Lore stood behind his terrified mate, calming her and giving her his strength as she eased into what she had to do. While he had aided Echo during her lessons to learn how to summon her abilities, Nia was so new to everything, and he hadn’t had the time to help her. But he would, as soon as all this was over.
He lost their mind connection. She shut him out, caught in the spell of the invocation with her siblings.
He stepped back, giving her space.
Their combined powers created a forcefield, a flurry of colors as it rose up into the air and moved.
“Repeat the Enochian verse I told you,” Michael said, reciting each line again.
And they chanted it, Nia and Echo stumbling over the unfamiliar language.
“Ge geh a revered trinity.
nothing trian stop ge, nalvage ge.
ge geh pyre od rime, bransg c tol ar i.
ds g sowed trian unravel. Od ar t shall noan.”
The power of the words swirled around Lore.
Michael had called them the Trinity, a term Lore had encountered recently while reading through the tome of the Watchers in the celestial archives. Most of the text after it had been blanked out. Now he knew why.
Their powers built. He glanced outside. The warriors still fought, bleeding from vicious wounds. His jaw clenched at the injustice of it all.
“Won’t they sense the chants?” he asked Michael. “They could attack the castle.”
“No. The grounds have become consecrated. And the chant conceals the trio. Together, their combined powers grow stronger. After all, they are the lost Trinity.”
The Trinity.
The sacred three who could wipe out the Celestial Realm?
It wasn’t just him they wanted but the Trinity. That answered the many questions Lore had.
The supercilious idiots!
“They can control the Celestial Realm if they so choose,” Michael said.
Indeed.
“I’m going outside.” If the Guardians persevered in their wounded state, he would, too—healed or not—because his mate’s life was on the line.
“Summon your Gaian sword inked on your biceps,” Michael called out.
Lore nodded. Michael would guard them all with his life.
With one last glance at his trancelike mate, whose eyes were shut, Lore sprinted out of the room and into the next one.
With a thought, he summoned the mystical weapon as he moved. It appeared in a swirling gray smoke, an enormous obsidian sword settling in his palm. A glimmer streaked through it.
Lore dashed for the French doors, flexing his throbbing shoulder blades. Searing hot pain tore through them, stealing his breath, and he staggered a step.
“Not now,” he grunted. “Later, you can knock me the hell out. Damn wretched wounds!” He had to decimate this lot who sought to come after them.
As he reached the door, agony floored him. Breathing hard, he grabbed the handle?—
The metal melted under his grip.
