Cenviri sets a silver-capped finger fashioned with a sharp talon to his bared left arm. And he begins to carve. Chanting low in Malbolge. I don’t need to hear the words, they’re lost to the cries of the dead, but the darkened sting of blood magic cuts into me like razors and I resist the urge to recoil.
Were my heart beating, it would have stopped in surprise.
Blood magic has neverhurt.
This has to be because ofher—because ofAether.
I don’t have time to focus on it. I’ll figure it out later. Right now, Cenviri needs time. Time to complete the ritual to return us to the living realm.
“Send Ves first!” Ryc shouts over the chaos.
Cenviri’s eyes dart from his rune-carved arm to Ryc to me, while continuing in his rhythmic chant. The talon moves in a swift slide to another rune and dances against his flesh.
“No!” I argue, not caring how cold or desperate I sound. “Send us all at once. Do not listen to him!”
My life isn’t the only that matters.
Not here.
My head whirls, finding Ryc onceagain.
But his attention is focused elsewhere. Somewhere beyond the burning ward. Tracing his stare, I find a different pair of eyes. Glowing red pierces through me from beneath a dark hood—not a wraith.
A Death Knight.
With a deliberate, slow movement, the damned soul lifts a black-bladed dagger. Wraiths swarm around him, pressing themselves against the black flame and scream. The creature presses the point against the ward—
“Ryc!” His name leaves my throat bloodied. “Move!”
But it’s too late.
The black flames freeze, growing still and take on a glass-like shine. The ward splinters under the point of the dagger, crystalline webbing races across the surface, and the wardshatters.
A burst of expelled magic slams into my chest and I’m thrown backward, my lower spine meeting the altar. Several Generals are hurled to the ground and for a moment, the screams of the dead grow silent in astonished delight.
Their screams are replaced by a loud ringing in my ears—whether from the pain or the magic, I can’t tell.
Glass striking stone consumes the silence as jagged shards rain from above and the screaming of the wraiths returns. Pieces lodge, slice, and pierce themselves into the Wraths as they surge forth. They’re trampled by those behind as waves of the creatures swarm toward the altar.
Many fall.
Without hesitation, Ryc, Eve, Cyran, and thirteen Generals turn their bloodstone blades, innates, and blood magic upon the dead.
Grimacing against the cutting pain of binding spells, compulsion chants, and siphoning songs, I brace myself against the altar. The first of many crimson-flamed vortexes burst around the tightening defensive circle as black blades find the flesh of their targets. Within seconds, the darkened gray of the veil takes on a resolute red hue.
Fevered by panic, I reach for my innate.
Anunwaveringandlimitlesscold depth reaches back and yanks me into its cistern.
It’s going to drown me.
Massive, silver-thorned vines shoot heavenward, sprouting along the perimeter of the fallen ward. The thorns between them grow and stretch, becoming needle-like blades, entrapping dozens of screaming wraiths. Now severed from the throngs of swarming dead, focus can return to the wraiths trapped inside.
As I struggle to control the thunderous vibration in my chest, the Death Knight begins pulling himself from the silver thorns embedded in his flesh. The skin crawling screech of metal sliding against metal rings through the space as he pulls himself free with a final step. With a quick pitch, he retrieves his dagger from the floor and turns to me, exposing the nature of his ancient, armored chest.
A gaping, fist-sized hole sits where his heart should.
Staring at me, he flips the dagger, catching it by its point.
