But he didn’t cease the spell.
In fact, despite his entire body beginning to tremble, he marched onward, his tone becoming more vehement.
His amethyst eyes transformed to flaming amber, the pupils fading behind it, as he entered the Death Sense state.
His skill was beyond what I’d even imagined for somebody who’d shied away from further training. What he was demonstrating here was instinctive expertise and incredible talent. Even as his hand shuddered, even as he struggled, he maintained absolute control. That was essentially unheard of for most magic-wielders in any significant distress.
I couldn’t quite believe it.
The depth of his fear toward what he could become… in this moment it was clearer than ever just how dearly that had cost him. His potential couldn’t quite be quantified. It might not actually be able to ever be.
This wasn’t him being the son of Sylas Morgrave, nor the son of Velra Nox, nor even the son of Lazriel Thaine or Cassius Ashmoor—this was all Winter.
Hispower.
Hisexpertise.
His alone.
It didn’t take observing mammoth expulsions of magic to identify this sort of thing. It was in moments like this, the invocation of precise, complex spellwork that was the true determinant of vast—or unlimited—potential. And at his age, it was even more remarkable.
I had been training since I was a young boy and I hadn’t stopped like he had with his necromantic side. I was six years his senior, yet his expertise was beyond mine.
“Extraordinary,” I breathed in wonder.
Unfortunately, that wonder morphed to a great deal of worry as he suddenly thrust his free hand at the container, his fist shattering it with one mighty hit.
“What are you doing?” I called over.
“I can’t… track it. It’s not working. Too much… resistance. It won’t allow me to without… making contact.”
“Winter, no! We can’t be certain that—”
It was too late.
The tendrils shot forward, lunging at him, then wrapping around his hand that was live with his necromantic power.
“Shadows!” I reminded him.
In the next moment, he called them forth with his left hand, sweeping that aspect of his Wraith abilities around himself—but not using them to dispel the attack as I’d hoped.
Instead, he was using them to contain the tendrils with himself.
So they couldn’t escape.
So I couldn’t stop him.
Curses!He knew I couldn’t do so without hurting him.
“I need… toknow,” he gritted out to me. “This can’t… continue. This… weakness… this glitching. I can’t… be this way.”
I grimaced as I watched the tendrils burning into his flesh, even as his necromantic power flared around the site.
I realized then that he wasn’t using it to hold them off, to stop them. He was holding that poison to him while he made a connection through physical touch.
I started forward.
The idea of hurting him made me absolutely sick to my stomach. However, if this continued on, slight hurt would be the least of it.
