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. Shehidher 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 therirzedcould 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.
18
DINA
Ilie on the cold, smooth stone of the altar, a willing sacrifice. My heart is a heavy, aching thing in my chest, but my resolve is a shield against the fear. The air in the cavern hums around me, a sweet, melodic thrum of pure magic. The silver-blue light from the water below casts shifting, beautiful patterns on the high, crystalline ceiling. It is a beautiful place to die. A part of me, the part that has only ever known servitude and pain, is grateful for this small, final mercy. I close my eyes and think of Xylon, of his face when he is whole and healed and free. That is the image I will take with me into Kasian’s promised peace.
Kasian stands over me, a figure of midnight and sorrow. He raises his pale, elegant hands. “Be at peace, child,” he whispers, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “Your gift will bring an end to great suffering.”
He begins to chant.
The change is instantaneous. The gentle, melodic hum of the cavern sharpens, rising in pitch to a high, electric crackle. The soft, silver-blue light intensifies, becoming a blinding, brilliant white that shines through my closed eyelids. The air grows thick and heavy, chaining me down like metal, making it hard tobreathe. This is not the gentle, soothing magic I expected. This is a raw, demanding, and hungry power.
Kasian’s voice, once a soft whisper, transforms. It becomes a resonant, powerful boom that seems to shake the very foundations of the cavern. He is not pleading with the Wildspont. He is commanding it. I do not understand the ancient, guttural words of his incantation, but I understand intent. The words he speaks are not of healing or release. They are harsh, angular sounds of binding, of pulling, of forcing. They are words of exchange. A cold seed of doubt begins to sprout in the pit of my stomach.
A shimmering in the air above me makes me open my eyes. The brilliant white light is coalescing, weaving itself into threads, forming a shape. The shape of a person. A woman. She is beautiful, with long, flowing hair and a face of heartbreaking sadness, but her form is translucent, ethereal. A ghost. Is this Kasian’s lost love? Lyra?
My doubt blossoms into full-blown, ice-cold fear. This is wrong. All of this is wrong. Why is she here? The ritual is for Xylon. To heal him.
I turn my head, my gaze snapping to Kasian. The mask of weary, tragic grief has vanished from his face. It has been utterly consumed by a raw, obsessive hunger that is terrifying to behold. His black, bottomless eyes are not on me, not on the glowing font. They are fixed on the ghostly image of the woman above me, and the look on his face is that of a starving man who has not seen food in a thousand years. It is a look of pure, selfish, all-consuming need.
