.
A terrifying sort of calm settles inside him, and he allows his magic to flow freely through his veins, calling on it in the same way he did when battling the Abdites.
His breath becomes visible as he heaves in clipped bouts of air, his neck prickling from the sudden surge of magic he’s allowed to escape.
Finlay raises both of his hands and opens his palms, facing them toward Rhea.
Then he unleashes a razor-edged ice storm, sending the ferocious flurry hurtling at her.
Simultaneously, he sends a sheet of ice racing toward her feet, attempting to lick her skin as it seeks to wrap itself around her legs, freezing her into place.
Yet despite him tugging on even more of his magic, the ice continues to die as it meets the small bubble-like shield she’s cocooned around herself.
As she pushes that energy further outward, the ice melting midair, Finlay grits his teeth and pushes more magic at her.
And more. And more. Until the tips of his fingers are tingling from the surge of magic he unleashes upon her.
He is so lost in his frenzy, he doesn’t even realize Rhea has buckled, the edges of the razor-sharp ice nicking her skin, leaving oozing red slices up and down her body.
Yet her expression remains undaunted, set in an infuriating mix of anger and determination.
Her hands stay in front of her as she attempts to retain any remaining bits of her nullifying magic.
For whatever reason, it makes Finlay push harder. Throw more magic at her as his father’s voice swirls around in his head. Show her the true power of the Fjolla line. Make her respect you, even if it means breaking her in the process. Show her your worth. Show her no mercy.
Wisps of her hair fall into her face, a sharp contrast against her ivory skin as the silver and black mingle together.
Blood seeps from her arms like a tattered doll whose seams have come undone.
Yet she remains upright, attempting to fight against the force of Finlay’s magic.
Her blue eyes remain locked on his, not pulling away for even a second as she defends herself against Finlay’s onslaught with every last dreg of magic she can conjure.
She battles him until she can fight no more, his magic finally overpowering her.
Rhea tumbles backwards from the force, and Finlay—still lost in a sea of rage—lifts his hands before slamming them down, sending his sky of glittering icicles plummeting at her.
Something scratches violently in his chest as he watches the frozen shards race toward her body, threatening to impale every infuriating inch of her.
It isn’t until Finlay realizes he is seconds away from killing Rhea that he finally snaps free from whatever daze just overtook him.
A small tinge of horror washes through him as he comes to, as if only just now becoming aware of what he’s doing.
But before Finlay has a chance to pull back his magic, the ice crashes into the location he sent it, the damning sound mirroring that of shattering glass.
Finlay blinks at the destruction he created, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Yet relief floods his veins when he glimpses an impenetrable black wall coated in blue flames hovering over the place Rhea went down.
His shoulders sag, and just as he banishes his father’s voice back into the shadows, the wall drops, revealing Draven and Kiran standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Rhea as she attempts to rise to her knees.
Her clothes are practically tattered rags now, blood dripping in the sand, leaking from her skin like she’s a busted pipe—her hair a disheveled mess and her cheeks splattered with oozing scarlett slashes.
Finlay’s stomach twists, and it seems like the whole world stills for a moment.
Her eyes drag to his, and where he expects to see defeat, he sees only a stronger resolve.
She braces a hand to her lifted knee, and she stands, her chest rising and falling as she gasps for air, her eyes never looking away from him as she cements the scowl back to her lips.
Draven’s low growl snaps Finlay’s attention from her. “That is enough.” His arms are laced with black spiderwebs as his dark magic spills into his veins, creeping up into his neck.
Finlay slides his gaze to Kiran, who assumes every inch of his height in this moment, blue flames burning in his hand as he watches Finlay with a measured gaze.
Kiran’s fire only turns blue when he’s dug deep into his magic, pulling at it with merciless fury, and Draven’s veins only bleed black when he’s ready to burn the world to the ground.
Finlay realizes with visceral intensity he just royally fucked up.
He allowed himself to get lost in the rage he keeps bottled deep inside himself—let his father’s voice echo too loudly in his head this time.
But that’s what happens every time he sees Rhea.
She spews hatred his way, and everything from that night surfaces.
Gods, he fucking hates her.
Josiah claps his hands, drawing the attention of them all. When he looks at him, Finlay suddenly remembers he’s had an audience this whole time. Honestly, the room had been so quiet, he’d forgotten they weren’t alone.
Finlay scans the room and finds a mix of gazes filled with either horror or approval.
His eyes snag on Gray Nightenjoy and Marcella Lynderful.
Sitting in the far corner, Gray leans forward, observing the scene with keen interest, while Marcella remains slumped in her chair, her arms folded over her chest while she watches with cool indifference.
“Captain Fjolla,” Josiah says, drawing Finlay’s attention back to him.
“Thank you for that engaging demonstration. You and Ms. Brooksley valiantly demonstrated both the raw power of a Captain, and how valuable a capable Nullifier can be.” He turns to Rhea and inclines his head to her.
“Ms. Brooksley, you will be a valuable asset to Bathara, indeed. You showed great resilience and admirable combat abilities just now. We welcome you with open arms.”
Finlay glances at Rhea and watches as she silently dips her chin at him. Her only form of acknowledgment to what he just said.
“Master Cahlmon. Master Strithmore,” Josiah calls out. “Will you please join me for a moment of deliberation?”
The two Masters step forward and meet Josiah in the center of the platform, where they huddle together and begin discussing the fate of Rhea’s temporary aggregate.
As they do, Draven and Kiran march over to Finlay, their faces lined in a cold rage.
For some reason he can’t explain, Finlay glances past them and to Rhea.
She catches his wandering eye, and her upper lip curls before she puts her back to him, strutting out of the sand pit and over to her combat boots, kneeling down and shoving her feet back into them.
His eyes linger on her. Until a forceful blow to his chest pulls his attention away.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Draven hisses under his breath.
Finlay slides his eyes to Tynan Dalmar, who remains a few steps behind the conspiring Masters, his hands clasped behind his back, a neutral expression plastered onto his face. He watches Finlay and his brothers with an unnerving sharpness to his gaze.
“You know I couldn’t take it easy on her, Draven,” Finlay argues, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know why she’s here, but now that she is, it doesn’t matter what she is to you—you know we can’t give her special treatment.”
“Like fucking hell I can’t,” he bites back.
Finlay resists the urge to sigh, instead glancing at Kiran, hoping he’ll interject with logic like he normally does. Yet Kiran only watches Finlay with cold disdain in his eyes, his signature smirk nowhere in sight.
Draven points a finger into Finlay’s chest—hard. “You took it too far. Way too fucking far.”
Finlay scowls, his defensive walls erecting into place despite knowing he agrees with Draven on some level. He lifts his chin. “You wouldn’t be saying that if she were anyone else.”
“I would be saying that even if it was a second-year part of your own gods-damn aggregate. Have you forgotten I can feel your magic? I know how much you unleashed on her, Finlay. And I swear to the gods, if you were anyone else, I would have already ripped your throat out. So, maybe you should be more grateful for that preferential treatment you seem to be so against right now.”