Chapter Fifty-Seven #2
I swivel my gaze and realize the aether-wielders have assumed posts at each corner of the Arena, opening portals to funnel out everyone they can. As I assess the scene, my eyes rove up to the balcony where Tynan Dalmar had resided.
Only, I am floored when I find him still sitting there, watching the scene unfold with an entirely too calm curiosity.
And when his wandering eyes land on me, his lips tilt in tune to the incline of his head.
At the almost-challenging look, something inside of me catches fire, a feeling of defiance boiling in my stomach.
But then he slides his gaze to the center of the chaos, and I feel compelled to follow his lead.
A line of third-years stands with a handful of diplomats in a tight formation, guarding the aether-wielders, trying— failing —to keep the Abdites at bay. They fall one-by-one, crushed like trampled blades of grass, no match for corrupted magic.
For the whipping licks of black, inverted flames.
For spun air that shatters like glass .
For the molten balls of glowing ash.
For veins of light that pulse with something so wrong .
They are horribly outmatched by the magic that bends where it should break. That breathes when it should burn. That takes what should never be taken.
Chills rise and fall along my body as those ancient words slither into the air, temporarily transporting me back to the valley.
Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht.
Whatever is on my back tingles and pulses, a warm sensation stemming down the thread-like marks now twining around my arm—a new feature of mine I still haven’t had time to inspect or attempt to understand.
Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht.
The words start to sound different in my head, morphing from unintelligible ramblings to something more akin to breathy mumbling, too low for me to interpret.
I’m so focused on deciphering the words, I almost miss the four Abdites now charging at Marcella and me.
“Shit,” she and I both whisper at the same moment.
The leafy vines composing her wielder’s mark come alive with green, and I…I can feel it. Feel her magic. Feel it calling to me, asking me to touch it. The sensation is almost tangible, electric. I can taste the rich, musky scent, thick with fresh herbs and damp soil.
It wants me.
And so I do the one thing instinct demands: I reach back.
Marcella moves first, tugging vines from the ground and wielding them like living whips. The moment I connect to her magic, she exhales sharply, glancing at me quickly. But she clenches her teeth and forges ahead.
Her magic surges through my veins, the sensation sweet.
Why does it feel so different than all the other times before? Is it because my wielder’s mark has manifested? Does having one truly make this much of a difference?
Is this what having true power at your fingertips feels like ?
One Abdite remains in front of me, watching. He giggles with delight. “You understand. Master was right to suspect you’d join our family.” The Abdite spins on his heels, clapping his hands together. “All you needed was a little…push.”
“Push? What does that mean?”
He stops spinning, and though I can’t see his face, I swear I see a sinister fire burning in his eyes through the shadows of his hood. “Up the cliff we go, to plunge below. If you hadn’t jumped, you’d never find water. But if you’d stayed, perhaps you’d have found a god.”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. There is no point in trying to talk with them—they are lunatics, after all.
So I guess, no more talking.
I tug at the humming magic in my veins, the feeling like a swell of pleasure under my skin.
The ground cracks open, and thick, gnarled roots explode upward, ripping through stone, bursting through the battlefield like wild, flailing limbs.
They lash out, serpentine and relentless, tearing through the air, spearing straight for the Abdite’s heart.
But the Abdite counters with a coursing stream of water running red, as if composed entirely of blood. Actually, for all I know, it may be a river of blood.
The blood water burns through the roots and vines, disintegrating them into nothing more than charred flakes of ash.
“Why does the key wish to hurt me?” The cloak’s hood shifts, as though he’s tilted his head. “Do you not wish to serve your purpose?”
I quickly look for Marcella, needing to know she’s okay. I find her with a snarl on her lips, twisting her hand and sending a cluster of thick, snake-like roots shooting forward. They wrap around three of the Abdites’ torsos, slamming them into an already crumbling wall.
So, more than okay—noted.
I return my attention to the Abdite. “I would ask you what that purpose is, exactly, but I fear you’d be unable to give me an answer.”
“What is a key without their lock? And what is a lock without their key? What is the purpose of our existence if not to serve, but what is the purpose of an existence if all we’re meant to do is serve? ”
“Yup,” I grumble. “That’s about what I expected.” I roll my neck, and I unsheath the dagger from my hip. “Alright,” I say, feeling like I’ve had enough. “Let’s do this.”
Through the cloak, I again see the Abdite tilting his head. But this time, I don’t wait for him to speak—I move.
Still connected to Marcella’s magic, I throw spear after winding spear of twisted roots at the Abdite.
As if giddy, the Abdite twirls its wrist and swallows them all with its blood water. “You are lucky I cannot hurt you, Master’s Chosen. My blood is thirsty. I am thirsty. We wish to drink. To collect your magic in our stream.”
I don’t bother unpacking that. Instead, I conjure a vine of thorns—long and gnarled like monster teeth—and crack it through the air like a whip, slicing deep into his skin.
He squeals, but this time, there’s no delight in it. He inspects his wounds, and I seize on his momentary distraction.
The small roots I’ve been weaving all this time—crawling up his legs, his torso, his spine—tighten all at once, locking his limbs in place. He jerks, but it’s too late.
I conjure another vine, this one thinner—sharper—and wrap it around his wrists, letting the thorns press into his skin, biting with every jagged inch.
And then, with the twist of my hand, I make them sink deeper.
His scream rakes through the air—blood-curdling and desperate.
Still, I don’t stop.
The thorns spin, twisting, tearing—unraveling tendon and ligament alike. Another vine slithers forward, curling into the wounds like it was always meant to burrow beneath his skin.
And then I tighten my hold, pulling.
Until his hands are no longer his own.
Until they fall to the ground in a similar ruin that he and his kind have brought to Bathara.
Feeling slightly drunk on power—like a version of me I never knew existed—I stride toward him. “There is only one person who can call me their chosen, and it sure as hell isn’t your master.”
Then I use my dagger’s blade to saw through its neck, the head a jagged mess of skin as it tumbles to the ground.
I swipe the dirt and blood from my eyes, immediately turning to look for Marcella.
She makes her way back to me, three headless Abdites scattered behind her. She flicks her eyes to the decapitated Abdite beside me then back up at me. “Nice work.”
“You too,” I say. “How do you feel?”
“A lot more fatigued than usual, but I’m alright.” Her gaze roves toward the portals, searching for the owner of each one.
I rest my hand on her arm. “Go,” I say softly. “Like you said, he isn’t a fighter. He could use you.”
Marcella’s cobalt eyes bounce between the portals and me. “Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
And for the first time, I mean it— believe it.
She dips her chin and extends her arm. I clap my hand to her forearm and she does the same. We lower our foreheads, bringing them together, and I shut my eyes against the swell in my chest.
When we pull apart, she looks at me with a steel-lined gaze. “No goodbyes,” she says, stern and ironclad.
“No goodbyes,” I agree.
Without another word, Marcella charges into the raging chaos.
I watch her go, but an explosion of fire mixed with a burst of ice has me tearing my gaze away and turning toward the on-going slaughter in the center of the Arena.
It’s hard to see through the clouds of dust, smoke, and ash clotting the air, but I’m just able to make out Finlay and Kiran as they battle an entire horde of Abdites, protecting the aether-wielders as they continue to hold their portals, still evacuating those they can.
My knees buckle when I realize the entire line previously protecting them has fallen, and Kiran and Finlay are there to replace the entirety of their defenses.
My eyes scan the scene wildly, looking for Draven. I’m unable to find him.
Brilliant, bright flames pour from Kiran’s palms, spiraling outward in an inferno of power, clashing against the black, inverted flames being speared toward them from the Abdites’ fingertips.
But Kiran’s fire shifts from vermillion and gold to a flame burning blue and green. The fire seems angry, licking at broken stone and bone alike, as if its flames are ravenous, and devouring the world is the only thing capable of sating its hunger.
Kiran redirects the black flames with the grace of a dancer, and he counters with the destruction of a god—arcs of fire unfurling from his fingertips, blazing into spears before impaling Abdite after Abdite straight through the heart.
As they fall to their knees, hunched forward, clutching at their chests, an unseen force moving quick as lightning streaks through the world, decapitating them.
Gray.
I know it with every ounce of my being.
He is casting an illusion, hiding his presence, and beheading the Abdites as they fall.
The teamwork appears so seamless, I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same strategy they used in Foreigner’s Valley.
Finlay moves next.
He sweeps his arms forward, and the air bends to his will—moisture crystallizing, ice surging up from the ground, as jagged and merciless as his personality. He covers the battlefield in frost, freezing the stone beneath their feet, locking the remaining Abdite’s in a prison of solid ice.
But the corrupted wielders cock their cloaked heads, and though there is no way for me to actually know, I swear I can feel them…smiling.
The words hum in the air, and that feeling of wrongness plunges the world in a bone-chattering chill.
Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht.
Kiran sees it before it happens.
“Finlay— move !”
Molten ash funnels from all the trapped Abdites’ palms, and it crawls over the ice, swallowing it like an eclipse swallows the sun .
A chorus of giggling sweeps along the wind, and the hairs on my arms rise as it sounds like the echoes of ghosts. They extend their palms and unleash a flurry of condensed balls of burning ash straight for Finlay and Kiran.
And the attack would have destroyed them—devastated their skin and devoured them with the wrongness of its molten touch.
But then Draven is there.
He moves like the darkness itself, an extension of shadow, and throws up an impenetrable black wall that makes the burning ash ricochet back to the ground like small pebbles bouncing off an unbreakable window. Then Draven charges without thought.
He is terrifying—death given form.
He is beautiful—my heart given shape.
Draven, running at full speed, erects two panthers from the shadows, and they rush forward at his side, swallowing the bursts of magic with their terrifying jaws, roaring into the rising night.
I blink.
I know dark magic can do things most magic can't—one of the many reasons it’s so feared and labeled as an enigma—but…
I didn’t know it could do that.
Draven reaches the remaining Abdites, and his blade sings as it cuts through skin. The inky panthers at his side sink their black-coated teeth into necks, ripping heads from falling bodies.
And for a brief, heart-stirring moment, it seems like the tide of battle is turning.
Until a low horn sounds, and more Abdites file through the cracks in the colosseum walls, bringing more corrupted magic with them.
Bringing more wrongness.
Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht.
The words sing louder.
Kiran sends out a scorching arc of fire, slicing through the dust-thick air, incinerating two unsuspecting Abdites.
Finlay sweeps his arm out and razor-sharp spears of ice impale another mid-step.
Draven is a blur of blade and shadow, his sword cleaving through the chaos, his magic spreading like ink while his panthers act as his personal guards.
The world is fire and frost and ruin and shadow. The sky is split with magic, the ground trembling with death, dripping in red and black blood alike.
But then another horn cuts through the air—this one rich and regal, screaming of importance.
Every Abdite halts. Their heads snap toward the sound, as if the very marrow in their bones tells them to. In eerie unison, they kneel, bowing their heads as they fold their arms over their bent knees.
And everyone seems so stunned, no one attacks.
Instead, all eyes seem to wander to the figure emerging through the swirling haze of dust and smoke, moving with a sort of authority no person could ever fake.
The cloudy silhouette of a man strides through the battlefield as if it’s nothing more than a garden filled with crimson and onyx flowers. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he moves with a slow purpose. Eventually, he stops, and I glimpse him surveying what lies before him.
And then, with a shift in the wind, the smoke around him clears, revealing his face.
I blink—
Entirely unprepared for what I see.