CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
46
Elara
The air crackled with a desperate energy, the smell of ozone sharp in my nostrils. Lady Jen’s brow furrowed in concentration, sweat beading on her pale forehead. “I’ve laid a protection barrier,” she rasped, her voice strained. “But I don’t think it’ll hold for long.”
Below, the world had become a macabre ballet of violence.
Lord Draven’s castle, once a bastion of stoic stone, now trembled under the relentless assault of an unholy horde.
Vampires, their eyes glowing embers in the dying light, clawed and snarled at the shimmering bubble protecting the keep.
Beside them, cloaked figures – half-breeds, whispers claimed, tainted with both witchery and the hunger for blood – wove dark spells that threatened to tear Genevieve’s barrier apart.
How Vorax had convinced half-breeds to turn against Draven was a mystery that would likely remain unsolved amidst the chaos.
The half-breeds were a nightmare come true – immune to the spells Jen desperately flung, their unnatural resilience turning the tide.
My stomach churned with dread. Genevieve’s brow was slick with sweat, her eyes dull with fatigue. This ward, it wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.
Frustration gnawed at me. My magic was fledgling compared to Mother’s, her experience vast. But Mother, as usual, was a wisp of smoke on the wind, absent when we needed her most.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I surged my own meager power forward, bolstering Genevieve’s weakening barrier. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all I had.
“They’re too many, lass!” Genevieve cried, desperation lacing her voice. It was true. The drain was swift, an icy tendril snaking up my arm, stealing my strength.
For the first time, I truly understood the cost of magic, the exhaustion that mirrored the exertion.
Just as my reserves dwindled, a collective gasp tore from our throats.
We faltered, and the shimmering shield sputtered and died.
A hail of arrows, tipped with an unnatural green luminescence, rained down upon the castle entrance.
Draven’s loyal guards, outnumbered and outmatched, met the onslaught with a roar.
Steel clashed against steel in a cacophony of violence.
The metallic clang of sword on sword resonated through the halls, punctuated by the wet thuds of bodies hitting the ground.
Screams, both human and monstrous, filled the air, a chorus of terror and rage.
The stench of blood, acrid and metallic, mingled with the ozone tang and the sulfurous reek of dark magic, a nightmarish cocktail that assaulted my senses.
On the other hand, Draven, Xul, and Viktor are huddled in a tense huddle, debating the merits of involving the coven. Normally, they were part of the witches’ council, but this situation was different. Should they involve the coven in this mess? It felt like a double-edged sword.
On one hand, dragging the witches into it would unleash punishment on the rebellious Brothers of Sin.
But on the other, the coven would sniff out the crack in the Shadows of Styxfall faster than a fly on molasses. Morwenna. Her very body was a vessel for Victoria, making her a walking time bomb.
Removing Victoria meant potentially killing her, and history showed the coven wasn’t averse to such drastic measures. They’d done it to other potential reborns of Victoria in the past.
Yet, Draven’s unwavering stance against involving the coven, his silent defense of Morwenna – it was enough to make a girl blush. Gods, Elara, get a grip! I chastised myself silently.
Still, the sight of these three stoic brothers united – Draven, the loner; Xul, the enigma; and Viktor, the self-serving opportunist who only cooperated when it suited him – warmed a cynical corner of my heart.
Their brotherly bonding session was cute, sure, but it was also delaying the inevitable.
“Excuse me,” I interjected, my voice laced with nervous energy, “I hate to interrupt this heartwarming reunion, but…” I trailed off, unable to tear my gaze from the scene unfolding before us.
One of Draven’s guards, chest punctured by a crimson-stained blade, lay crumpled on the floor.
His attacker, eyes blazing with a feral hunger, radiated an unsettling aura – half-vampire, half-demon.
Then, the hunchbacked silhouette stalked towards us, the reeking tang of demonic presence thick in the forsaken air.
I turned to Viktor, thinking I was speaking to Xul, “I think this is the part where you guys actually fight—”
Before I could finish, the half-breed launched himself at us, a wickedly curved sword aimed… at me? Panic surged, but just as I prepared to dodge, the blade hung suspended in mid-air, then clattered to the ground with a metallic clang. Saved by a mage, of course. One would almost feel a sense of security with the Brotherhood around. Almost.
As if the world obeyed his unspoken command, Xul unleashed a torrent of magic.
He seized the very creature that had lunged for me moments before, a monstrous amalgamation of vampire and demon.
The unholy thing convulsed, legs buckling into a grotesque K-shape, its neck twisted at an impossible angle. A silent scream ripped from its throat, its eyes bulging and rolling back until only whites remained.
This wasn’t mere possession. The creature writhed, fighting for control of its own body against Xul’s puppeteering grip.
Unlike Viktor, who reveled in the bloody demise of demons, Xul fought them from within, exploiting their senses and turning them into twisted marionettes.
Draven, with his unholy pact, held the key to their final punishment – banishing their tortured souls to the fiery pits of Hell.
Together, they formed an unlikely trinity, destined to ensure that any rebellious vampires daring to attack would meet their demise.
The possessed monstrosity finally collapsed, its legs locked in that horrifying K-shape, its neck twisted at a sickening angle.
Witnessing Xul wield his power was always a sight to behold. The way his eyes blazed with arcane energy, his toned body a testament to years of rigorous training, it did a number on my libido. Hell, maybe a little too much. “Elara,” I muttered under my breath, snapping myself out of it. “Now’s not the time to be fantasizing about Xul in the middle of a demon apocalypse.”
Draven’s grim task remained. With a flick of his wrist, he banished the demon-vampire’s essence, not to oblivion, but to the eternal torment of the fiery pits.
How Vorax managed to amass such a twisted menagerie – demon-vampires, demon-witches, you name it – was a mystery I never expected to unravel. But one thing was certain: never.
Viktor sank to one knee, his calloused fingertip tracing a line across the gleaming metal. He wiped it down, a pointless gesture – there wasn’t a speck of dust on the polished surface. It was so sharp, you could shave yourself with it, and clear enough to see your reflection staring back, distorted by the slight curve of the blade.
“Forgery!” he muttered, the word a low growl in his throat. I didn’t need telepathy to understand his meaning; Draven and Xul did either, their faces hardening in unison.
“Forge what?” I bursted out.
He met my gaze. “Blood magic,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “This blade… it’s forged from blood.” He inhaled sharply, the scent of iron heavy in the air. “I can smell it, raw and ancient.”
Blood magic. I remembered the whispers from the dusty tomes in Mom’s hidden library. A dark art, fueled by sacrifice – the blood of the dead, the living, or even a demon’s essence. To become a true practitioner, a witch had to ascend past the fourth stage. The stages, Mom had said, were like climbing a rickety ladder into the abyss.
The first stage, I recalled, was mere child’s play – manipulating the environment, a twisted form of teleportation.
The second, far more perilous, allowed a witch to swap souls, becoming a puppet master in a stolen body.
Stage three, the manipulation of time itself, was Xul’s domain. Draven, ever the enigmatic one, dabbled in it as well.
The fourth stage, however, was where things got truly horrifying. Forgery. The ability to shape reality with a single drop of blood. To craft a soul, forge a body, even raise an entire army from the dead with a single drop spilled onto the right sigil.
And the fifth, the pinnacle of witchery - the Avatar stage. A being of pure power, able to command the other four levels with a thought. Legends spoke of only one who’d ever achieved it, the creator of the dreaded “Shadows of Styxfall,” a tome now locked away in the very fabric of time itself.
Reaching the Avatar stage could bend reality, break universes, and no one, not a single soul as far as anyone knew, had ever gotten close. Except, maybe, for the combined might of Draven, Xul, and Viktor. Together, they might flirt with that threshold, but even that was a terrifying thought.
Okay, back to the meat of the matter. Blood forgery. That’s gotta be what we’re dealing with here, the fourth stage. So, the whole damn vampire army out there tearing things up - those are corpses, reanimated from the dust of their bones. No way Vorax pulled this off, right? He ain’t got the firepower for that kind of magic, not like Draven, Xul, and Viktor. Same goes for Aric, Cassian, Malek, and Rafael. They’re muscle, not mages. Though, I did see Rafael pull off a little levitation trick once... still, nowhere near the level of those three brothers.
But then again, what do I really know about Vorax? He’s a slippery eel, that one, always calculating angles. Could it be him? The one who cracked the fourth level? It makes a twisted kind of sense. Vampires wouldn’t dare attack a king like Draven straight-up. More likely they’re puppets, their minds twisted by some dark magic.
“Prince Vorax?” I ventured, the question laced with a hint of disbelief. The very idea of it was almost laughable, but the logic gnawed at me. I didn’t know Vorax nearly as well as Aric, Cassian, or even the twins, Malek and Rafael. Maybe I’d jumped the gun when I said it was just the three brothers who could sling spells.
Apparently, my nose for magic twitches just as much as theirs does.
Here I am, still struggling with the first stage – that environment manipulation mumbo jumbo – and Vorax is out there flirting with the fourth level?
Let me tell you, to reach the second stage, you gotta nail the first. And let me tell you again, that first stage is a royal pain in the ass. My twin, Bethany, only made it to the third stage, and that was thanks to years of Mom’s grueling training before she... well, before she wasn’t here anymore.
“It’s him,” Draven confirmed, his voice a low rumble. It was just a hunch, but damn, it felt good to be right.
Viktor snatched the sword, his movements smooth as silk despite rising from his knee. “This blade is forged from poison,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “One touch, and it’s lights out.”
As if summoned by his words, a demon-vampire materialized on the rooftop, clinging to the shingles like a grotesque lizard. It lunged, but Viktor was already on it.
The blade flashed in the light, finding the creature’s chest with deadly accuracy.
To my surprise, rather than blood, the creature erupted in a shower of ash and flame, dissolving before my eyes.
I stumbled back, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs.
A hand settled on my shoulder, making me jump – Xul, thank God. For a horrifying moment, I’d thought it was another one of those things.
“So, it is poison,” Draven rumbled, his voice devoid of surprise. It wasn’t a question; he clearly understood.
“Indeed,” Viktor confirmed, his gaze fixed on the smoldering ash where the demon-vampire had been. “It was forged to target the heart, then spreading into a fast-acting necrosis. Instant kill.” The way he lingered on the ash sent a wave of nausea through me. He finally met Draven’s eyes. “Vorax has been plotting this for who knows how long. Now that he’s finally grown a spine, he’s making his move.”
“Could this be the chaos the Fates spoke of?” I whispered, directing my question to Xul as Viktor and Draven continued their hushed conversation.
Xul squeezed my shoulder gently. “It’s a possibility,” he murmured.
“Then let’s fight back! We can stop—”
“No.” Xul’s single word was a sharp knife, cutting through my outburst.
“We’ll handle this, Elarabeth. You need to get to safety. My castle is heavily warded, perfect for weathering this. Stay put until things settle down,” Xul’s voice left no room for argument.
I whipped around. “Excuse me, but I can help!”
His dark eyes, the color of polished obsidian, softened with concern. “No, El. This is too dangerous for... for someone like you.”
The words scraped against me. “So you think I’m incapable? Unworthy?” My voice rose, a tremor of frustration battling with the warmth that flared in my cheeks under his gaze.
“Never said that, El,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m just... fiercely protective. I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”
“Nothing will happen,” I gritted out.
Draven’s voice cut through the tension, booming over the snarls and growls of the approaching demon-vampires and witches. “Spread out!”
Xul barked an order. “Viktor! You’re the portal master. Get Elarabeth to my castle, now!” He completely ignored my protests about staying and fighting.
Sure, Xul’s protectiveness could be smothering at times. I yearned to prove myself, to be worthy of standing beside him in battle. But from his perspective, my recklessness was a recipe for disaster.
Viktor’s gaze swept over me, a sigh escaping his lips. “As you command, Xulin,” he grumbled, then added a barb meant to sting. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your... less-than-capable warrior princess.”
Less-than-capable? My fingers itched to connect with Viktor’s smug chin, but Xul’s hand clamped firmly on my shoulder. All three mage brothers had been insufferable lately. Was it weeks? Months? Time blurred in this constant state of tension.
Frustration simmered beneath the surface, but I swallowed it down, squeezing my lips shut.
Just then, Xul’s hand left my shoulder and cupped my cheek, a surprisingly gentle touch that sent a jolt through me.
“Don’t be angry, Elarabeth,” he murmured, his voice laced with concern. “We’ll talk about this later, after all this madness settles.”
My sigh morphed into an eye roll as Xul was on me, his lips brushing mine in a soft, surprising kiss. My face contorted in surprise, cheeks burning a traitorous red under his touch. It was a fleeting thing, that kiss, barely a whisper before he pulled away.
“I’ll be back,” he murmured, his hand lingering on my cheek for a beat before dropping. He straightened, his jaw set. “And remember, don’t piss off Viktor.” It wasn’t a request; it was a warning disguised as advice.
The brothers split, presumably to tangle. I followed Viktor at a cautious distance as he navigated the crumbling castle, searching for a spot with enough juice to power a portal. Apparently, interdimensional travel wasn’t as glamorous as the novels made it seem.
Viktor stood stock-still, eyes squeezed shut, a single finger tracing the corner of his eyelid. He was channeling his power, reaching deep within to rip a hole in reality itself.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. “This is taking forever,” I finally blurted, boredom gnawing at my patience.
Viktor didn’t reply.
“Maybe I can help?” I offered tentatively.
That’s when the ice thawed.
“Opening a portal, Elarabeth,” Viktor said, his voice dripping with disdain, “isn’t exactly a team effort.”
“Elara is fine,” I reminded him, a touch of defiance in my voice. “We’re not exactly on a first-name basis, are we, Mr. High and Mighty Demon Slayer?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Correction,” he said with a humorless scoff, “we never were.”
Just as I opened my mouth to retort, his voice cut through the air. “There. Got it.”
Relief washed over me.
He’d found the energy spike, the key to sending me back to Xul’s safe haven.
But of course, the universe wouldn’t have it that easy.
A grotesque tableau unfolded above – seven demon-vampires, a sight straight out of a nightmare, writhing their way through a crack in the ceiling.
“Oh, sugar honey ice tea,” I muttered. Just when I thought I was going somewhere nice.
Viktor froze, mid-spell, his fingers outstretched like a macabre conductor. Thankfully, the man was a demon slayer extraordinaire. Forget swords; Viktor wielded pure magic, a living weapon coursing with power. “Get behind me, Elarabeth!” he barked. I couldn’t help but scowl. Elarabeth? Seriously?
“What part of ‘don’t call me Elarabeth’ don’t you understand?”
But my irritation melted faster than ice on a griddle as the first demon lurched towards me.
With a panicked yelp, I scrambled behind Viktor, using him as a surprisingly sturdy, if slightly musty, shield. He carried the faint, unsettling scent of rain-soaked earth mingling with something floral, an almost cloying sweetness that sent shivers down my spine. Half-vampire, half-witch heritage, huh? The combination was certainly... unique.
Viktor met the demon head-on, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
His hands crackled with electric energy, raining miniature lightning bolts that sizzled against the creature’s hide.
He became a whirlwind of destruction, barely glanced back at me before leaving me exposed in his wake.
I stood there, useless, a knot of frustration tightening in my gut.
Then I saw it. A demon-vampire, skin the sickly green of a corpse, locked eyes with me. Its mouth stretched into a grotesque parody of a smile, like a porcelain doll possessed by a malevolent spirit. My mind screamed, ‘Elara, that thing wants to rip you apart!’
Panic clawed at my throat.
I stumbled back, my brain a whirlwind of indecision. ‘What do I do? What do I do?’ I chanted internally, a desperate plea lost in the chaos.
In a moment of sheer idiocy, I waved at the creature. “Hi!” The word escaped my lips before I could stop it. ‘Elara, you’ve lost your mind!’ a part of me shrieked. ‘Kill it! Prove yourself!’
My gaze darted around, searching for escape. There was none. The demon-vampire lurched closer, its grotesque maw agape. A desperate mantra echoed in my head: “I’m a witch. I’m a witch. I’m a witch. I can do this. I can do this.”
But doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve. What would Bethany do? A pacifist by nature, she’d seek some bizarre truce. No, this creature craved destruction, not understanding. “Fight!” another part of me screamed. “Fight!”
Yet, as the thing propelled itself forward, a primal fear gripped me.
My legs turned to jelly, and I shrank back, whimpering. I was useless.
Fumbling, I tried to weave a spell, a desperate attempt to cage the approaching monstrosity.
My fingertips tingled with nascent magic, but before I could unleash it, the world dissolved around me.
Teleportation. Great.
I’d teleported myself, not away from danger, but straight into the heart of it.
I was in the battlefield teeming with demon-vampires, vampire-witches… and me, right smack in the middle. Death knell, anyone?
Elara, you colossal idiot, I cursed myself as the cacophony of the battle washed over me.