Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
RAVENNA
T he eastern border of Underland has always been a place of transition—where chaos gradually gives way to order, where bright colors fade to muted tones, where reality itself seems to thin in preparation for whatever lies beyond. Now, as Scarlett and I arrive with her personal guard, I see it’s become something else entirely: a battleground .
Mara's forces have breached the outermost defenses with alarming speed. The forward scouts—rabbits with clocks embedded in their fur, flamingos with translucent wings, chess knights whose movements defy conventional geometry—have fallen back to secondary positions. Many bear wounds that pulse with sickly black light, sickness spreading from even minor injuries.
We stand atop a small hill overlooking the unfolding conflict. Below us, the card-soldiers have formed an impressive defensive line, their paper-thin bodies arranged in interlocking patterns that maximize both coverage and mobility. The diamonds and hearts form the front lines, their sharp edges gleaming in the strange twilight that has descended over this section of Underland. The spades and clubs are held in reserve, ready to reinforce weak points or counter breakthroughs.
It's an excellent defensive strategy, one that speaks to Scarlett's tactical brilliance.
"The cards are disciplined," I observe, genuinely impressed. "I expected Underland's forces to be as chaotic as the kingdom itself."
Scarlett's lips curve in a small smile, her eyes never leaving the battlefield. "Terror is an effective teacher," she says, though I sense the words lack the conviction they once held. "But so is love of one's kingdom."
I follow her gaze to the approaching enemy and feel my blood run cold. These are not the controlled soldiers we faced in Darkmore. These are abominations—creatures born of sick magic rather than merely influenced by it. I see contorted versions of Underland's native inhabitants—card-soldiers whose edges drip black ichor, flamingos with tumors erupting from their wings, rabbits whose pocket watches have fused with their flesh, ticking in arrhythmic patterns that hurt the ears.
But worse are the things that have no clear origin—masses of corruption given partial form, crawling or slithering or undulating across the battlefield. They leave trails of black slime that ruins whatever it touches, turning grass to ash, flowers to petalless stems.
"She's not controlling these ones," I realize, horror mounting. "They're pure evil given independence."
"Autonomous infection," Scarlett agrees grimly. "Each capable of spreading the illness without Mara's direct involvement."
Through our connection, I feel Scarlett's protective fury rising—not just for her subjects, but for her kingdom itself. Underland may be chaotic, may be bizarre by any conventional standard, but it is a chaos born of creativity and possibility, not of corruption and decay. What Mara brings is anathema to everything Underland represents.
I find my own anger rising to match Scarlett's.
"We need to join the battle directly," I say, already drawing my ritual knife. "Your card-soldiers can hold the line, but they can't counter the corruption itself."
Scarlett nods, her green eyes now prominently streaked with blue. "Together, then."
She raises her arm, and a nearby card-soldier snaps to attention. "Bring our mounts," she commands.
Within moments, two creatures approach—for Scarlett, a massive chess knight that moves in impossible L-shaped bursts of speed; for me, one of Underland's black panthers, its eyes glowing with vengeance, its fur absorbing light like the shadows of Darkmore.
We mount swiftly, our coordination perfect despite having never ridden into battle together before. Our growing bond makes words unnecessary as we direct our mounts toward opposite flanks of the defensive line, planning to create a crossfire of combined magic.
The panther moves beneath me, its muscles rippling with contained power.
As we reach position, I slash my palm with the ritual knife, letting blood flow freely. The familiar burn of sacrifice ignites my power, but now it feels different— fuller , and more balanced.
Across the battlefield, I see Scarlett raise her scepter, magic swirling around her in patterns of red and gold. Our eyes meet briefly, and understanding passes between us without words. In perfect synchronization, we direct our magics toward the advancing legion.
Where my blood magic strikes, dark sigils appear in the air, pulsing with power that flows outward in controlled waves. Where Scarlett's heart magic lands, wild bursts of energy erupt, reshaping reality according to her will. But the true miracle occurs where our magics intersect.
The corrupted creatures screech and writhe when our unified magic touches them. Some of the lesser manifestations dissolve entirely, their corrupted essence neutralized easily. Others, particularly those created from Underland's native inhabitants, begin to change—the corruption receding like poison drawn from a wound, revealing damaged but potentially salvageable beings beneath.
"It's working!" I call to Scarlett, excitement beating in my chest.
But even as the words leave my mouth, I sense a change in the battle's flow. Mara’s forces are adapting, learning from each confrontation. The larger creatures begin to avoid direct contact with our magic, circling to find gaps in our coverage. The smaller ones sacrifice themselves in waves, their dissolution releasing clouds of corrupted particles that spread the infection through the air.
And at the center of the enemy forces, I can see something massive is taking shape—something so dense it appears as a void in reality itself.
"Hold the line!" Scarlett commands her card-soldiers as they face this new development. "Do not engage the central mass!" There’s a slight panic in her voice. She doesn’t want to see them hurt.
She guides her chess knight toward me, moving in L-shaped jumps. When she reaches my position, her expression is grim.
"She's coming," Scarlett says, eyes fixed on the void. "I think it’s Mara."
The void pulses, expands , then tears open like a deep flesh wound. From within steps a figure that bears only the faintest resemblance to my sister.
Mara has transformed almost beyond recognition. Her body is partially crystallized, black veins visible beneath translucent skin that reflects light in unnatural ways. Her hair, once black like mine, now bears a prominent streak of white. Her eyes are the most horrifying change—no longer blue like mine, but black pools, emptied of life.
She wears armor fashioned from the same crystals her soldiers carried, but it appears fused to her flesh rather than merely worn. In her hand she carries a staff topped with a pulsing crystal larger than any we've yet encountered—a concentration of power that makes my skin crawl even at this distance.
Behind her, a second figure emerges from the void—King Edmund of Ironwood, or what remains of him. Where Mara has embraced corruption, Edmund has been consumed by it. His human form is barely discernible within a clear shell that seems to be using him as a vessel. His movements are jerky, puppet-like, his face frozen in an expression of agony visible through the crystal encasing him.
"Sister," Mara's voice carries across the battlefield, somehow both hers and not hers—layered with harmonics that scrape against my mind. "How kind of you to save me the trouble of hunting you through two kingdoms."
I feel Scarlett's hand find mine, our magic surging at the contact. Through our connection, I sense her analyzing Mara, calculating odds, forming and discarding plans.
"Mara," I reply, keeping my voice steady despite the horror her appearance evokes. "What have you done to yourself?"
A smile splits her face, too wide, too sharp. "I've evolved beyond the limitations of flesh and blood." Her gaze shifts to our joined hands, and her smile widens further. "Though I see you've discovered a primitive version of the same truth. Magic was never meant to be divided. Heart, blood, iron—all artificial boundaries imposed by frightened queens too weak to embrace true power."
"Not divided," Scarlett counters, her voice ringing with authority. "Balanced. What you've done isn't unification—it's corruption."
Mara laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "Semantics. The result is the same—power beyond anything our ancestors imagined." She gestures with her staff, and the corrupted forces resume their advance with renewed coordination. "Join me willingly, and I'll make the transition painless. Resist, and I'll strip your magic from your broken bodies and absorb it anyway."
I feel nothing but hollow grief for the sister I once knew. There is nothing left of Mara’s soul—nothing to save, nothing to redeem. The realization should devastate me, but instead, it brings clarity. The queen who must fall is already lost.
"We need to retreat," I tell Scarlett through our connection. "We can't defeat her here, not yet. Not without understanding the source of her power."
Scarlett nods imperceptibly, her mind already coordinating the withdrawal with her card-soldiers. "Fall back to second defensive line," she commands. "Controlled retreat. Protect the wounded."
The card-soldiers begin an orderly withdrawal, covering each other with disciplined precision. But Mara seems to have anticipated this move. She raises her staff, and the crystal at its peak flares with sickly light.
"Running so soon?" she calls mockingly. "Allow me to provide some incentive to stay."
The staff descends, striking the ground with a sound like breaking reality. From the impact point, power races outward, forming a massive sigil unlike any I've seen before—a combination of blood magic's precision and heart magic's creativity, morphed into something unnatural.
The sigil activates with a pulse of black light, and I feel our connection—the bond between Scarlett and me—suddenly strain. Pain lances through me, a tearing sensation as if something essential is being ripped away. Beside me, Scarlett gasps, her hand tightening convulsively around mine.
"Our magic," she manages through gritted teeth. "She's trying to separate us."
I focus all my will on maintaining our connection, but the sigil works against us with terrible efficiency. I feel our unified magic begin to unravel, separating into distinct currents. The pain is excruciating—like losing a limb, like having part of my soul torn from my chest.
Scarlett's green eyes meet mine, determination blazing through her agony. "Together," she insists, though her voice is strained. "No matter what."
I nod, pouring everything I have into resisting Mara's corruption. Our joined hands glow with intermingled red and black energy, fighting against the separation the sigil attempts to impose. For a moment, we hold steady, our unified magic a barrier against Mara's corruption.
But she was prepared for this resistance. With a gesture from Edmund's new form, a second sigil activates beneath the first, amplifying its power. The combined force hits us, driving us to our knees.
"You cannot resist the inevitable," Mara calls, advancing toward us through her legion. "Magic seeks unification—you've discovered that yourselves. The only question is which form that unification takes: yours, or mine ."
The pain intensifies as the twin sigils continue their work. I feel my consciousness beginning to fragment, the unified awareness I've shared with Scarlett splintering into isolated shards. Our connection, which has become as essential as breathing, flickers like a candle in a storm.
"Scarlett," I gasp, sensing we have only moments before the separation becomes complete. "If we're divided—"
"Find me," she interrupts, her voice fierce despite her pain. "Whatever happens, however far apart we're thrown— find me ."
"I promise," I vow, memorizing every detail of her face. "Whatever it takes."
With the last of our connected strength, we channel a desperate burst of energy—not at Mara, but at her army. The blast creates a momentary gap in the forces, a potential escape route for the retreating card-soldiers.
"Go!" Scarlett commands her troops. "Back to the castle! Protect Underland!"
As her forces retreat through the opening we've created, Mara's sigils reach full power. The world around us seems to crack, reality itself straining under the pressure of her magic. The last thing I see is Scarlett's face, her determination matching my own, before blackness swallows everything.
The connection between us snaps.
Pain beyond imagining.
Then nothing.
A s consciousness returns, it comes in fragments. Cold stone beneath my back. The smell of sickness in the air. The distant sound of battle. And an emptiness inside me where Scarlett's presence should be—a void so profound I can hardly breathe.
I force my eyes open, finding myself lying on the grass several yards from where we had stood. My panther mount is gone, either fled or dead. A distance away, the battle continues, but it has shifted. Mara's forces press forward inexorably, while Underland's defenders frantically retreat.
And Scarlett is nowhere to be seen.
I push myself up, ignoring the pain that radiates through every fiber of my being. "Scarlett!" I call, scanning the battlefield desperately. My magic feels diminished, as if I've lost not just our connection but more of my own power.
My cry attracts the attention of a nearby creature—once a flamingo, now a sick thing with cancerous growths replacing its feathers. It turns toward me with unnatural speed, black saliva dripping from its beak as it charges.
I reach for my magic, but it responds sluggishly, weakened by the forced separation.
Just as it reaches me, a playing card slices through the air, embedding itself in the creature's neck. The Two of Spades—one of Scarlett's soldiers—stands beside me, his paper form rustling as he positions himself protectively.
"My Queen," he addresses me, showing no hesitation at claiming Darkmore's ruler as his monarch. "Queen Scarlett has been taken."
The words hit harder than any physical blow. "Taken?"
"Queen Mara and the king," the card-soldier says between heavy breaths, already guiding me toward a gap in the fighting. "They seized her after the separation spell succeeded. Our orders are to get you to safety at all costs."
My first instinct is to refuse—to charge into the heart of Mara's forces, to reclaim Scarlett regardless of the danger. But strategic reason prevails. In my weakened state, with our connection severed , I would accomplish nothing except my own capture, or worse, death.
And if both of us are gone, Mara wins.
"Where?" I demand as the card-soldier leads me toward a hidden path.
"The Castle of Cards," he answers. "A defensive contingent holds it still. From there, we can plan a rescue."
I nod grimly, allowing myself to be led away from the battlefield. Each step feels like a betrayal of my promise to Scarlett, but I force myself to continue. I cannot help her if I'm captured or dead. I cannot fulfill our destiny if I fall to Mara's power.
As we retreat, I reach internally for any remnant of our connection. At first, I find only emptiness, a void where Scarlett's presence should be. But then, faint as a whisper, I sense something—the barest thread of heart magic woven into my own, too deeply integrated for even Mara to fully sever.
She’s alive.
Captured, separated from me, but alive .
And as long as that remains true, there is hope.
I will find her, as I promised. I will restore our connection. And together, we will ensure that the queen who falls is the one already lost to corruption.
Mara may have won this battle, but the war is far from over.