With a sound like the sky tearing apart, the Wildspont erupts. A massive, uncontrolled wave of pure, incandescent magic surges outward from the central pool, a tidal wave of raw, unmaking power.
And it is surging directly toward Xylon.
21
DINA
The world is light and sound and terror. The Wildspont, a place of serene, humming beauty only moments ago, has become the heart of a raging, incandescent storm. The wave of pure, untamed magic erupts from its core, a tidal wave of white-hot power that boils the luminous water and shakes the very cavern to its foundations.
And it is hurtling directly toward Xylon.
He stands on the obsidian island, wounded and exhausted, his back to the approaching cataclysm. He is still watching the spot where Kasian dissolved into light, unaware of the new, more terrible danger.
“Xylon!” The name is torn from my throat, a raw, helpless scream. I scramble from the altar, my legs unsteady, my body still trembling with the phantom feeling of Kasian’s magical bindings. I try to run to him, to throw myself in front of him, to dosomething—a foolish, futile gesture, a moth trying to shield a flame from a hurricane.
I am too slow. The magic is too fast.
The wave hits him.
I scream again, a sound of pure, soul-deep anguish, squeezing my eyes shut, unable to watch him be unmade, to be dissolved into nothing but a memory and a flash of light like the Vrakken.
But there is no sound of obliteration. There is no final, dying roar. There is only a new sound, a sound so full of agony it is almost impossible to bear. It is a scream that is half a beast’s roar and half a man’s cry of torment, a symphony of absolute, all-consuming pain.
My eyes fly open.
The light has not destroyed him. It hasenvelopedhim. He is a silhouette at the heart of a miniature, blazing sun, his entire ten-foot frame encased in the Wildspont’s furious, unmaking power. The light clings to him, sinking into him, and his monstrous body begins to convulse, to twist, to break.
I can only watch, frozen in a state of pure, horrified awe. The sound of his agony is a physical blow, but I cannot look away. This is a sacred, terrible thing, a violent birth or a violent death, and I am its only witness.
His bones begin to crack, loud, sharp sounds that echo through the cavern like a volley of gunfire. His massive, ten-foot frame, the body of a giant, begins to collapse inward. It is not a gentle shrinking; it is a brutal, violent compression, as if an unseen god has wrapped its fist around him and is squeezing. His back arches, a silent scream of torment etched onto his monstrous features as his very skeleton is broken and remade.
The twisted, corrupted muscles that cover his body writhe and contort, sloughing away like clay being stripped from a statue. The sickly grey-green hide shimmers, its diseased color burning away to be replaced by a healthy, vibrant olive-green, steam rising from his skin as if from a forge.
The transformation moves to his face. The brutish, heavy brow recedes. The flattened nose lengthens, straightening intoa strong, noble line. The jutting, monstrous jaw reshapes, becoming a thing of sharp, handsome angles. His tusks remain, but they are smaller now, a clean, sharp white, a mark of heritage, not monstrosity. It is the face I saw for a fleeting, impossible instant in the cave behind the waterfall. The face of the man. The face of the Orc he was born to be.
The light holds him for a final, breathtaking moment, and then, with a sound like a great, collective exhalation, it recedes, flowing back into the Wildspont, its fury spent.
The cavern is plunged into a sudden, echoing silence, broken only by the gentle sound of the waterfalls. The brilliant, violent light is gone, replaced once more by the soft, silver-blue glow of the cavern at peace.
Where the ten-foot monster had stood, and orc lies collapsed on the obsidian stone, naked and whole, steam coiling from his powerful, olive-skinned body.
He is not moving.
My breath catches in my throat, a painful, hitching thing. Is he… is he alive? The hope is so fierce, so terrifying, it feels like a second death. Tears I didn’t know I was crying stream down my face, blurring my vision. I take a single, hesitant step forward, then another, my legs shaking so badly I can barely stand. I stumble across the shallow, glowing water that separates me from the island, my worn slippers soaking through, the magical warmth of the font a strange contrast to the ice in my veins.
I reach the edge of the obsidian altar and fall to my knees beside him. He is real. A tall, powerfully built Orc warrior, his body a landscape of corded muscle and old, faded scars. His black hair is plastered to his scalp, slick with water and sweat. He is beautiful. He is everything I knew was hidden beneath the pain and the rage.
“Xylon?” I whisper, my voice a broken, trembling thing. I reach out a shaking hand, hesitating just before I touch his shoulder.
His eyes flutter open.
They are not the burning red embers of the beast. They are the darkest brown I have ever seen, sharp, intelligent, and filled with a clear, undeniable light. They scan the cavern for a moment, taking in the glowing water, the crystals, a flicker of confusion in their depths.
And then, they find me.
His eyes focus on my face, and the confusion melts away, replaced by a look of pure, breathtaking recognition. An expression of such profound, soul-deep love that it steals the very breath from my lungs.
He opens his mouth, and for the very first time, he speaks in a voice that is not a growl or a roar, but a clear, deep, rumbling baritone that vibrates through the very stone beneath us. He speaks the one word that changes everything.
