Chapter 1 Razik #2
“For the record, that didn’t help,” Razik said flatly.
“Fuck off, you prick,” Cethin retorted, already rallying his magic, apparently to try again.
“You’re not helping. You’ve assuaged your curiosity. Now leave so the rest of us can do our godsdamn jobs and not have to worry about your pampered ass,” he shot back.
“I’m as trained as you are,” Cethin sneered, pulling daggers from swirls of black. The silver blades glinted until his magic slithered up the weapons. He cocked his arm back and threw one, his aim dead on, but like every other weapon, it went right through the things.
The beings drew closer, four more having joined the three. They were all failing.
“Leave, Cethin!” Razik growled out again, sending his dragon fire to intercept the closest one. Its head tipped back, and it wailed like its soul was being ripped from its body.
“You are not in a position to tell your king what to do,” he snarled, pulling up more of that dark power and letting it swell around both of them.
“I can’t do my job with you here.”
“You’re not my fucking Guardian, Razik,” Cethin bit out, pulling two more daggers from the inky pools.
“Thank me for that,” Razik muttered, because he wasn’t about to thank the Fates. If the Fates or Sargon—or most of the gods for that matter—had their way, things would be very different.
Cethin threw his daggers again, and again they did absolutely nothing, useless, much like him.
“Still not helpful,” Razik said, pointedly sending more dragon fire at another being as it drifted closer, brandishing twin golden short swords.
“And what’s the plan when your power wells run dry? I don’t see Wren nearby,” Cethin said, gripping a sword now. He stood ready for a fight, as if he hadn’t been watching how utterly ineffective weapons were against them.
“Wren is none of your concern,” he spat, finally able to pull his flames back as the being disintegrated into ashes.
But Cethin wasn’t wrong. It took a lot of power to kill these creatures, and the jackass would know exactly how much his power was waning.
Tybalt was handling some of the beings, but there were still three to take out.
No one else could do anything, and the ones that were left were drifting dangerously closer.
Close enough that when Razik sent another up in black flames, the wind blew the ashes back at them.
It coated their clothing and skin, drifting through their hair.
“Enough with the righteous act. You need to fucking go,” he ordered Cethin again, dragging up the last of his reserves.
If Cethin was killed on his watch… He wouldn’t really care, but the rest of the kingdom would.
They all loved him. He was fairly certain it was more that the kingdom had adored King Tethys than it was actual loyalty to Cethin. At least it was for him.
“I can’t leave,” Cethin gritted out.
“What do you mean, you can’t leave?”
“I can’t Travel. It’s not— Clearly my power isn’t working right. You should Travel both of us away. You’re tapped out of power the way it is. You have enough to take out maybe one more, if that.”
Gods, Razik hated Cethin knew that. Hated that the male knew anything about him.
The fact that neither of them could Travel was an issue.
It appeared no one could Travel for some reason.
That must be why Tybalt had Traveled in so far away.
Cethin had also Traveled in a good distance from the beings when he’d first arrived.
The only explanation was the beings themselves.
Razik had never heard of any creatures that could prevent one from Traveling.
He’d read thousands and thousands of books and never come across them.
Various stones, Marks, and curses that could keep a person from stepping through the air, yes.
But beings? Nothing in all his tomes and books, scrolls and research.
It appeared the only way anyone was leaving was if they killed the last two beings, and Cethin was right.
He could maybe take down one, and that was a big hypothetical.
He hadn’t heard the deathly wail in a few minutes, which led him to believe Tybalt’s power was also lagging or completely depleted.
As if he’d heard his thoughts, Tybalt was racing across the field, the rest of the Cadre with him, attempting to clear a path among all the bodies, both breathing and fallen.
If anything, they distracted the beings long enough for Razik and his uncle to pull up the last of their magic from the depths of their souls.
“Now!” his uncle bellowed, and Razik released the last of his flames.
They merged with Tybalt’s, engulfing one of the things.
Its wail filled the air, and Razik gritted his teeth.
If this didn’t work, they were fucked. The dragon in his soul thrashed as the final remnants of his power were expended.
He wouldn’t be able to shift or summon his wings.
Not having access to his magic would slowly drive him mad.
He needed to get back to Aimonway. He needed Wren.
He’d trained himself to fight with low reserves.
Numerous times he’d let his power levels fall until they were nearly nonexistent, learning to fight without magic and to push on through the agony.
It didn’t mean he fucking liked it. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a buzzing in his ears, and it didn’t mean there wasn’t an emptiness and desperation at not being able to feel the other part of him that was always there.
Finally, the creature disintegrated into ashes. Flecks of black floated in the breeze and drifted to the ground, mixing with all the spilled blood.
Avonleyan blood.
His kingdom.
His fellow warriors.
People he’d known for decades.
His vision was a little blurred at the edges, and his heart was beating far too fast. Even his godsdamn legs were shaking like a newborn foal. He was about to be as useless as Cethin.
“No!”
Fallon’s cry had him jerking upright. He hadn’t even realized he was bent over, hands braced on his knees.
He spun, following where everyone was racing.
Where Cethin was engaged with a being, his silver blade stark against a gold one as strikes were parried and countered.
As the being brushed aside darkness and death with a swipe of its hand, gliding and circling and biding its time.
No one would make it to them, but Razik was running with the rest of the warriors, unsure of when or how Cethin had moved from his side.
They were all shouting. Some were panicked cries; others were defiant bellows. Razik didn’t make a sound. He was too focused, too concentrated on not falling to the ground in exhaustion.
Cethin lifted his sword, blocking another strike.
The sound of metal on metal mixed with battle cries.
Then the being feinted so quickly, even Razik missed the move.
The being’s hand shot out, and the translucent creature somehow gripped Cethin’s forearm, twisting sharply and forcing him to drop his weapon.
None of it seemed possible. How could a transparent being grip something corporeal? It didn’t make any sense.
The one thing that became clear was that none of them were going to be able to stop the death of the king.
“Blood of death,” the creature hissed again, and Razik could swear its mouth tipped into a smile.
A swirl of smoke and ashes appeared in the midst of everything, and before Razik could comprehend what he was seeing, two arrows were flying through the air.
Whoever had shot them was gone in the next blink.
Cethin’s back was to the newcomer, but he somehow knew to move, lurching to the side the moment before an arrow would have embedded in his back.
His hand snapped up, catching the second arrow, while the first one struck the being.
And stuck.
The shaft protruded from the being’s chest. He released Cethin, stumbling back. Its perfect features were twisted into rage as his eyes flared brightly.
“Your kind is not supposed to be here,” he hissed, yanking the arrow free. It drifted away, becoming the same wispy light that he was. Except for the arrowhead. That fell to the ground, and the being scrambled away from it.
It tipped its head back, releasing a final wail of rage as white wisps poured out of its mouth before the entire being faded into the darkness, leaving black ashes and what appeared to be faint embers behind.
Cethin still held the other arrow, spinning and searching for the one who’d nearly injured him but also saved him.
There was another swirl of smoke, and a female stood among the destruction.
Her bow still held in one hand, she stooped and swiped up the arrowhead.
Razik had seconds to take her in. Hair as black as night.
She was on the shorter side, and her black dress had deep slits up both sides that reached to her hips and revealed the brown skin of her thighs.
Another swirl of smoke and ashes, and she was gone.
Razik stalked forward. Or he tried to. It was probably more akin to a limp, but he didn’t want to think about that. The others followed, Cethin and Tybalt stopping on either side of him, all of them staring at the same thing.
A single pair of ashy footprints.
The female had been barefoot.
“An Ash Rider?” Cethin asked, twirling the other arrow between his fingers.
Razik didn’t have it in him to answer. Or to care, for that matter.
“Jarek?” he rasped out.
He heard the Cadre member move before he felt him behind him. “What do you need, Razik?”
“Take me to Wren. And someone grab Valric’s body.”
A hand landed on his shoulder. His duty was done.
Cethin was out of harm’s way, and one of the others would see that he made it back to the castle.
He thanked the Fates when he felt the familiar tug at his navel before he was pulled through a rip in the air.
Jarek landed them outside his quarters, and Razik pushed the door to his rooms open.
Then he was thanking whatever god was responsible for Wren being there and not in a hundred other places she could have been.
Her navy blue eyes went wide, and she lurched to her feet. Tea spilled all over the floor as she rushed to him.
“By the gods, Razik. What happened?” she cried.
Razik didn’t answer. He grabbed her arm and forced himself to pull a dagger from where it was sheathed at his hip, rather than simply sink his canine teeth into her flesh.
When his reserves were completely empty, knowing he could simply take her blood and have instant relief was so godsdamn tempting…
“I’ve got it,” Wren said gently, taking the dagger from his hand. Her movements were slow, as if trying not to startle or provoke him.
He hadn’t realized he’d stilled. The struggle must have been evident in his features. Wren had been his Source for years now. They knew one another’s tells.
She slid the blade across the back of her right hand, directly over the black Source Mark.
Then she turned his hand over, gliding the blade through the flesh of his palm.
The scent of her blood hit him a second later, and he lost any control.
He grabbed her hand while shoving her back and back and back until she was against the wall.
His next inhale was stuttered as he reached for her power, yanking and taking.
He heard her gasp, but he couldn’t register it.
All he could comprehend was that she could give him back his power, his dragon, all that he was, and he was going to take it.
“You’ll be okay, Razik,” she murmured, the words sounding pained as he pulled more and more magic from her.
Of course he’d be okay. He was always okay. He’d learned long ago how to be okay.
Several minutes passed before the power-depletion craze started to lift. It was then he realized he was holding Wren up where she’d sagged against him.
“Godsdammit,” he muttered, scooping her into his arms.
Because that was where the power lay. It was in her blood, and it was how Avonleyans originally restored their powers.
They drank blood from the Fae. The problem was Avonleyans became greedy fools.
They abused the gift from the gods, forcing Fae to be their sources of power rather than the give-and-take that it was meant to be.
It had upset a balance, and Arius, the god of endings and death, had cursed them for it.
If an Avonleyan took too much, became addicted and abused the Fae, they became enslaved to the bloodlust themselves.
Their power was taken from them, and they became a Night Child.
The mortals referred to them as vampyres.
Instead, an Avonleyan could take a Source, forming an unbreakable bond between them and a Fae. Only death could sever the bond, and it restored what was always meant to be. The Fae gave their own power to restore the Avonleyan’s, and in return, they were offered protection.
Razik forced himself to pull his hand from Wren’s, breaking their connection.
His reserves weren’t even half full, but he’d taken nearly everything she had already.
He was one of the most powerful Avonleyans in the realm, and while Wren wasn’t weak by any means, there were far more powerful Fae out there.
Normally, an Avonleyan and a Fae would be a match of some kind in terms of power, but seeing as there weren’t many Fae left in Avonleya, they’d had little choice.
But he’d taken enough to be able to Travel. His dragon was once more stirring in his soul, waking back up from its forced slumber. He would never stay in the castle when he was so vulnerable. It wasn’t even a question.
So he stepped through the air to the one place that felt like home. The one place that was his and his alone. A place only two other people knew about. The only place he ever felt safe.
Wren had passed out the moment he’d lifted her off her feet, exhausted from giving him everything she had.
He lowered her to the bed, a mess of blankets and pillows atop a plush mattress on the floor.
Pulling his tunic over his head, he toed off his boots before removing his pants as well.
He burned it all, and then burned the ashes, not wanting to remember a single moment of today’s events.
When he was done, he pulled on a pair of loose linen pants and crawled onto the bed beside Wren.
She slept, and he propped a hand behind his head.
He may not want to remember today, but he did want to know what they’d fought against. There had to be a book with the information somewhere. He’d find it.
Tomorrow.
He’d find it tomorrow.