The realization slams into me with more force than his tackle. No. Oh, gods, no. Threk, NO.
He is doing what I was trying to do.
He is giving his life.
"Threk!" I scream, my voice a muffled, useless thing crushed against his chest.
I feel it.
A searing, unimaginable heat burns through his back, through his body, and into mine. A scream is ripped from his throat, an agonized, unearthly sound that vibrates through my bones, my teeth.
At the exact same instant, the Wildspont behind us screams too.
The overloading magic erupts, not as light, but as a tidal wave of pure, white, shrieking energy.
Larda's black magic and the Wildspont's white light collide. They meet on his back, using his sacrificing, noble, stupid body as their battleground.
I am blinded by the light, deafened by the sound, crushed by the love of this monster.
The world doesn't just explode.
It ends.
27
THREK
My world is her face.
She is frozen, her blue eyes wide with a horror that is not for herself, but for me. Her lips are parted, my name a silent, broken word.
I see Larda. I see the black, swirling void of death gathering in his hand, a vortex of pure, personal hatred. He is not aiming at me. He is aiming at her.
I see the Wildspont, the white fire of the overloaded magic, screaming and unraveling behind us.
A black death in front of her. A white death behind her.
And I am in the middle.
There is no thought. There is no plan. There is no me anymore. There is only Betty. The elven magic inside me screams to run, to save the vessel, to protect itself. But the new, clear part of my mind, the part that is Threk, screams louder.
Protect. Mine.
It is the only command that has ever mattered.
I do not lunge at Larda. I lunge at her.
I am a blur of desperation, my wounded leg forgotten, my entire being focused on a single, final act. I slam into her, a livingshield of muscle and hide, crushing her small, warm body into the soft, glowing moss. I envelop her completely, tucking my head, curling my body, making myself a cage of flesh and bone to save her. I feel my muscles lock, bracing for the impact.
And then… agony.
It is not pain. Pain is a blade. This is unmaking.
Larda’s black, foul magic tears into my back. It is a thousand hot knives of pure hate that shred my flesh and boil my blood, a torment worse than the rituals that made me. At the exact same instant, the Wildspont explodes. The white, clean fire of the overloaded magic slams into my back from the other side, a tidal wave of pure, screaming energy.
I am the battleground.
I am caught between the hate of the dark elves and the purity of the world. I am burning and freezing at the same time.
