“I know, sweet child,” she murmured, “you must stop it from consuming you whole. Only you can control it.”
“How do I—”
Her head shook. “You must go back.” Her eyes grew heavy, lidded with a grief I couldn’t understand. “Your pain is not yet over and for that I am sorry. If I had know what my blessing would have meant for you, I’m not sure I—”
Her voice caught, face turning away.
“Go, and remember,” her voice grew stronger, her hand reaching for mine, “you have the gift of blessed shadow. Ichoseyou, Syra Lunatici. Never forget the power you wield.”
The warmth vanished. One moment it had been a sanctuary wrapping me in its embrace and the next torment flooded through my body once more, a scream of pain and terror lodging in my throat.
My body convulsed, agony lit through every nerve ending, every vein, as though the magic was attempting to purge itself from my blood. I rolled, cold stone biting through my tunic as I retched, but it wasn’t the contents of my stomach that came out, no. It was puredarkness, shadows spilling from between my lips, searching for any escape they could find.
Misery seized my body in violent convulsions, limbs jerking as though unseen hands were trying to rip me apart piece by piece. I rolled again, this time onto my side, but no matter how many times I wretched, no bile came.
Only darkness. The shadows poured from my mouth in thick, writhing ribbons. They spilled across the cracked stone like living ink, searching and desperate to be free.
It was too much.
Far too much. I couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop the magic as it took and took. The shadows clawed their way through my veins and hollowed me from the inside out.
I choked on a sob.
Gilded in gold plates,
hearts filled with hate,
they stalk through the forest.
Hurry, child
before it is too late.
Their voices screeched through my hazy mind, my head pounding.
I dragged myself toward the ruined entrance, nails splitting against stone as I clawed my way to the temple steps. Moonlight spilled through the broken archway, painting the bloodied smears of my fingertips in silver.
I needed help.
Needed—
A sharp burst of pain tore through me again, a scream ripping from my throat as my body collapsed against the threshold. I pressed my forehead to the cold stone as I panted through the torture. The shadows continued to spill—from my lips, from my fingertips, from the pores of my Goddess-cursed body.
Freeeeee.
The shadows sang, slithering down the crumbling steps and flowing like spilled ink across the pure snow.
“Syra!”
Relief struck so sharply in my chest it almost hurt. My head snapped up just as he burst from the treeline and into the clearing of the ruined temple, his fathers sword drawn. His chest heaved, panic etched into his features.
Bran.
Bran would help, he always did. Always knew what I needed.
The relief was quickly drowned as he raced closer, the blood splattered across his face and streaking his sword coming into focus.
Blood.
