Chapter Seventy-Two
Fallyn
Three days of travelling saw the mountains in the north looming ominously far overhead and casting long, saturated shadows over us.
The soft earth hardened to permafrost, crunching with each step.
The chill in the air has us tucking into our fur cloaks, lest the wind steal our remaining warmth.
Even still, the skin on my lips threatened to crack and my feet were numb within my boots.
Nothing prepared me for the sight of the mist. It was unnerving, with no end, no beginning, no differentiation.
It bled into itself, tangling into itself in a way that felt unnatural, leaving me uneasy just watching it.
Like it was watching me, assessing me in turn.
A creeping, ever-nagging sense of dread pulled at me, leaving me in a state of quiet discontent.
Mist was supposed to be tangled threads of colorless air wreathing and undulating.
This mist had hard lines to it, a barrier that refused to be crossed.
Now alarm barreled down my spine, fringes of my nerves picking up the familiar yet foreign prickle of magic.
Instead of feeling like mine, light, easy as breathing, this felt dark, like an undercurrent waiting gleefully to carry you beneath the waves. And still we approached.
The curse touch was spreading unchecked now past my elbow, inching perilously close to my shoulder, spurring us on.
A raven’s cry—abrupt and piercing—further unnerved me.
Without questioning it, I pressed closer to Hades.
The mist built slowly, then all at once, tendrils undulating at leisure before thickening and enveloping the forest, the mountains, everything around us until we could only see a matter of several feet in any direction.
“There’s something ominous about this mist.” I railed against my mind, begging me to run. The story was that the mist chose whether or not you were worthy to cross, almost as if it were a sentient being. Conscious.
“The mist was placed here eons ago by Hecate herself. She hated the way her followers were being burned, persecuted, and tortured when magic was new. They prayed to her for help, and this was the help she sent.”
A shiver went down my spine. Hecate wasn’t messing around. Magic saturated the air, a strange sensation making my lungs ache that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.
“Do you know what happens when you go in?” I peeked up at Hades hopefully. The grim set of his lips did nothing to give me confidence.
“The mist either accepts you or it doesn’t.”
“But Hecate sent us here herself, so we shouldn’t have a problem, right?” The logic was sound, except…
“Hecate doesn’t control the mist. The witches do. They judge who is accepted and who isn’t. She wanted her followers to feel the safest after all they’d endured with being hunted, so she gave them the control over it.”
The witches who,was in past lifetimes where magic was seen as damnable, where witches and magic users were culled and killed, would be the ones to decide our fate. My stomach soured.
Hades pressed closer to me as the barrier came up within reach, my skin coming alive with electricity and my hair standing up on end.
What would become of us when we stepped through?
I peered into it, looking to find some shape, some color, anything awaiting us on the other side, but there was nothing. No hint of anything.
“So, you mean—”
“Yes. There’s a fifty-fifty shot the mist accepts us.” Hades’s voice was filled with dread.
“What happens if it doesn’t?”
Hades’ silence was worse than specifics.
“Is there a way to send a message to the witches? To communicate?”
Hades stilled, a growl in his throat. “That requires time which we no longer have.”
Only then did my ears pick up the sound of angry, heavy footfalls coming our way, not from within the mist.
From behind us.
I whipped my head around, seeing the familiar red and black armor of my kingdom stomping towards me.
Their king, who had more right to hate us than any other in his kingdom, rode up front, his sword waiting eagerly in his hand.
We were trapped. Either we take our chances with the mist, or face the small army that rode up angrily.
“There’s too many for even you to take on at once,” I whispered. His hand slowly enveloped mine, bringing a long-forgotten warmth I was too afraid to appreciate. His lips tightened.
“I reject that implication,” he murmured in a tone bereft of the humor his words were supposed to have. “When we step into the mist, do not let go of my hand, or the mists will separate us.”
“I won’t let go,” I promised on a single breath. The army was approaching; we had no choice but to hope.
We stepped into the mist.
Fire was all there was. It exploded along every nerve, forcing a scream past my lips that would curdle the blood of any who heard it. Hades’s head whipped to me, his eyes and his hands finding me, working in tandem to find the source of the pain.
“Hades, it burns.” My agonized attempt at a scream was stolen and morphed into a pained whisper. A plea. My skin pebbled, the wrong response against the surge of fire incinerating me from the inside out.
“Run.” Darkness invaded my vision, darkening Hades from my sight. “Please, Hades. Run.”
The darkness prevailed, forcing me from my own mind.