Chapter Thirty-Five
All of this… it feels like a dream.
Hazy, fuzzy… not quite real.
And this darkness I linger in, it’s familiar. Comfortable.
But any minute now I’m going to wake. I’m going to wake and it’s going to be minutes before dawn. I’ll wake and find Cyran or Lilith or Eve waiting for me. They’ll be ready to take on the day, and I’ll follow because it’s what they expect.
I shake the darkening thoughts from my head.
No. That’s not right.
Want. It’s what I want.
If this is a dream, I need to open my eyes. But it’s so much easier to lie here and rest and sleep. All the weight of stress, the worry, the expectation… it all melts away, grows weightless and drifts off.
A mournful gale of cries echoes through the dark. It’s a haunting chorus of voices singing the promise of comfort, mercy, and finality. The melody pierces through my essence, urging me to let go and forget—to maybe one day start again.
It settles into my bones, fogging my thoughts.
How joyous it would be to never again contend with kings and gods and creatures and demons… I can do that… have that… if I just… release. It’ll be like breathing out.
Easy, natural.
Why did I never think of it before?
Searing pain blazes across my left arm, and I recoil—agitating my shattered shoulder—causing me to cry out. The life tether grows as hot as hellfire, clearing my mind with a pain-induced sharpness.
This refrain is the call of death, I realize.
Gods, what a beautiful sound it is.
Forcing my eyes open, hundreds of black candles hover overhead, burning with tall, grayed flames.
Cal Anore.
But not.
This is still the veil.
As I lie on the altar and the sounds of chaos rush to greet me, veilflower vines curl back, their flowers shining with an incredible blue light.
Pulling myself upright, Ryc, Cenviri, and all the others circle the altar, their eyes on the roaring circular wall of black fire—a ward—severing us from the rest of the veil.
Instinctively, I reach for the bond with Ryc—that golden rope, the thread of Fate binding us. It lies out of reach, darkened, and cold.
But it’s there.
It exists.
A harrowing scream peals, sending shivers along my skin, and my eyes race toward the source. Visible through the flames, beyond the purified and protective circle, a tattered-cloaked wraith writhes—its arm severed. It lies upon the ground inside the ward and bursts into blue flame.
My eyes narrow.
The flame… it’s pure Aether.
More screams rise. The wraith… it isn’t the only one. A rolling, twisting mass of shrouded wraiths swarm against the wall of black flames. It rips and burns at their essence, yet doesn’t deter them. The flames flicker with each strike—they’re going to overwhelm the ward.
Desperate to reach the multitude of open windows leading into the living realm, they throw themselves at the barrier, ready for a second chance at life. Ready and willing to take it by force rather than spending an eternity wandering the veil.
“There are too many!” Cenviri shouts from behind. “The ward is bound to fall.”
Why are there so many?
“Ryc!” I shout his name, fighting the growing panic in my veins as I scan the sea of bodies for the gold eyes I adore.
“Here, little love!” His voice comes from my right.
For a fleeting moment, my eyes find his, and all is right in the world.
Through our bond, as buried and muted as it may be, his utter relief pours into my chest—a cooling balm against the hellfire burn of my panic.
Eternity, my light.
I’m yours for eternity.
“Fall back!” Zirzol commands in Malbolge. “Protect the Patriarch and il-akiv!”
I spring from the altar, landing upon my boots. “Cenviri, it’s done!” I shout and his head whirls over his shoulder. “Now! Pull us out now!”
With a resolute nod and wide eyes, Cenviri steps back several paces—within the protective circle of his Generals. In unison, the Generals follow suit, closing the space where he stood.
Cenviri sets a silver-capped finger fashioned with a sharp talon to his bared left arm.
And he begins to carve. Chanting low in Malbolge.
I don’t need to hear the words, they’re lost to the cries of the dead, but the darkened sting of blood magic cuts into me like razors and I resist the urge to recoil.
Were my heart beating, it would have stopped in surprise.
Blood magic has never hurt.
This has to be because of her—because of Aether.
I don’t have time to focus on it. I’ll figure it out later. Right now, Cenviri needs time. Time to complete the ritual to return us to the living realm.
“Send Ves first!” Ryc shouts over the chaos.
Cenviri’s eyes dart from his rune-carved arm to Ryc to me, while continuing in his rhythmic chant. The talon moves in a swift slide to another rune and dances against his flesh.
“No!” I argue, not caring how cold or desperate I sound. “Send us all at once. Do not listen to him!”
My life isn’t the only that matters.
Not here.
My head whirls, finding Ryc once again.
But his attention is focused elsewhere. Somewhere beyond the burning ward. Tracing his stare, I find a different pair of eyes. Glowing red pierces through me from beneath a dark hood—not a wraith.
A Death Knight.
With a deliberate, slow movement, the damned soul lifts a black-bladed dagger. Wraiths swarm around him, pressing themselves against the black flame and scream. The creature presses the point against the ward—
“Ryc!” His name leaves my throat bloodied. “Move!”
But it’s too late.
The black flames freeze, growing still and take on a glass-like shine. The ward splinters under the point of the dagger, crystalline webbing races across the surface, and the ward shatters.
A burst of expelled magic slams into my chest and I’m thrown backward, my lower spine meeting the altar. Several Generals are hurled to the ground and for a moment, the screams of the dead grow silent in astonished delight.
Their screams are replaced by a loud ringing in my ears—whether from the pain or the magic, I can’t tell.
Glass striking stone consumes the silence as jagged shards rain from above and the screaming of the wraiths returns. Pieces lodge, slice, and pierce themselves into the Wraths as they surge forth. They’re trampled by those behind as waves of the creatures swarm toward the altar.
Many fall.
Without hesitation, Ryc, Eve, Cyran, and thirteen Generals turn their bloodstone blades, innates, and blood magic upon the dead.
Grimacing against the cutting pain of binding spells, compulsion chants, and siphoning songs, I brace myself against the altar.
The first of many crimson-flamed vortexes burst around the tightening defensive circle as black blades find the flesh of their targets.
Within seconds, the darkened gray of the veil takes on a resolute red hue.
Fevered by panic, I reach for my innate.
An unwavering and limitless cold depth reaches back and yanks me into its cistern.
It’s going to drown me.
Massive, silver-thorned vines shoot heavenward, sprouting along the perimeter of the fallen ward.
The thorns between them grow and stretch, becoming needle-like blades, entrapping dozens of screaming wraiths.
Now severed from the throngs of swarming dead, focus can return to the wraiths trapped inside.
As I struggle to control the thunderous vibration in my chest, the Death Knight begins pulling himself from the silver thorns embedded in his flesh.
The skin crawling screech of metal sliding against metal rings through the space as he pulls himself free with a final step.
With a quick pitch, he retrieves his dagger from the floor and turns to me, exposing the nature of his ancient, armored chest.
A gaping, fist-sized hole sits where his heart should.
Staring at me, he flips the dagger, catching it by its point.
Armed with bloodstone means one thing…
The creature was sent by Vaelyn. Given a purpose he will complete, no matter the cost, in hopes of earning his heart.
But his failure to send one of our siblings sends a message louder than the wraiths’ screams. He expects to lose this fight.
With gritted teeth, I nudge at my innate and vines burst around him, weaving a domed prison. With another push, silver thorns shoot inward, skewering the Death Knight and holding him in place.
It will take bloodstone to end him.
And right now there are dozens of wraiths between us.
I swing around the altar to Cenviri as he continues to invoke the ritual.
He lifts his eyes to mine for a moment and gives me a nod—it’s almost complete.
I’m not familiar with the ritual required to return from veilwalking, but I imagine it’s complex and costly.
Casting the ritual for eighteen complicates things, and steepens the price.
A cost Cenviri will bear.
Ryc’s battle-heated shout draws my attention as he buries the end of his bloodstone dagger into the throat of a wraith.
Yanking the blade, he moves to the next, Cyran fighting beside him.
I can’t help but marvel at Ryc’s grace. Each movement swift, calculated, and carrying a confident conviction despite our desperate plight for survival.
Zirzol carves into his arm with heavily practiced speed, and the sharp wash of blood magic races over me.
A red, braided tether lashes from his wrist and slings itself around the necks of half a dozen wraiths.
With a downward tug, the tether tightens and their corporeal forms burst, becoming dark fog, leaving bound silver souls behind.
Still reeling from the shock of what I’ve done, where I am, and the chaos of my surroundings, I stare at the skirmish in silence. Streaks of lightning, flashes of hellfire, and gales of glistening ice illuminate the dark as they fight.
There’s an undeniable beauty here—one I’ve always been drawn to.
It’s familiar. Known.
And my demonic blood sings with the sight.
I shove the feeling aside.
I’m not here to hunt.
The soul I’ve come to collect now sits within my chest.
“Ves!” Eve’s shout pulls me away from the cusp of darkness.