Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Like a flame shifting course, I wrench myself from whatever— whoever —waits for me in the dark and step back. Behind the smoky veil of shifting color separating us, I swear I hear a drawn out sigh. “ Fine. Then this is all I can offer you for now.”
Somewhere beyond this space—in my body, I think, in a distant reality—pressure collides with pressure as something foreign floods a river…no, veins. My veins.
A war ensues.
The poison against something…powerful. More poison pours in, corrupting everything it touches in its attempt to decay life.
Yet a vision takes shape.
A garden.
A woman with hair more silver than lilac, her mauve eyes warm as she hums softly. As she appears, a rush of something unknown courses through me. I sense the fragility of this moment, a tentative happiness draped over roaring flames. I reach out to her.
She sees me and smiles.
“Come,” she whispers with gentle joy. “Come see how this flower has blossomed, my sweet Lyra. ”
Lyra. That is my name.
Lyra Izacalli. Daughter of a Gardner, mothered to know the ways of every plant and herb. Raised not to cower, not to yield, never to falter.
Someone who will not lose.
That crushing pressure dissolves, replaced by a sudden wave of heat coursing through my veins.
As if seared by an invisible flame, the poison slowly disappears, its black fragments flaking away like charred paper.
A tingling sensation pricks my skin as something feels like it’s exploding from me.
After, my eyelids flutter open, revealing the hazy glow of a half-veiled moon, mist-shrouded water, and scraggly patches of vegetation.
The smell of rot and decay slams into me once more.
I draw in a foul-tasting breath and realize I’m back.
Relief floods my body, and slowly, with a woozy mind, I sit up and glance down at my hands and arms. I nearly choke at the sight.
A warm, golden covering surrounds me in a thin layer. It radiates heat, mending the countless puncture wounds littering my skin.
So many wounds.
How many times did the Mirefiends jab their wicked nails into me while I was lost to the poison? The marks scatter relentlessly across my arms and legs, marring my skin. Yet the dim light makes them all disappear, leaving nothing but my tattered clothes.
I press a hand to my forehead and scan my surroundings.
I freeze at what I see.
Everywhere—through the water, across the spongy vegetation, along The Bog’s borders—rest the bodies of the Mirefiends.
Singed. Charred. Burned .
Some remain on fire, sizzling under a translucent blue flame.
Did I do this? No…that’s not possible. I’m not a fire-wielder. I wielded flora magic in King Alastair’s throne room. It was flora magic that made those vines and thorns emerge from the earth and twist around the room…
Right?
The misty fog slowly evaporates. Gray finds me immediately, his chest rising and falling heavily as ragged breaths puff from his blood- stained lips. His expression is grim, his face haggard and worn. How many Mirefiends did he fight off? From the looks of him, it had to have been hundreds.
And the fact that he was able to do so without letting them claw him once, without letting their poison slip into his veins…
At first, Gray is so focused on scanning me, ensuring I am unharmed, he seems to not register all the singed Mirefiends surrounding us. Until his eyes finally do a quick sweep of the land, and he takes in the dozens of bodies. He whips his gaze back to me. “What happened here?”
I shake my head, and my mouth opens and closes like a floundering fish. “I…I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see anything?”
I debate telling him I was under the poison’s influence, delirious and not of my own mind for an unknown amount of time. But then I realize that would require explaining how I was able to escape the poison’s death grip on me—how I was healed.
And that is an explanation I don’t have. One that I do not understand.
The voice that spoke to me behind that smoky veil rings in my head. Fine. Then this is all I can offer you for now.
Could it be that whoever spoke to me actually exists? Is that…even possible?
My head pounds just trying to unravel the loaded thought. I swallow, my throat unbearably dry. “No. I…” I sigh. “It was like I was trapped in that wall of mist.”
Not entirely a lie.
Gray’s brows knit together as he attempts to make sense of everything. “Maybe there wasanother wielder here then, also shielded by the mist.” He runs a dirty hand through his matted hair. “Whoever it was, they did us a huge favor by eliminating all of these creatures.”
I stare off absently at nothing, tucking my knees into my chest.
A squishy noise fills the air as Gray approaches me. He crouches down and glides his thumb across my cheek. “Hell of a start to these exams, huh,” he muses gently, attempting to fill his tone with a tinge of humor .
When I don’t respond, I glimpse his lips falling into a small frown. “Come on,” he murmurs, offering me his hand. “Let’s go find a river to clean up in.”
We find a clean creek near the eastern part of the grove, thankfully far away from any chanted whispers or malevolent creatures. Just moonlit trees and grass the normal shade of green.
Gray suspects the creek we found is composed of runoff snow from the Wolfgaith Mountains or a trickling limb from Tuarana’s River Lace. Though regardless of the water’s origin, I’m grateful for the chance to wash all the muck and grime from my skin.
I am silent for a long time. Gray tries to fill the silence—whether through random deductions about the creek’s water source, lighthearted comments and observations, or simply one-sided conversation, he continues speaking despite my lack of responses.
Eventually, he suggests we rest, even if only for a small number of hours.
We position our bedrolls on a flat patch of land side-by-side, crawling into them with exhaustion weighing heavily on our bones. Still, Gray does not press me to use my voice. He simply stretches his hand across the small space between us, keeping his palm open.
I exhale a loaded breath as I watch the sky begin to lighten, strange emotions clogging my throat from all that's happened these past few hours.
Within minutes, I was almost killed by this exam, and this is only the first night of the first test. And I was just…
helpless, unable to use my magic at will or fight back.
The thought cruelly burns me: was King Alastair right about me? Am I destined to fail?
Is he going to win, and will I lose?
Not to mention all my other lingering questions. But I am far too exhausted to even attempt to unpack what may or may not have actually happened in my poison-induced state of delirium.
No, those are thoughts for another night—for a version of me that isn’t dampened by the feelings of defeat .
I curl into myself even more, and my chest quakes as the feeling of a small crack forming appears behind my chest. I have the distinct feeling that emotion holds the hammer.
Yet I swallow it down, forcing it to go somewhere far, far away, not willing to feel it. I know what comes from feeling, and it is never anything good.
My eyes squeeze shut, and a small tremor rocks me. Crumbling, I pry my clenched hand from my chest and place it in Gray’s open, waiting palm. He wraps his fingers around it and squeezes. I hear the silent words in his gesture as clearly as if spoken aloud.
I’m here. You are not alone.