Chapter 41 Aethra
Aethra
Asenior Hades Knight stepped away from the circle and pressed his spear to my neck. “Stand,” he ordered.
Tightening my arms around Athena, I glared at him defiantly.
“As long as you cooperate,” he said gently. “You will not be harmed.”
Turning back to Athena, I ran a hand down her neck. I wanted to stay with her during her final moments, for as long as I was allowed.
Sighing, the knight lowered his spear and reached for my arm. His gauntlet brushed my skin before he jerked back. Confused, I looked up.
He stared into the distance, glassy-eyed. The man beside him stepped up. “What’s wrong?”
Breaking from his lifeless stance, the senior knight whirled around and shoved his spear through his fellow’s neck. It burst through to the other side, pouring blood across the road.
A tangled weave of vines erupted from the crimson pool and whipped into a storm of red death. Ducking, I pressed myself against Athena and grabbed my sword hilt.
These were Phaedrus’ vines—they wouldn’t hurt me. Yanking my blade from its scabbard, I shot to my feet.
The bloody vines danced around my feet, effortlessly avoiding me as I rushed at a knight’s back. He whipped around before I reached him and lunged. Taking up the stance Seth had taught me, I blocked his strike.
Vines whirled past me, slamming into the man’s chest. The blood blossomed into a flower, throwing the man back with explosive force.
Flame streaked across the whirling vines, setting them ablaze. Stepping back, I tried to make sense of the chaos.
The traitor knight had drawn two men away from me, and they clashed in a dizzying whirl of steel. Phaedrus’ vines had entangled three men and dragged them south. That left two to my north, one of whom had turned in my direction and charged.
A golden goddess wrapped in flaming wings descended from the sky, boots slamming into the knight’s back, throwing him to the ground. Spinning her scythe, Seraphim dashed toward the remaining man.
Leaving the fight to her, I raced back to Athena’s side and breathed in relief when I saw that life remained in her eyes. She twitched, thrashing her hooves in pain and twisting her head to look at me.
Dropping my sword, I pulled her head into my lap, wincing as I listened to the fighting around me.
Someone touched my shoulder. Startled, I looked up to see Phaedrus kneeling beside me, blood streaming from his arm to fuel the array of vines keeping the Hades’ Knights away from us.
His eyes darted between me and the spear lodged in Athena’s side. Reaching forward, he placed his hand on her wound, and her blood flowed around his fingers, plugging the gap shut.
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t save her. The damage was already done.
Meeting my eyes, Phaedrus blurted out a single word. “Elpis.” He winced, looking behind him as a knight nearly reached us. Vines rushed under his feet, wrapping around his greaves and dragging him back south.
“What?” I asked.
“Call upon your Elpis magic,” he shouted. “There is no healing that this world knows of, but yours is the closest thing to.”
What was he talking about? I couldn’t heal. Trying to save Athena was pointless.
“Trust me,” Phaedrus said.
Pointless . . .
The attempt would be futile. But there was no reason not to try.
Placing my hand on Athena’s flank, I remembered the day Seth had carried me through the darkness. Blue flowers, a sky brightened by the sun, the Empty disappearing into the nothingness from which it sprung.
Phaedrus’ hand tightened around mine. His blood trickled across my fingers.
Had I destroyed the Empty? Or had I healed a small part of the world?
Magic surged in my breast. Flowers burst from between the cracks in the road, vibrant and blue. Phaedrus’ blood fell upon them, staining them red.
Athena’s blood surged around her wound, and the spear crumbled into dust.
I gasped as familiar pain tore through me—the feeling of my very soul being spent. Brilliant light enveloped the square as something burst from Athena’s wound and ascended into the sky.
Bucking from my grip, Athena stood as the shimmering light faded and the flowers entwining her hooves wilted. Wings spread from her sides, growing from the jagged scars left behind by the spear.
I sat back, gaping at her.
“From the blood of death,” Phaedrus said, reciting a line from the old play. “The Pegasus rises.”