Chapter 46 Rohak
Rohak
My boots slammed against the stone floors, the pervasive color of the Academy matching my dark mood perfectly.
A storm brewed just beneath my skin, my Destruction Magic sparking in response to my anger, thin wisps of ashes and embers swirling around my hands and forearms, coating me in a thin shroud of grey.
Grumbling and cursing beneath my breath, I fought to push the magic back, not wanting to access it and further push the early stages of Mage Sickness. Briefly, I contemplated throwing the crystals away, but if I got rid of my crystals, I was certain Alois would force me to Bond.
Something he made all too clear during our conversation tonight.
I wanted nothing more than to rage, to let my emotions show and run their course, but even with the late hour, Academy students and staff still bustled about.
The last thing I needed right now, especially after that disastrous conversation with Alois, was to call my reputation and mental stability into question.
It would be the tipping point for Alois to strip me of both my rank as general and as his second-in-command.
Now, more than ever, it was imperative I keep both positions, no matter how much I despised being Alois’ second. Someone had to keep him in check, to monitor for signs of mental descent. And there was no one better fit for the task than me.
So I pushed my emotions down as deep as I could, let them fester and rot just beneath the surface, until I reached my office. Once I was there, once I was in my safe haven, I could unleash. Let the mask fall. Break, if I needed to.
But not here.
Not yet.
I kept my head down and steps hurried, my hands clenched into tight fists behind my back as I avoided any eye contact.
The speed of my gait had me approaching my office door within minutes.
The Mage Orb just to the right of my door glowed at my approach, and I unclenched my right hand as pain shot through my fingers from the tightness of my grip.
Grunting at the pins and needles lacing through my hand, I held out my palm over the orb only to discover a slight tremor that only seemed to grow.
My breaths sawed raggedly as my heart beat a frantic rhythm within my chest. A sharp ringing muffled any other noise, and I barely registered the click of the lock as the door unlatched and swung inward.
The deep thump of my heart and the sound of my breathing echoed in my ears as I carefully closed the door behind me.
The edges of my vision blurred, the furniture and objects in my office hazed over as I felt rage consume my very soul.
It was like an out-of-body experience; I felt nothing but my incandescent anger—my limbs and hands long since numb.
I heard nothing. Not the scream that rent from my throat nor the shattering of glass as I chucked ornament after paper weight at the wall next to the fireplace—the shards glinting in the light as the figures burst into a million pieces before resting on the floor, falling like snow.
But the shattering of stupid fucking baubles wasn’t enough to assuage the deep-seated emotions that now finally crested to the surface after stewing for years—inadequacy over my religious and romantic convictions, disgust at my best friend’s actions, frustration at being able to do nothing but sit and watch as thousands were killed in the name of the gods.
And, beneath it all, a deep-rooted fear that I was wrong—that I picked the wrong side in this never-ending war.
That my convictions were misplaced. That I’d sacrificed so much of myself, so much of my life, in service to a friend that was more monster than man, that I’d sacrificed my own happiness—the potential for love and forgiveness—by holding onto the truths my dead parents instilled in me so many decades ago.
I stood, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming, and stared at the broken pieces of glass in all shapes and sizes.
It was a perfect symbol for my dreams and trust—misused and shattered on the floor.
Inadvertently, I felt my Destruction Magic snake along my skin and seep from my pores, anxious to finish whatever it was that we started.
I wanted, no I needed to destroy. It was a constant chant in my mind, a drumbeat of conviction as I tapped into the singular crystal pushing against my skin.
Just one more time.
Before I could commit whatever act my damaged brain could conjure, I felt the light touch of a thin, strong hand.
The sensation was barely there, my instinct-driven brain barely able to comprehend the action, but I felt my face slowly turn toward the offending appendage.
My magic slithered further up until it touched the light-brown fingers wrapped around my forearm.
They flinched slightly as my magic brushed against them, and I suddenly had the urge to devour—to take until there was nothing left.
I bared my teeth in a snarl, the words of power on the tip of my tongue, ready to consume whatever creature deigned to touch me when I was like this, but a calming, firm voice cracked through the cloud in my brain.
“Rohak!”
The cry was just enough to halt my command, and I skated my gaze from the fingers around my arm up, up, up to a pair of dazzling hazel eyes.
There was a depth to them—a pain reflected deep within that called to the broken pieces of my own soul.
A kinship. Beneath the pain, though, there was something else.
Understanding, acceptance.
And what looked like utter devotion.
I’d seen the same expression painted on the faces of sycophants as they worshipped Lord Alois d’Refan, and even on the face of my parents and brother as they prostrated themselves in the temple at the base of the statues of the gods.
But never had I seen that expression directed at me.
Who was this creature?
Some other part of me, the part not consumed by my bloodlust and rage, recognized her, knew her as well as I knew my own self.
Tentatively, the woman reached out her other hand and gently brushed my lips and beneath my nose. Her touch—bare skin against bare skin—sent flames dancing across the surface of my flesh, the sensation fighting for dominance with my magic.
“Stop,” she mumbled, her voice swallowed by the hold of my magic. “Stop, please.”
There were fat tears rolling in earnest down her cheeks, and I cocked my head as I watched them fall in rapid fascination.
“Please.” Her chest shook with each inhale, and she winced as my magic brushed against her skin. Still, she didn’t pull away, didn’t retract her touch.
“Come back, come back. I’m here,” she said.
I was loathe to do anything against this fearless, despondent woman’s wishes. With an effort greater than anything in my past, I pulled my magic back beneath my skin, hissing at the sheer force of will it took to lock it away.
With sweat on my brow and the grit of my teeth, I wrestled for control of my consciousness with the thing that lived inside my Destruction Magic. The harder I pushed, the more the haze receded, revealing details that I knew to be true.
This was my office.
Faylinn was the woman in the room with me.
Faylinn’s hand was on my arm.
Faylinn’s fingers were gathering blood as it coursed down my lips and chin, splattering against the floor to mix with the infinitesimal shards of glass at my feet.
Faylinn pulled me from the ledge.
Without her, I would have certainly lost myself to the throes of my magic, pulling and using until there was nothing left of me, surrendering my body and mind to sickness that lived inside.
I gasped as I released the last vestiges of my magic, the sounds of the world rushing back in—the mingling of both mine and Faylinn’s breath as we panted, the crunch of glass beneath my feet, the drip of blood as it pattered against the floor.
“Faylinn?” I rasped and watched as tears ran anew down her face. Faylinn heaved a guttural sob that wracked her entire form, and I could do nothing else but collapse on the floor. The reality of what I almost did again crashing down with me.
I almost killed her again.
“Rohak,” she said through hiccupped sobs, her grip still tight against my forearm as she followed me to the glass and blood-strewn floor.
I sat heavily, shards of glass pressing into my ass and thighs through my pants, and Faylinn quickly followed, unceremoniously climbing into my lap before wrapping her arms around my neck and legs around my torso.
She clung to me desperately. Like if she let me go, I might fade away into nothing. Like she could lose me. Like I was something precious to her.
With a low keening sound, I returned her embrace, tightening my arms around her back and pulling her body flush with my own, needing to feel every inch of her. To assure myself that she was okay, that she was here, that I didn’t kill her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I gasped into her ear, my palms working to rub her back and smooth her hair in tandem.
She said nothing in response, just sobbed into my shoulder, her tears wetting my tunic and back.
But I didn’t care.
There was nothing that could pull me from this moment with her.
It was there, on the floor of my destroyed office, that I knew she was mine.
That I would do whatever it took to keep this woman safe.
That her care and happiness was the most important thing in my life—more important than despotic god-possessed best friends, more important than the belief system I hid behind, and certainly more important than any promise of power.
The pounding of my heart was erratic, the organ desperately trying to push from my chest to get to the woman pressed against me. I panted, rapidly trying to fill my lungs, but felt like I was breathing through a muddy cloth.
Faylinn pulled away, concern lit in her wet eyes. She said something, but I couldn’t hear over the ringing in my ears.
Was I dying?
“Faylinn.” I took a last, deep, shuddering breath before my arms sagged and blackness took me.