49. Archer #3
“I have flattened armies. I can slay a single souldren.” I brandish my flaming sword and step forward, taking in the rotten remnants of the former champion before me—moldering banners, rusted ceremonial chains, and cracked heraldic symbols.
“But that’s not a single souldren,” Daemos argues. “You know who it hosts inside—”
I don’t care what I see in the shards of armor. I don’t care about the voice that has taunted me for two centuries.
You’ve been busy… Playing house with the mortal bookbinder. She's got fire. I can see why you'd want to keep her. For a while.
I don’t know if the others can see him or hear him. All I know is that I will kill him, once and for all. I surge forward, a shout on my lips—
Nothing last forever though.
A hand on my shoulder yanks me back.
“Not with the Confluence within reach.” Daemos’ words are urgent, panicked in a way I’ve never heard before.
“Watch me,” I growl. First, I shatter the mirror Thorne left behind, giving the creature no way out. Somewhere nearby, I hear another smash and see Leo’s mug fracture into a thousand pieces as it hits the floor. Shit.
Daemos grabs my shoulder, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You can’t do this. Not with the Confluence here. And not with Saige—”
I don’t spare the mortal bookbinder a glance. “She’s not going to stop me.”
“She will,” Daemos replies. “If she’s hurt, if she’s taken. You will lose all sense. Brother, please. It’s Malevron.”
“So you do hear him.”
“He isn’t hiding any more, brother. But we can’t risk it.
What if he calls to others? What if it summons the rest of the elite?
We need to leave. Live to fight another day.
And you’re the only one who can get us out of here.
My territory is too far and there are too many of us.
Your secret was always going to come out. Don’t let it be the end of us all.”
The souldren hosting Malevron’s formless being makes another blood-curdling sound, its mirror mask gleaming, its putrid fog drifting towards us. It sends its first wave of fear projection, a surge of supernatural dread piercing us with its talons.
This time, I turn to Saige. “Can you finish restoring the Confluence from another location? There will be a workshop.”
Her eyes are wide with terror, with concern for the only home she’s ever known. The souldren crashes through her display of notebooks and she winces, her throat bobbing before she speaks. “If I have my tools and a space, I should—”
“Then it’s your choice, Grayson.”
She touches the tool wrap that’s tied to her belt. “You can get us out of here?”
I dip my head in confirmation as writhing fleshy tendrils reach for us, pushing her behind me.
“Then do it.”
My fire flares in response, and for a brief second, I want to apologize for what comes next. That I never meant to mislead her. That if I could change it now, I would… But there is no time.
Somewhere further behind me, Yevna whimpers, and the sound is more terrifying than the monster itself. It has the older woman trapped in its fear projection and it’s closing in.
Sheathing my sword, I gather my black flames to me in a whirlwind, creating a vortex of onyx and heat beneath us. I tether myself to each of them: Saige, Daemos, Raven, Yevna, and even the mutt. Connected to me they do not feel the sear of the flames as we fall, but the screams sound regardless.
Through fire and wind and smoke we plummet.
Through the flames, we see glimpses of a soaring, near-vertical mountain spire, and layers of volcanic rock in gradients of burnished copper, and rose gold that catch the rising sun.
There is a flash of a phoenix flock in flight, and a waterfall of liquid fire before our feet land on hard, solid ground.
I ignore the panting and wheezing of the others around me, staring at my boots atop the floor.
Beneath the transparent surface, mesmerizing flames and molten lava churn and pulse, casting an otherworldly glow upward, illuminating the halls of obsidian and its veins of amber and bronze, always shifting—the lifeblood of the court.
My eyes rove across the soaring arches and ornate stone pillars that frame the final feat of grand architecture. The throne.
Carved from volcanic stone with veins of molten glass running through it, its base flows seamlessly into the floor like cooled magma.
Its design is organic, with curves that mirror the flow of lava, creating a circular opening in the backrest that’s reminiscent of a volcanic crater.
Gentle flames dance within it, never consuming, while warm light emanates from cracks between obsidian sections.
“Welcome to the Eros Atrium,” says the Azkari male occupying the crimson silk cushion. “The House of Desires is glad to have you back.”
I step forward, the flames beneath the glassy floor flickering, in tune with the vitriol churning in my veins. The reigning ruler blanches at my presence, his mouth falling open, his hands clutching the armrests of the throne.
“Uncle.” The familial term tastes sour on my tongue as I close the distance to the dais. “You’re in my seat.”