Chapter 17 Xylon
XYLON
Iwake with a jolt.
Not slowly, not from the gentle depths of sleep, but with a violent, primal snap of awareness, as if a predator’s jaws have closed on the world. My eyes fly open to the dim, crystal-lit cavern. I am alone. The air is cold. Still.
Wrong.
I push myself up, my massive body stiff and aching. The rage and despair from our conflict left a residue of exhaustion in my bones. I look around the small cavern, my eyes piercing the gloom. Empty. I take a deep breath, and the world stops.
Her scent is gone.
Panic, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, cuts through the beast’s lingering haze. It is not a gradual dawning. It is an immediate, absolute certainty. The air, which for days has been filled with the warm, clean scent of her courage and her life, is now just cold, dead stone.
I am on my feet in an instant, my heart a frantic, hammering drum against my ribs. Dina. The name is a silent roar in my mind. I storm out of the sleeping cavern, my thunderous footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence.
“DINA!” The sound that rips from my throat is a monstrous, guttural bark, a sound of pure, rising terror. It is swallowed by the vast emptiness of the Vrakken’s domain. No answer. Only the mocking echo of my own desperate cry.
I search the great cavern, my movements frantic, destructive.
I sweep a display case of delicate jewelry to the floor with a flick of my wrist, the sound of shattering glass a pale imitation of the shattering in my own chest. I rip a centuries-old tapestry from the wall, as if she could be hiding behind it. Where is she? Where did he take her?
The Vrakken. Kasian.
I track back to the place of our argument, to the spot where I last saw her. Her scent is here, a faint, fading ghost. But it is mingled with two other things. The cold, grave-dust scent of the Vrakken. And something else. Something sharp, acrid, and green. A masking scent.
I shouldn’t have left her with him!
I lower my head to the stone floor, my nostrils flaring. I know this smell. Rirzed. A common Orcish herb used to hide the scent of a trail from beasts.
She did not just leave. She hid her leaving from me. She went with him. Willingly.
The betrayal is a snake choking my heart. The air rushes from my lungs, and for a moment, the strength goes out of my limbs. She chose to leave me. She chose to walk to her own death. For me.
I never asked this of her. I never wanted her to.
But the pain is instantly consumed by a far greater, far more terrible emotion. Terror. A pure, absolute terror for her safety that is so potent it brings the beast’s rage roaring back, but this time it is a cold, focused fire.
The Vrakken lied.
The certainty of it is a warrior’s instinct, a truth that settles into my bones.
I see his ancient, grief-stricken face in my mind.
The desperation in his eyes. He is not a being of gentle release and noble sacrifice.
He is a predator, consumed by his own pain, and he will do anything to get what he wants.
He saw her hope, her purity, and he saw a key, a tool.
He would not care how it breaks, as long as it turns the lock.
The terror gives way to a rage so profound it makes the cavern tremble. A rage at the Vrakken for his lies. A rage at myself for leaving her alone with him. For my weakness. For my despair. I let my own pain drive me away, and I left her vulnerable to his poison.
Never again.
My purpose becomes a single, burning point of light in the darkness. Find her. Save her. Kill him.
My senses, honed by the curse and guided by the warrior, reach out.
I can smell the faint, lingering trail of the Vrakken’s power, a path of cold shadow leading to a solid wall.
The hidden door. I place my hand on the stone.
It is just cold rock. But I can smell the magic, and I can smell the faintest, lingering trace of her scent that the rirzed could not entirely erase.
I do not need a key. I am the key.
I pull my arm back and drive my fist into the wall. The stone groans, cracking under the impact. I hit it again. And again. The pain is nothing. With a final, explosive roar, the wall shatters inward, revealing the glowing, magical passage beyond.
I plunge into the tunnel, a ten-foot-tall engine of pure, righteous fury. The air is warm, humming with the power of the Wildspont. It is the scent of her destination. The scent of the altar.
I run. My powerful legs eat up the ground, each stride a thunderous vow. I will not be too late. I refuse it. The universe will not be so cruel.
The light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter, the hum of power louder. I can hear a voice now, a soft, melodic chanting in an ancient tongue. Kasian. He is performing the ritual.
I burst from the passage into the vast, glowing cavern, my roar of fury a declaration of war that shakes the very crystals from the ceiling.
And the sight that greets me is the manifestation of my worst fears.
In the middle of the cavern, on the black stone island, she lies stretched out upon a sacrificial altar.
She is still, her eyes closed. And standing over her, his hands raised, is Kasian.
In his right hand, he holds a ritual knife of gleaming, obsidian-like crystal, its point aimed directly at her heart.