Chapter 34
Daed
Rivers of blood run between the stones of the courtyard, thunder fading into the harsh clang of blades, the savage roar of battle, and the ragged screams of the dying.
There are no allies here. Only enemies. The Mor’Thravar Fae clash violently with the demons of the void, bodies crashing and tearing into one another, wounding and maiming anything that dares to move.
Reon fights fiercely against a ruthless Mor’Thravar warrior, blade flashing in a deadly dance, while Orios grapples on the ground with a snarling beast of teeth and claw.
Above, Zyphoro cuts through the sky, locking talons with winged horrors, slicing through membranous wings and sending twisted forms spiraling earthward.
But there is no respite for my brethren. For every one who falls, two rise to take their place, and this endless night promises none of us will survive to see the dawn.
Yet all the battles raging around me pale beside the furious clash between the Prince of Mordorin and Emranth, Envoy of the Father Below, a violent storm unto itself, tearing through the darkness with devastating fury.
I can feel the weight of Death Singer in my hands, heavy with the blood and fury I’ve poured into it. Emranth stands before me, a nightmare in flesh and shadow, tentacles writhing beneath that hollow, grinning skull. He smells of death and smoke and decay.
I lunge, blade arcing like lightning, aiming for his exposed ribs. He catches it barehanded, fingers like iron bands closing around the steel. I wrench, twisting with all my might, trying to rip it free, but his grip tightens.
A tentacle lashes out, wrapping around my arm and squeezing so tight it feels like a band of fire. Pain lances up my arm, but I shove a fist into his snarling maw, smashing bone and teeth. He roars, a sound like a thousand screams warping into one.
I kick out, slamming my heel into his side, cracking ribs beneath my boot. He stumbles but recovers instantly, claws slicing across my face, a hot, ragged tear from cheek to jaw. Blood trickles, mixing with the rain, stinging my eyes.
I wipe it away, fury burning hotter than the wound. Death Singer hums in my hands, a howl of power begging to be unleashed. I plunge it again, deeper this time, slicing through slick, black leather skin and into something colder, void essence writhing beneath.
The blade shudders, my hands trembling from the force, but Emranth only laughs, that terrible noise that echoes inside my head. Then, with a sudden surge, he tears free, sending shards of dark smoke pouring from the wound like ink in water.
“Your effort is admirable, Prince, but pointless,” he says, and I watch as his wound seals before my eyes. “I cannot be killed. I am smoke and shadow. The flesh and bone you see are an illusion. I am the essence of the void. Its lifeblood.”
He takes a step toward me, eyes burning white but somehow devoid of all light. “You cannot destroy what was never alive. I am raw, vicious power to be wielded, in his name.”
Suddenly I taste it, the power he boasts of, drifting from the wound, thick on the air, bitter and heady and intoxicating.
I had always thought of Emranth as flesh and bone, not a well of shadow-magic.
The thought slams into me. Maybe I don’t need to kill him.
Maybe I drink from that well instead. Take every drop of that darkness into myself until there is nothing left of Emranth but the echo of his last scream.
He commands these void-spawned creatures, but if his power were mine… they would bow to me.
I lash out, knuckles cracking against his cheekbone. The blow should’ve sent any man reeling. He doesn’t so much as blink. My teeth grind. I hit him again, harder and again. Every strike lands with a satisfying jolt through my bones, but still he turns back to me, unflinching. Mocking.
I don’t stop. I can’t.
With a thought, Death Singer dissolves into the void, the weight gone from my grip so my hands are free to ruin him.
My elbow slams into the bridge of his nose.
There’s the crunch. A knee drives into his gut.
My fist arcs up in a clean uppercut to his chin.
He only laughs, the sound low and grating, but I’m past hearing it.
Because I see it, thin wisps of smoke curling from his skin every time I make contact. I inhale deep. The smoke shifts, slithering toward me, seeping into my lungs. It burns in a way that makes me want more. With every breath, my fists land heavier, my strikes drive deeper.
Now he stumbles. His knees tremble. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty mars his perfect arrogance.
“Favored one. Enough!” he roars, but there’s a tremor beneath the bark, a fissure in his control.
“Let me serve you. Together, we can burn away every soul that dares to stand against you. We can return these lands to their rightful heir. There is still time to undo your missteps.” His voice drops, dark and coaxing.
“The Father Below will give you everything you crave. All he asks is to be fed. Give him what he hungers for… and the void will be yours.”
My vision tunnels, my eyes rolling black as the abyss.
“You’ve told me a thousand times,” I hiss through my teeth. “I am the favored one. Where I walk, darkness follows. Where I call, the void answers. This is my birthright. My bloodline.”
I drive my fist into his face again, and this time he drops. Blood-smoke pours from him in thick coils, rising off his weakening frame.
“I am the void,” I snarl. “I control you.”
My hand shoots out, fingers locking around the slick, twitching tentacles beneath his chin.
They writhe against my palm, desperate to root themselves back into him, but I rip them free with a savage wrench.
The sound is wet and tearing, and black, reeking ink bursts across the courtyard, splattering my chest, my face.
My other hand clamps around his throat. I squeeze until I feel the cartilage grind, until his pulse stutters beneath my thumb. His mouth falls open in a shuddering gasp and smoke gushes out in a torrent.
I inhale it. All of it.
His malice shreds into me, his hate scalds down my throat, his power threads itself through my blood until my body vibrates with it. It’s agony, bliss, hunger, and satisfaction all at once. My vision swims black, my heartbeat becomes a drum older than the sun.
His eyes bulge. The leathery mask of his face pulls tight, skin drawn so taut I can hear it strain, stretching until it finally splits like soaked parchment.
I keep drinking him in until there’s nothing left, until the smoke is mine and his body is a hollow, brittle shell.
Suddenly, pain detonates across my back. I hiss, teeth bared, as something forces its way through bone and muscle, ripping, splitting me open. The pressure builds until my spine arches and the air leaves my lungs in a roar that shakes the sky.
Two colossal wings of smoke tear free, unfurling wide enough to cast a shadow over the entire courtyard.
When I finally drag in a breath, I look down. What’s left of Emranth crumbles in my grasp, flakes of blackened flesh lifting away on the wind. His bones collapse into dust, carried off by the storm.
Mine. All of it is mine.
My wings snap wide, stretching to their full span, and the song in my soul soars at their return. There are no words for it, no Fae or mortal tongue that could capture the rapture soaring through me. I want to launch into the skies, tear through the clouds, taste the wind rushing beneath me.
But not yet.
The portal still gapes wide, a hungry wound in the night. The void spills its horrors into my kingdom.
And I am the void.
I command it. I walk with the darkness, and it knows my name.
Daedalus Phaedren. The favored son.
They will heed me.
I raise my hand to the night and summon Death Singer back to me. The blade bleeds into existence, smoke curling like serpents along its edge. My voice rolls from me, thunder cracking across the dark.
“Return to the void. Your prince commands you.”
The beating of leathered wings, the scrape of claws on stone, fall into silence.
They turn to me. Blazing eyes. Crooked mouths. Teeth like shards of a nightmare. They listen.
One by one, they obey.
Quietly, calmly, they step into the darkness, vanishing like shadows at dawn. The flying horrors wheel overhead, weaving, diving, gliding down into the abyss until only the Fae remain.
I lower Death Singer’s tip toward the portal. Will it closed and it obeys. The tear seals shut, the last flicker of creation gone, as if it had never been.
The world exhales. Ragged breaths rasp through the air, followed by the clatter of steel striking stone. The Mor’Thravar Fae sink to their knees, heads bowed.
I accept their surrender.
Zyphoro lands lightly on the black stone, her gaze sharp as she circles me. Her hand comes to my cheek, her eyes searching mine as if she could sift through every shadow in my soul.
“You are not alone in there, brother,” she murmurs.
I incline my head. “He is an aspect of me now. I feel him. But his soul is mine to wield.”
Her chin lifts. “Then let us use it to take back the Sundered Kingdoms and burn An’kel to ash.”
We clasp forearms.
I have never been the master of my curse.
It has ruled me, driven me to horrors I can never erase, stolen the things I loved most. Zyphoro has hated me for it.
Pitied me for it. She has never been shackled to the void’s will.
She wields it, yes, but it has never been her master.
That was why they locked her away: because she could not be controlled.
Does that make her stronger than me? How can it not?
But now… the way she looks at me is not as she once did. Not as a slave. Not as a puppet. Not as some pathetic instrument of a demon god.
She looks at me as if, for the first time, her burden might finally be lifted.
Orios and Reon come forward, cautious, but they bow all the same.