62. The Forging #2
"The final trial is not a test of skill or strength or cunning," he explained, his voice dropping to a more solemn tone. "It is the divine forging itself. Each contestant will be bathed in the pure light of Sundralis, which will burn away their mortality and reveal what lies beneath."
A murmur ran through the crowd. I glanced at Thatcher, drawing strength from the resolute set of his jaw, the unwavering determination in his eyes. Together. At least we were together.
"Let us begin," Olinthar announced, rising from his throne. He raised his arms toward the crystal dome above us. The shards of glass began to retract, sections sliding away to reveal the blinding sky above. The crowd fell silent, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.
For one breathless moment, nothing happened.
Then the world exploded into light.
The beam struck me without warning, driving me to my knees. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The burning light threatened to tear me apart from within. Energy crashed through me, a tidal wave shattering every barrier, flooding every cell.
I tried to scream, but no sound emerged. My fingers clawed desperately at the marble pedestal, seeking an anchor in a storm that threatened to erase me completely.
I hadn't prepared for this level of agony.
The light burned. Gods, how it burned. Not just my skin, but deeper—muscle, bone, the very core of me scorched under its blinding assault. Each heartbeat pumped liquid fire through my veins. Each breath filled my lungs with searing heat.
Then, my own power responded. It coiled and twisted, rising to meet the challenge. Violet spirals burst from my skin, meeting gold.
The two forces slithered against each other, thrashing, biting, drinking the other in.
My vision narrowed to a single point of blinding white. I couldn't see the chamber anymore. Couldn't see Thatcher. There was only the light.
A searing slash focused behind my eyes, drilling into my skull. The pressure built until I was certain my head would shatter. Something was changing. My vision flooded crimson, then violet, before plunging me into merciful darkness.
In that darkness, I felt myself coming undone. Unraveling. My essence scattered across the cosmos. I was everywhere and nowhere, stretched across an infinity I couldn't comprehend.
Was this death?
No. Not death.
I clung to myself in that endless dark. To my name.
To my memories. To my hatred. To my purpose.
I was Thais Morvaren, and I would not let him take anything more from me.
I had fought too hard and for too long to let this cosmic tantrum erase me now.
The light could remake my body, could meld my fucking bones, but it would not erase me.
And Olinthar was a fool for letting me get this far.
I held onto the image of Thatcher's face.
Of Saltcrest's cliffs. Of our mother's smile, preserved in memory.
Of Xül's eyes in firelight. Of Sulien teaching me to braid my hair with clumsy fingers.
Of the small, quiet moments that had made up my life before all this.
The pieces of myself I couldn't bear to lose.
I might have been on that pedestal for seconds or centuries. The light burned and built and broke, but I didn't. I wouldn't.
And then it stopped.
Darkness crashed down. The sudden absence of pain was its own kind of shock. I gasped, lungs heaving.
Silence pressed against my ears. The chamber waited.
I was alive.
And slowly, light flickered across my vision.
It started as warmth, deep in my chest. This wasn't my power, not the stars I could pull from the heavens. This was something new, something inside me.
The warmth spread, slow at first, then racing through me like wildfire. I wanted to scream but couldn't find my voice.
I raised my hands before my face, desperate for something to anchor me. My skin glowed from within. I tried to call out to Thatcher through our bond, but the roaring in my mind drowned out everything else.
A tingling spread through my fingertips.
I watched, unable to look away, as delicate lines of molten starlight began to trace patterns across my skin.
The luminous threads started at my fingernails, cosmic rivers flowing upward.
They wound around my wrists in intricate designs, then continued up my arms, branching and spreading before fading as they reached my elbows.
Something brushed against my shoulders. I looked down to see my hair falling past my chest, longer than it had ever been, growing before my eyes until it reached my waist. The black strands seemed to drink in the light around them, becoming darker than night itself.
The freckles that had dotted my arms since childhood began to change. Each small brown spot shimmered, then transformed into a golden fleck.
I could see the individual motes of dust suspended in the air, feel the weight of centuries pressing down upon the realm. The world exploded into colors I'd never known existed, sounds I'd never heard before, sensations I had no words to describe.
The marble walls of the palace—I could see the veins of mineral deposits running through the stone, the individual crystals catching light at different angles, even the subtle variations of texture invisible to mortal eyes.
I could hear every heartbeat in the chamber, distinguish between them, even sense the differences in rhythm and power between the ancient gods and the newer Aesymar.
The rustle of fabric as someone shifted their weight three rows back.
Each sound was crisp, distinct, no longer blending together into background noise.
My awareness extended in all directions at once.
I could feel the currents of power flowing through the chamber like invisible rivers, sense the age of the stones beneath my feet, even taste the remnants of magic wafting through the air.
Smell the layered notes of those present, the fragrances of their domains and magic.
And then, I turned my head .
My gaze focused first on the pedestal directly across from me—empty.
Empty.
But at the base—Gods. Nausea rolled through me. A scorched skeleton, still smoking, crumpled atop the marble. The only thing left of Vance.
Terror seized me.
I searched frantically for Marx. She was hunched over, her skin steaming, wisps of smoke rising from her shoulders. But alive.
Thatcher—
I turned, and found him.
Our eyes met.
But there was no indigo.
Only two blazing pools of pure, molten gold staring back at me.