Chapter 41 #2
For a heartbeat, I almost pity him. He has hunted, killed, and crossed worlds for what he’s lost, as I have.
He loves Meranor as I love Amara. His devotion is a mirror of my own obsession, warped and festering.
We are two sides of the same broken coin.
Two selfish fools clinging to the same dream, and there’s no reasoning with Anethesis, just as there’s no reasoning with me.
I know deep down, one of us will not survive this.
“One last time,” I say, breath burning in my chest. “Let her go.”
He lifts his other hand, his fingers curl, and the air around us stirs. Leaves lift from the ground, caught in a whirl of power that gathers in his palm.
“Amara’s death will not be in vain,” he says softly, ignoring my threats. “I want you to remember that when you die, Daedalus. All of Meranor will know of Amara’s sacrifice. For all eternity, they will weep her name.”
The whirl at Anethesis’s fingertips grows, slow at first, a small twist of air that hums against my skin.
Inch by inch it widens, gathering speed until the clearing itself trembles.
My cloak lashes my legs, my hair whips across my eyes.
The funnel stretches skyward, cutting through the canopy until it punches a hole clean through the trees.
Harsh white moonlight pours through, spilling across the grove like a wound torn open.
The wind surges in every direction, shoving the long grass flat, tearing at the vines that drape the trees.
Lavender blossoms rip free, spinning into the air in a rush of purple and silver and then, one by one, the flowers above Amara’s resting place rise.
First the petals, delicate as breath, then the stalks, then the roots, until the very soil itself lifts in trembling layers.
My heart hammers. Beneath the roar, I see the thin golden threads weaving through the dirt, stretching between us, but they’re fraying.
Fractured. What was once unbreakable iron is now splintered and fading.
My mark. My bite. The link between our souls.
I reach for it, desperate, but her heartbeat beneath the earth is faint.
It’s too soon. If she wakes now, she’ll die.
“Anethesis!” I roar.
Smoke coils around my arm as Death Singer manifests in my grip, its blade gleaming like a captured star. I hurl myself into the wind, muscles burning as I fight the storm’s pull. Each step is agony, each breath, a war against the air.
Anethesis only smiles. With one scarred hand, he lifts Mirael off her feet as easily as if she weighed nothing and flings her into the raging vortex.
Her scream splits the night.
She spirals upward, swallowed by the cyclone, her body flung higher and higher until she’s a blur amid the storm of debris. Then, as the wind shifts, she drops, arms flailing, hair streaming, a mortal comet plummeting toward the earth.
I look to Anethesis. He watches me through the chaos, his face calm, almost serene. Another layer of earth tears free, dirt and roots ripped away.
Do I let Mirael fall?
Do I trade her life to end Anethesis? To save Amara?
I’m sorry, Mirael.
A blur of motion cuts through the storm.
Zyphoro.
She bursts into the clearing like vengeance itself, wings cracking the air like thunder. Her hair is wild, her runes blazing. She climbs through the vortex with impossible speed and snatches Mirael from the air, just before she hits the ground.
Relief barely has time to register before I move. My wings explode from my back, black smoke spiraling outward, swallowing moonlight whole. I drive forward, hard, fast, colliding with Anethesis with all the force of a boulder. The impact cracks the world open.
We slam into a tree at the clearing’s edge. The ancient trunk splinters under the force, groaning as bark and branches rain down.
The cyclone dies with a shuddering sigh, collapsing into silence as soil and blossoms fall like ash from the sky.
We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. I’m on him before he can rise, my knee in his chest, Death Singer raised high. Smoke curls along its edge, hungry, alive.
“Now is the time?” Emranth hisses from the pit of my mind. “Yes, yes. Fae blood is sweetest. This one is old. Aged like wine.”
But I couldn’t care less about the demon’s hunger.
Anethesis stares up at me, his one cloudy eye wide. The color long gone, but deep beneath that milky surface there’s a flicker. Fear. That small, trembling glimmer when the soul finally sees death coming for it. And I am death.
“You’re no better than them,” he spits, his fingers, ringed with scars, scratching at my wrists, desperate, trembling. “A killer of Fae. You butcher your own kind, Daedalus. The last of us left!”
My jaw tightens. I bring both hands to Death Singer’s hilt, and the blade hums with my fury.
The runes across my chest ignite, flaring violet-bright.
“Perhaps that’s what this world needs,” I mutter, and there is a clarity threaded through the words.
“The time of the Fae is over, Anethesis. Let the humans have their turn. Let her lead them.”
The sword trembles in my hands, the tip pressing closer to his throat. Emranth growls, a low, guttural plea for blood, but I don’t need the encouragement. This is for everything Anethesis has done. For that night in Pariseth when my world changed forever. For the Grove. For Amara.
He wants peace? Then I’ll give him the only kind he deserves. The kind found in silence and eternal dark.
Smoke whips from my back, serpentine and alive, lashing around his wrists and driving them into the dirt. He thrashes, chokes, the ground trembling beneath him as I raise Death Singer high, ready to end this once and for all.
And then his lips twist. “Nael tir’an velthra.”
The words slither through the air like a curse.
I roar. Something cold snaps tight around my throat then a click, final and cruel.
The blade dissolves in my hand. My fingers rake at my neck, scraping against polished metal. A collar. Smooth, seamless.
My wings falter, the shadow bleeding from them like smoke escaping a cracked vessel. I reach for the void, my power, my rage, but it slides through my grasp, slipping away like mist through fingers.
And then… nothing.
No smoke.
No shadows.
No void.
Not even Emranth.
I feel the warmth drain from me. My veins turn to ice beneath my skin, the color leeching away until I’m the shade of ash. My lips move soundlessly, shaping half-formed words, the horror of what’s been done stealing even the air from my lungs.
Before I can take another breath, Anethesis thrusts his hand forward.
The wind strikes like a hammer. It tears me from him, hurling me backward.
My spine collides with the same ancient tree we shattered moments ago.
The trunk groans under the impact, splitting wider, its age-old strength finally faltering.
I drop to my knees, pulling at the collar, just as the tree gives a long, low creak and topples.
I have no wings to carry me. No smoke to shield me. Not even the void to vanish into.
I lurch to my feet and run, throwing myself clear just as the massive trunk crashes to the ground. The impact shakes the earth, throwing up a storm of dust and bark and leaves.
I gasp for air, lungs burning. As the dust clears, I catch a flash of movement above. Zyphoro with Mirael still in her arms.
“No!” I shout, arm stretched toward her. “Zyphoro, get away!”
Too late.
Anethesis’s voice slices through the chaos. He whispers the curse again. His finger rises, and a streak of silver leaps from it like a lightning bolt. It catches her, coiling around her throat.
The collar locks with a sharp metallic click, my sister caged once again.
Her wings vanish mid-flight. She plummets.
In the fleeting time that follows, as she tumbles towards the earth, Zyphoro folds herself around Mirael, cocooning the human tight against her chest. The two of them spin through the air and, at the last instant, Zyphoro turns, her back crashing against the earth, taking the shattering impact.
I turn on Anethesis, voice breaking with rage. “You shame our ancestors by using this device!” I snarl. “You desecrate everything sacred! Even in desperation, the old covenants must be honored!”
He stares at me for a heartbeat, expressionless, then shakes his scarred head. “As you said, Daedalus,” he murmurs, almost gently. “The time of the Fae is over. The old laws mean nothing now.”
His gaze slides back to the churned soil, to where Amara lies beneath the broken earth. His lips curve in a small, terrible smile. “Now. Where was I?”
He stretches out his hand, and the air twists once more. The vortex roars to life, faster, stronger than before, clawing deeper into the ground.
I stagger to my feet, every muscle screaming. No wings, no magic, just fury and flesh and the promise I made her. I charge, but the air catches me mid-stride.
It wraps around me like iron bands, lifting me from the ground. My arms lock at my sides, ribs compressing under the pressure. I hang there, helpless, forced to watch as Anethesis digs deeper, closer to her.
Her heartbeat is a whisper now, barely a flutter against the pull of the cold creeping into my bones.
“You don’t understand!” I shout, voice hoarse. “She will die!”
But Anethesis doesn’t hear me. Or perhaps he does and simply doesn’t care. He is far beyond reason, beyond redemption. There is nothing left in him but obsession. All he wants is Amara. All he craves is Meranor. Nothing else matters.
Then, through the roar of the vortex and the shatter of my pleas, the forest stirs.
The wind shifts. It hums. Voices rise from within the trees, low and resonant, their song threaded with age and power.
The melody crawls under my skin, vibrating in my bones, until the whole world seems to thrum with it.
The trees groan and bow as branches twist, and from the darkness, a thousand green eyes open, ancient and furious.
The first strike comes from the sky.
A flood of birds bursts from the canopy, their feathers flashing like shards of flame and gemstone as they dive, screaming, toward Anethesis. They fall upon him like a storm of arrows.
He snarls, throwing out his arm. A gust of wind tears through the air, scattering the flock in all directions. But in doing so, his concentration wavers, and I feel it. The invisible grip around my body loosens.
I drag in a breath, force my limbs to move, to fight.
Then the ground trembles.
The next wave comes on four legs. Wolves burst from the treeline, moving with inexplicable speed, blurs of motion, even to my eyes.
Their howls split the air, a wild, ancient sound, as they descend upon the clearing.
From the other side come the boars, muscled beasts, their tusks carved from stone, their hides thick and earthen.
They crash through the undergrowth, charging headlong for Anethesis.
The Souls.
The forest itself rises to protect its Jewel.
Anethesis spits bitter curses, summoning wall after wall of wind to hold back the onslaught. The gale rips through the clearing, flattening grass and lavender alike, but the more he defends, the more his power splinters and then his hold on me breaks entirely.
I hit the ground hard, roll, and come up in a crouch. The collar still burns cold against my throat, but I no longer care. If I can’t wield magic, I’ll wield rage. If I can’t summon smoke, I’ll use my hands. I like using my hands.
I charge.
He doesn’t see me at first, too busy battling nature’s wrath.
But before I reach him, fresh foes spill across the field.
Legion soldiers pour in from the west, from the direction of the village.
Their boots crush the lavender underfoot, dragging blood and muck through the grass as they surge forward, blades flashing.
Wolves meet steel, tusks meet shields, screams and howls fill the night. Flesh rends and metal shatters. Blood paints the earth, Fae, beast, and man alike, and still, through it all, the vortex rages. The earth continues to tear itself open.
I launch myself at Anethesis, fingers closing hot and merciless around his throat. The vortex stammers, wavers, loses a breath of power.
He slams his hands to mine, jaw a hard line, clawing at my grip. His skin is paper-thin beneath my fists. It splits under the pressure, warm wetness slicking my palms. He hisses, gurgles, a ragged plea. But the cyclone eats every scrap of his strength. He has nothing left to give me.
I squeeze. His eyes bulge wide, veins blackening beneath the sick, bruised purple of his skin as the air wheezes out of him in wet, rasping gasps. I don’t stop. I squeeze harder.
Then, absurd and fragile against the slaughter, a rabbit appears.
Tiny and white and utterly out of place.
It hops through the crimson grass as if the world were still simple, as if it were still spring.
It pauses at the edge of the vortex, lifts a paw to its nose, and is calm in a way that feels like a rebuke.
For one impossible heartbeat I think the Souls have sent it as a sign, some small mercy in the madness.
An arrow snaps free. Sharp, sudden. Whether aimed true or stray, it finds the rabbit’s chest. The shaft pierces through fur and flesh, its dark eyes gloss and close. It collapses like a dropped thing, the tiny body folding into the earth.
The pain that rips through me is not rational. It is something primal, hollow and vast, a raw wound clawing its way up from my gut, burning through my chest until it tears free of my throat in a sound I barely recognize as my own and then I understand.
It isn’t just the rabbit I mourn.
It’s the silence. The unbearable, suffocating silence where her heartbeat should be.
The bond between us, those golden threads I have felt all my life, lies severed, lifeless.
I can’t hear her.
I can’t feel her.
Amara… is gone.