Chapter Fifty One
PEDR
White sand gathered in front of Pedr’s face. It transformed into a familiar reliquary. His reliquary. Lighted arcane pooled around the bottom, spiraling through the sides. It hovered in front of his face.
When he’d asked the arcane for a way to stay with Mila, he hadn’t expected this. Whatever this was.
In the vibrating lines, he thought he saw a familiar shape. Were those . . .
. . . wings?
They elevated toward him with a gauzy up-and-down. Their wavering smoke, painted with a plethora of alternating hues, winged in a circle around Pedr’s torso. The wyvern-like cloud stopped, settling over Pedr’s stilled heart like a dragul.
Movement stirred near the edges of his vision, cutting his confusion short. He spun to see Draven standing across the way, hands folded in front of him. He stared right into Pedr’s eyes, then the smoke-wyvern on Pedr’s chest, and into Pedr’s eyes again.
Draven turned to the side when another reliquary descended. Bold, wide, teeming with color, the powerful glass waited a step away. Draven’s lips moved, though Pedr heard nothing. The light within the reliquary brightened, then dimmed.
Why did dread fill Pedr’s chest?
Why did time pause?
Draven’s lips ceased movement. He cast a glance over his shoulder, gave Pedr a nod, a smile, and turned his back.
A pair of wings sprouted from Draven’s back, unfurling with majestic splendor.
They cracked wide with one powerful percussion that pulsed through the room.
Pedr didn’t feel the shock, but the walls stirred in waves of color.
The wings hesitated mid-air. Pedr waited for the rest of Draven to transform, but the Father King simply . . . dropped.
Into smoke.
His body vanished, becoming a hazy funnel that twisted into an ebony streak. It spiraled across the room and impacted Pedr’s chest, sending him backward. He shouted, “Draven, no!” but no sound was expressed.
The trapped words locked in his throat. He fought to find the Wyvern King, but a weight on his chest held him fast. In the distance, he thought he heard terrible roars. A multitude of them, bellowing.
Draven’s black mist developed into a wyvern. A fierce growl ripped through its mouth as it wheeled around, wings unfurled, and headed straight for Pedr’s chest.
As it collided over his heart, it roared, devouring the winged wyvern on Pedr’s chest with a puff of smoke. Tiny claws, then teeth, sank into Pedr’s chest.
Agony.
Tearing.
Fire.
Wrenching.
The wyvern ripped Pedr’s heart out.