39. Wilder
Wilder
The shores of Andare reek of burning flesh. The metallic tinge of fresh blood hangs in the air. A thin film of waning magic tickles the back of my neck. The aftermath of bursts burning hot and fading just as quickly.
Battles near the Well—near the creatures that spill from it—reek of dying magic.
It drinks from us. Never satiated. Never done.
“Your Majesty,” Darvel greets me formally in front of the army as I stride to where he’s positioned before a tent. “When I sent word, I didn’t expect you to make an appearance yourself.”
Darvel’s smile climbs the corner of his mouth, his gaze moving between me and Rior.
“And let you spill all the blood without us?” I maintain an air of confidence. “Wouldn’t want to miss out.”
I know Darvel and Rior see through the show.
We’ve stood side by side in many battles.
Fought the onslaught of impending defeat, blood raining, screams piercing the realm.
We’ve bloodied our blades and shown no mercy until our enemies had no choice but to retreat.
They know how I operate and that my presence means I know we’re facing the worst, but this is what my battlefront needs from me.
Here, at the center of a beach covered in bodies, drenched in blood-soaked sand, they need their future king more than ever.
The beach is gray and overcast. But the clouds are not storm magic. It’s the promise of what the Well is brewing. I was here checking on the battlefront just a few days ago, but much has deteriorated since that trip.
“Aurora said your message was urgent.” I glance down at the map stretched on a table in the sand.
Dark splotches mark where the Well has spread, showing the points of contention at the border to Everquell and the Western beach of Andare. There are spots as far north as Zealeh, although it’s still mostly unaffected.
For now.
“Soldiers spotted a siren on the beach. She had a message for us.” Darvel frowns, angling his chin toward the tent behind him.
Rior and I follow Darvel to the tent, and when he peels back the flaps, the thick reek of death hits my senses. Saltwater and rot.
A siren lies lifeless on a cot to one side, but the tent is filled with bodies. Soldiers are stacked one on top of the other as they’ve run out of places to put them.
Sickness churns in my stomach.
My people.
My kingdom.
Piled in front of me as a sick reminder of how much has been lost. Worse, how much we’re still bound to lose.
Darvel leads me through the narrow path of flesh and limbs, stopping at the siren. Her moss-green hair is braided tightly to her scalp. It’s wet and matted to her neck and shoulders. Her pink skin is scaly below her belly button, and inky-black veins run all over her body.
“What happened to her?”
“We don’t know.” Darvel brushes his hair back. “We found her like this. She said something split open at the bottom of the sea, and she barely managed to escape.”
“Sirens don’t come to us for help.”
Darvel meets my gaze, reading my thoughts. If the mercreatures are in fact fearing what is happening at sea, that can only mean one thing: the Well has reached deep below the surface of the realm.
“She said something before she died.” Darvel waves over a warrior standing by the entry to the tent. “Repeat it for us.”
“She said the Well is changing.” The warrior scratches the back of his neck, his gaze moving to the siren, his face paling. “She said when it came for them and split open, it was not darkness that came out. But light.”
“Light?” My eyebrows pinch.
The warrior shakes his head, doubting it himself.
“She was half dead when we found her. She might not have remembered it correctly. But she said it wasn’t creatures that attacked.
That in the shadows, there were veins of light crawling out, reaching for her magic.
She said those light veins are what stole from her and did this. ”
He points to the black webbing on the siren’s pink skin.
“Veins of light,” Darvel repeats, meeting my gaze. “There’s only one Fae whose magic is described as such.”
“Malachi.” My teeth grit, and the warrior’s cheeks drain of all color. “Elorie said something similar when we were in Solace. That when she and Greer went into the darkness of the Well, they saw veins of light. Like his magic was threaded through it.”
“That’s not possible.”
“With a gods-touched object?” I rake my hair off my face, considering it. “Anything is possible. We know he intends to use the object to rebuild a realm. What else can it do? If he’s found a way to control the Well and drain magic himself, then he’s stronger than ever before.”
“Maybe your mate’s mission isn’t fruitless after all,” Rior grumbles beside me, and I narrow my gaze.
“It never was. So long as Malachi wields that orb, there won’t be an end to what we’re already seeing.”
Shouts come from outside the tent, and we rush to the commotion. A dark storm brews on the sea’s horizon. Shadows swirl, caving in on themselves as they roll like a second set of waves over the water.
“Incoming,” Darvel shouts, stepping forward. “Front lines in place, now.”
The army splits, half pulling back, while others form a line along the beach. The shouts continue so far down the sand that I can no longer hear them after a while.
Darvel frowns when I step to his side. “You should get back just in case.”
“I should,” I agree, knowing the risks now are not the same as they once were.
But I refuse to be a king who stands behind a wall of flesh, watching my people die.
Soldiers glance. They whisper. They stare as I lift my hands. Many of them have seen me battle over the centuries. Back when I molded my magic into the shape of lightning so that they wouldn’t know the truth of what I wield.
My fingertips spark now with who I really am—an aether wielder.
Golden flecks slowly flush my forearms. Thick veins of aether weave around my arms. Spreading against the plague of death that covers the beach.
The others don’t hesitate. They follow my lead, lifting their palms at the oncoming shadows while Darvel directs them. As a fire wielder, his magic is purely offensive, so he does not raise his hands for what we’re doing here.
He doesn’t leave us either.
Darvel was my example in battle—in life. He’s the closest thing to a father figure I had when the male who married my mother resented me too much to raise me himself.
Air, storm, and wind wielders step forward. Those with amplification affinities scatter throughout the group to fortify the shell we cast in defense of the oncoming wave.
There are no creatures heading our way. No weapons that can destroy what comes for us now. Battling the Well evolves each time it appears. And at the moment, all we can do is defend.
Aether weaves in and out of the magics on the beach. My fingers dance with the breeze, twining my magic with the others. It glows brighter than any star until shadows crash, and the first surge of the Well strikes us with such intensity that the sea swallows another foot of sand. The beach shrinks.
On the wind, I hear it. Somewhere in the distance, the Well laughs. Or maybe it’s the fates.
Or the gods.
The Well rakes its teeth over my army, and a third of them drop to their knees at the impact.
I fortify my magic, sealing it tighter. Binding it with those around us.
My heart pounds.
Thump. Thump.
I cling harder, and sweat drips down my temple.
Thump. Thump.
Screams echo, and my heartbeat notches up. It thunders. Blood pulsing in my ears. My veins.
Thump. Thump.
My vision swims as another wave crashes, but I don’t let go. Not as aether sparks on my hands, and my fingers shake. My knees weaken, but I don’t fall.
Thump. Thump.
Every beat is endlessly painful. A hundred spears splicing through the center of my chest. I search the threads for the strength, for an answer. For anything.
Until the slightest spark washes through me, down a familiar thread. A ghost of Elorie’s thoughts pierces through the distance.
The breath of her magic swims into my heart, and even though she is not here, it soothes this anger thundering in my chest. I cling to it—to her. I wrap myself around the thought she sent me, even if I can’t understand it.
And I push.
With the full force of my magic. My being. I push back against the Well with aether and all that binds it in this moment.
Darkness pulls back. It yawns in silence as it retreats. At my sides, no one releases until the Well vanishes again on the horizon.
“Good work.” Darvel’s voice is all that has me drawing my magic inward.
I nearly collapse on the beach. But for my people, I don’t. On shaky legs, I turn on my heels to the war tent beside the one filled with the dead. Only once I’m inside do I fall into a chair, catching my breath.
The flaps open as Darvel and Rior step through, directing everyone else to stay outside.
“It’s worse than Atlas warned,” Darvel says.
I glance at him, and it’s clear he’s been told about the Beating. “Your son needs to learn how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I’ve tried to warn him.” Darvel offers a grim smile. “You can’t battle like this, Wilder.”
“I just did.”
He pulls the chair out and sits to face me. “You’re lucky it didn’t kill you. I don’t know how it didn’t.”
Me either, I think, but I don’t say it. By all accounts, I should be dead.
“I’d rather die beside our men than sit to the side and watch it destroy us.” I lean back in the chair and catch my breath as my magic struggles in my veins.
Magic is of the blood—the being. But lately, mine feels separate. Like it swims at a different speed, and I can’t quite connect.
“Then help in other ways,” Darvel says, looking from Rior to me. “We can’t battle this alone. Not anymore. We need help. We need to all come together.”
“You want me to talk to Celeste,” I guess.
Darvel nods.
“She won’t listen to me,” I argue.
“She will listen to her king.” Darvel reaches out, grabbing my shoulder. “She’ll listen if you ask her.”
I nod, not sure he’s right, but willing to try. If the Well doesn’t tear us apart, the distance between the territories will. There used to be a greater cooperation between us. The past century has changed that.
“King Riven.” A warrior bursts into the tent, and I can’t help that I bristle at the name. “You’re needed back at the palace.”
“Never a dull moment.” Darvel grins, shaking my shoulder. “Thank you for being here. Many more would have died had you not been.”
I nod, finding my footing without allowing anyone to see how my legs shake. I follow him out of the tent and to the Gate.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s the human girl you asked us to watch. Something happened to her.”
Letia. My chest tightens.
“She started screaming. I don’t know what hap—” The warrior doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence as I step through the Gate beside him.
The moment I’m through, a scream rattles the palace. Letia’s piercing cries echo in my ears.
“She was fine,” the guard says, coming through right after me with Rior at his side. “Then, out of nowhere, everything changed.”
I push into the room, finding Letia writhing on a bed. Her skin and clothes are drenched in sweat. This time, when she cries, her mouth is open, but her scream is silent.
“Letia.” I drop to a knee beside her, fear tearing through me.
I promised Elorie I would keep her safe. I promised I’d protect her people.
I can’t let her down.
Elorie mentioned Letia was having a reaction to the aeraliss, but it was barely a rash the last time I saw her, nothing like this. Dark-red lines web over Letia’s hand, starting where the ring sits, climbing all the way up her arm. They stretch along her neck and onto her cheek.
“How many of the humans are experiencing this?”
“Just her,” the guard answers, his face pale.
“Her body is resisting it.” Rior drops down beside me, flipping her palm over. “It’s eating her skin.”
Blood dots the sheet where her hand was resting.
“We need to take it off,” Rior says.
I shake my head. “If we take it off, she’ll die. Humans can’t withstand the surge of magic.”
“She can’t withstand this,” Rior says as Letia screams again.
He’s right; I know he’s right. Either way, she’s facing death.
“We have to do something,” Rior pushes.
Do something.
That’s been my problem lately. With Elorie, my crown, my people.
I left the prison, but I never stepped forward. I never started fighting for something again.
I need to do something.
“Wilder.” Rior’s voice drops, and I meet his gaze.
“You’re right.” I touch the ring, and Letia winces. “We can try to switch it to her other hand, but we have to move fast.”
Rior nods, holding Letia in place while I grab her hand.
I close my eyes and cling to the fading remnant of hope my mate sent through the thread.
I cling to the role I need to step into—the risks I need to take if I’m going to win this fight.
I grip the ring, which bites at my magic as I touch it, and I pull it off Letia’s finger, while her scream pierces the stars.