Chapter Fifty-Nine
I t starts slow.
The realization. My ability to process it—to make any sort of sense of what my eyes just witnessed.
Gray is dead.
Casimir Vivaldri killed him.
That is—is actually Gray’s body lying awkwardly on the cold ground, headless. Those are his eyes, still mossy and gold, yet…not. His blood seeping into the dirt.
Casimir’s words creep into my head, unwelcomed. Yet they persevere in the swirling climate of my mind, nestling comfortably in the toppling walls of all that I am.
This is the fate of humanity. The curse of our existence. You love? You hurt. You do not love? You still hurt.
I grit my teeth, biting down so hard, I think they might shatter and crack beneath the pressure, just like me.
Fuck— FUCK !
I think I scream, or cry, or vomit. Whatever I do, it ignites a physical pain—matching my invisible torment—and my veins burn, feeling like glass shards stream through them, slicing muscle and tissue alike.
Voices echo in my head. The mark on my back pulses and flares, and my miserable skin cries as living flames awaken and trace the markings of my wielder’s mark.
The thread-like design twining down my arm comes alive as silver winds itself through the fibers, as if the mark is blinking its glowing eyes open for the first time.
My body heats at an alarming pace, and the words singing in the air grow louder—sharper.
Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht.
A lasso tightens around my lungs, and my fingertips tingle as my head builds with an enormous pressure. I feel dizzy—out of control.
Enraged.
The voices no longer sing; they scream.
ERHè AKTA MAHT! ERHè AKTA MAHT! ERHè AKTA MAHT!
I clutch at the ground, resting my forehead against the dirt, gritting my teeth against the feelings raging and bucking in my chest—the wrongness of them.
A silky voice swirls around me. “Let go of your control. Listen to the words in your head. Give in to your anger, and watch what you can do. ”
A scream rips from my throat, and my skin feels like it’s unraveling at its seams, ready to melt straight from bone. I gasp in a breath, anger pelting me, rage calling out to me like a lover needing to be touched.
There’s so much of it.
I have so much anger. So much rage. So much pain and hurt needing an outlet.
Maybe I should give into it.
Those voices calm into a soothing lullaby, hypnotic and enchanting, demanding with a gentle hiss. The words morph from hysteric ramblings into something clear and concise—something I can understand.
An action.
A command.
Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht. Erhè akta maht.
Hate take harm. Hate take harm. Hate take harm.
Harm.
Harm.
Harm .
The hissing whispers coil through the air, threading into my skull, and my vision pulses red. The pressure crashes against me like a hammer striking an anvil, over and over, unyielding. The mark at my back sizzles and sears, and I need a release.
For my anger. For my magic. For my jagged emotions, broken and sharp.
The image of Gray’s head sliding from his body replays in my mind, as if planted there cruelly, and whatever leash that was tethering me to…something…snaps. Because the image makes me feel as though I have lost.
And I refuse to lose any longer.
So, I do not break. I do not lay down and just let cruelty win.
I erupt.
With nothing more than a thought, I become living fire. Then ice. I am shadow, flora, light. A conglomeration of everything and nothing, splintered and whole at once.
The world blurs and images grow hazy—dreamlike, smearing into colors that don’t belong together—as power courses through me that shouldn’t exist. That shouldn’t be real.
Fire does not mix with ice. Light does not conjoin with water, whipping and burning in a glowing hurricane. The wind does not mix with molten ash, blowing funnels of burning destruction.
These things simply don’t happen.
My body tires—fades—as if life bleeds from it like sadness bleeds from my torn heart.
Wait…
Perhaps I am dreaming. Maybe that’s all this is. Another one of my nightmares.
It would explain how Casimir Vivaldri lives. How magics that do not belong together clash, using me as a medium. How Gray could be stolen from this world so soon.
Yes, that must be it. And when I wake, Gray will be there, laying in bed next to me, ready to hold me if I ask.
The words hum in my mind softly like a wall of protection.
A dream, a dream, a dream.
None of this has been real. I don’t have magic. Gray isn’t gone. I never left for Bathara. I remain in Keziah with the king .
But then a sudden sadness floats through me, weighing heavy on my bones. Because if none of this is real, then that means I never met Marcella.
Never met Draven.
Draven.
As if summoned by thought, his scent fills my lungs—warm and familiar and real .
Too real. I swear I can feel him—his arms wrapped around me, his breath curling against my burning skin.
His voice follows—the sound a soothing melody—as if he’s right next to me, whispering into my ear, clutching me like I might slip through his fingers.
I can feel it in his touch—he doesn’t want to let go of me.
Life feels easier when he’s near. More possible. It makes me want to not be a thing of rage and anger, but of grace and acceptance. To not be filled with power, but with love.
Casimir said, You love? You hurt.
And maybe—maybe that’s okay. Because Draven? He is worth hurting for.
Because Draven said—
Then I will burn, Lyra, so long as its by your flame.
And he meant it.
At the calming thought, a blurry image of his face forms in my vision. Even in distortion, he is beautiful.
Wait…
Is he speaking? What’s he saying? More than that, why does he look like he’s in pain?
“It’s that you live, Lyra. You must live. And if you don’t, then I’m coming with you, because I don’t want to be in a world where I can’t wake up and find you.”
Why is he saying that?
I think there’s more he tries to tell me, but my grip on whatever I was clutching at weakens, and a wave of debilitating fatigue washes over me.
And as I feel words take shape on my tongue, desperate to find Draven, they aren’t able to leave my lips.
They remain trapped behind them, stuck, as if my mouth is incapable of moving .
I drift backward, falling into myself. As if the anchor dragging me beneath the roaring waves has finally been released. But instead of sinking—
I float.
A calm, buoyant sea catches me, cradling me as it hums, lulling me to sleep. I slip into the abyss of it, not drowning, just… drifting. Consciousness slips from my grasp, but not before a heaviness settles in my stomach, making me wonder…
Why do I feel like I’ve just done something terrible?