From his power!
In contrast to Vulre who lay stunned in a crumpled heap on the ground–he would have been dead but for casting a shield and the enchantment on his armor–Rahven landed lightly on his feet. The purple electricity crackled over his arms and wrapped around his chest in an almost embrace. He stared at it in wonder.
Then he heard another cracking sound from overhead.
His head snapped up just in time as he saw one of the Venomthorn’s towers nearest the lake crumble and slide into the dark water. The rumble continued for some time after the tower had disappeared from view. Waves from its passage slammed against the base of the Venomthorn and spray leaped to where Rahven still stood.
He’d done that!
He’d cracked the thick walls of the Venomthorn as if they were porcelain plates slammed into the ground. He spared a moment to remind himself that no one was in the tower–no one was in the Venomthorn at all–as the other students and teachers had gone on wilderness training. A training he had not been allowed to go on, because he had no magic. Had no magic. So no one had been hurt by his magic exploding out of him.
Then he heard a moan.
Correction, only one person had been injured.
He whipped around towards Vulre, rising up on the balls of his feet. The purple lightning crackled around him like a live thing. A cloak of magic. That’s what it was. He was surrounded by it. Enveloped by it. Embraced by it.
Loved by it.
Vulre’s red eyes slowly opened. His pupils were pinpricks. Blood streamed down his neck from the back of his head. His sword was several feet from him, snapped in two. Rahven reached for it and the hilt with the broken blade flew to his hand.
He laughed.
So easy!
So effortless!
Magic was his to command! It would protect him. It would defend him. It would strike his enemies down.
Is this what Vex felt when his magic Awakened? Rahven thought.
And, for a moment, after he thought the Night King’s name, he believed he heard a simple, Yes.
He stood there. Head cocked to the side. Listening. Had it been the same voice as the one urging him to let go? It sounded like it was. But more–and less–definite at the same time. Tentative as if the speaker wasn’t sure he was hearing a question.
Does he deserve death? The voice was suddenly much clearer. Crisp.
Rahven stared at Vulre’s crumpled form. He was moving sluggishly and uncertainly. Unfocused and confused. Likely from the head injury. It was bad.
He would have killed me, Rahven found himself answering.
Would? Or… will? The voice asked pointedly.
The magic surged around him. Crackling. Sparking. Spitting. Snapping.
Will. She’s not here to stop him. And I’ve defeated him twice, Rahven answered with cold satisfaction.
If he lives you have not defeated him at all, the voice scoffed.
Those other fights were not to the death! Rahven disputed.
That is where you are wrong, the voice was so cold. Every fight is to the death or you risk your enemy regrouping and taking everything from you. Will you let him take everything from you, Rahven?
Rahven’s lips parted. It was the first time the voice had spoken his name. And he realized something else. This voice was not his own. Not some part of his consciousness that fought against the indignities of being jadir, of being a Null, of being bloodless, friendless, loveless, powerless.
I have nothing to lose, Rahven finally answered.
The voice chuckled. You are alive against all odds. How much is that worth to you?
