Chapter 12
The boat slammed through the choppy water, its hull shuddering with each impact as it cut toward the center of the melee.
Imani stood near the front of the deck with the Drasil already drawn, one hand gripping the railing whenever the vessel pitched beneath her.
Ahead, the slip loomed larger with every second, warping the horizon into hundreds of ripples.
That was her destination.
The Norn vessel carried her directly toward the fracture, as close as Ellisar believed they could safely get before she tried to close it.
Everything between them and the slip—the Lochheim ships, the spells tearing through the air, the bodies moving through the water—was an obstacle they would have to clear first.
Imani raised the Drasil, thinking through the magic she might use to overpower the slip.
A spell struck the water off the port side, throwing spray across the deck. Another passed overhead before exploding against a Norn vessel behind them.
Imani tracked the Lochheim witches aboard one of the nearest enemy ships. At first, they appeared to be casting with empty hands, sweeping their arms through the air while fighting to keep their footing on the pitching deck. Then one turned his wrist, and wood flashed beneath his sleeve.
She squinted and saw their wands were smaller than the ones used in Essenheim or Niflheim, strapped flat along the insides of their forearms. A turn of the wrist or sweep of the hand directed the spell while leaving their fingers free to catch ropes, railings, or one another.
Clever.
Especially on a ship, but right now she needed them out of her path.
Ellisar apparently reached the same conclusion, taking the lead at the front of the boat.
The men around him made way instinctively, as if they already knew what he was about to do.
When he reached the hull, the space was his, claimed completely.
His magic accumulated, bulging his signature and rising so far outward that Imani nearly flinched.
It expanded in successive waves, spreading until the other men’s magic signatures bowed to adapt to its presence.
The sight frightened her.
Powerful witches could overwhelm weaker signatures if they pushed hard enough, but rather than using force, everyone else’s magic seemed to recognize Ellisar’s before they consciously reacted, contracting and adjusting around the invisible pressure of his presence.
Imani’s own signature did the same thing, drawing closer to her body on instinct.
She had never felt another Norn elf make the magic around them behave that way.
He drew his wand with a single, unhurried motion.
When he swept it overhead, power sliced out in a controlled strike, catching multiple Lochheim vessels at once and striking anchors and helms he couldn’t possibly have seen.
Hulls split open, decks shuddered as structures gave way, and the ships tilted as their balance failed.
Across the water, Lochheim witches threw up their arms in defense, the short wands strapped beneath their wrists flashing as spells erupted from the movements.
It was efficient destruction, with nothing wasted, overwhelming the Lochheim troops before they could respond.
The Norn line faltered for half a breath, then the soldiers straightened, reformed, and pushed forward with renewed force. Across the water, Lochheim forces shouted at one another, breaking formation as they tried to reposition.
Ellisar’s presence changed the flow of the fight, and the balance tipped momentarily in the Norn elves’ favor.
More importantly, he was opening a route to the slip. Each Lochheim ship he forced aside gave their vessel more open water. The distance shrank, and she kept the Drasil ready while Ellisar stripped away the defenses between her and the fracture.
The High Sentinel didn’t pause after his initial blow.
His wand flicked again, sustaining the assault.
A line formed on his brow, the only sign of the effort he was expending.
Energy flowed along his intended path in relentless assaults, cutting through the water and striking the advancing ships with consecutive blows that left no chance to recover.
Without flourish, he was unstoppable, dismantling the battlefield, piece by piece.
Watching him, Imani knew this was what it meant to be a twelve-mark.
She’d seen Kiran cast before, but Ellisar was more graceful, less manic.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away as the pattern of his strikes settled into a rhythm she could no longer dismiss as skill alone.
His power demanded a different scale entirely.
Imani wiped her sweaty hands on the folds of her dress, trying to wrap her mind around a witch who commanded magic like Ellisar.
What was he? A Norn elf couldn’t be this powerful. Could he?
Fear, edged with recognition, rose within her. She found herself drawn not only to the man but also to the sheer, undeniable power he wielded, untainted by Kiran’s cruelty.
In the wake of his strikes, the magic eased just enough to create a temporary opening. The battle dissipated near the slip while Lochheim forces scrambled to recover.
Still, this wasn’t victory yet. It was a narrow window just long enough to use.
She couldn’t wait for Ellisar to finish, couldn’t look back.
She moved toward the bow, steadying herself against the pitch as the vessel drove closer to the slip.
She needed to reach the edge of its magical pressure before she could determine how to close it, and every few yards Ellisar bought her mattered.
Each spray of seawater on the deck increased the danger. The boat drove forward as the water grew rougher beneath it, the slip’s distortion thickening ahead until it pressed against them like a snarling beast.
Magic intensified in the air, tugging at her senses through chaotic, unstable flows.
The Drasil buzzed in her grip, eager to be wielded.
The slip’s form was now distorted as spells contorted and energy unraveled at the margins.
The Fabric resisted being controlled. Maintaining it would demand more effort, and her focus sharpened as the overwhelming pressure pushed back.
Imani anchored her magic as everything else threatened to break apart. With a deep inhale, the battle, the movement, even the pull of the slip fell away, leaving only what she needed to act.
Shooting a look over her shoulder, Imani took in the destruction Ellisar’s attacks left behind—damaged Lochheim ships, broken formations, and disrupted spellwork marking his path. His magic had overwhelmed everything in its path.
But the slip reacted differently. She expected her power to meet the Lochheim magic with the same kind of resistance and tear through it. Instead, the structure simply… rearranged around her.
Sweat dampened her brow, but she kept going.
Power rose through her all at once.
The Crown of Life ignited first, its weight constricting her like a living embrace as light pierced her mind.
She groaned and squeezed her eyes closed for a second.
But it seemed to bolster her power through its own magic signature.
The Drasil responded next, its power rising, deep and ancient, expanding and pushing her to her limits.
Then the shadows arrived, rushing forward and roiling in anticipation.
All three forces lifted simultaneously, in harmony—layered and unified, forming a single, formidable weapon.
Imani’s eyes snagged on the Lochheim vessels beyond the fighting. And she saw the people.
Somewhere among them was the little boy, a wooden toy hugged to his chest. They had crossed into a battle because whatever waited behind them frightened them more than Norn armies and magic.
Closing the slip would cut off their passage.
Her wand lowered a fraction.
How many were still waiting on the other side? How many families had been pushed toward the opening because no one knew whether it would survive another hour? She understood desperation well enough to know what it could make someone justify.
But understanding them did not change what was happening in front of her.
Lochheim soldiers were attacking Norn ships.
Norn bodies already floated in the surf.
The slip distorted every spell around it, widening under pressure that could trigger another Fabric event if it continued unchecked.
If it ruptured completely, there might not be a safe Essenheim left for anyone to flee into.
These were her people being forced backward on their own shore.
Rubbing her forehead, Imani let logic take over.
She could pity the families trapped behind the invasion and still defend the people standing in front of it.
With that thought, she raised the Drasil again.
The first contact traveled back through her shadows like air touching exposed nerves.
They flattened against the distortion, spreading over an invisible surface that flexed beneath them but refused to break.
The force transferred into her wrist and forearm, a deep vibration that made her fingers ache around the Drasil.
With a grunt, Imani pushed again.
This time, instead of meeting the slip head-on, her shadows searched along it. They slid over woven ridges she could not see, catching on places where the Fabric had been pulled too tight and sinking into narrow separations where one layer of magic had been forced against another.
Panting, Imani paused her assault to read it. This wasn’t working. With a swipe of her wand, she commanded the shadows to explore instead.
They pressed further into the massive hole, thin strands working into the slip like fingers testing the seams of tightly woven cloth.
Whenever one touched the wrong line, resistance shuddered back through her arm.
Another pathway gave slightly beneath the pressure.
A third seemed almost loose, vibrating against her magic as though one pull might unravel everything attached to it.