Drothiker
47.

Ire burned in her eyes.

Azryle felt—more than saw—the sand rising around them as cold wind poured from Alpenstride, building a dangerous tornado circling them.

But he didn’t let go of the bond yet, even as his legs threatened to buckle at the power gushing through him. It would take only an intent—only a brief thought and he could take down the world with it.

“Rene,” croaked someone behind him, weakly.

Alpenstride’s gaze snapped to the voice—and the hatred only grew in her eyes, molded her features. She bared her slightly sharpened teeth in a silent, vicious snarl and lightning crackled in her other hand.

The woman’s voice was shaking. “Rene, please, listen to me.” The plea, and the desperation too obvious. The voice was thick … with tears. “I don’t have much time—Felset can’t tread anywhere near you with your mejest twined, now and here is the only once I can tell you this.” A sob. “I need you to listen. Please.”

Azryle recognized the voice then—so human, so utterly weak …

Deisn Rainfang. His mejest went on alert, senses sharpened. He looked over his shoulder.

And his mouth went dry.

Gone was the darkness from her eyes, her surroundings. Her body was gaunt—skin seemed to be clinging to her bones. Her shoulders slumped, skin dark beneath her eyes. Golden-brown from her hair seemed to be fading. She looked as if she’d just resurrected from a grave—as if that darkness had been her life.

The darkness that was now looping the other sorceress—Faolin Wisflave still stood like a monument. Her eyes a starless night sky.

The crackling in Syrene’s free hand only intensified, wind around them grew stronger. The duce lifted her hand to hurl the lightning but—

Rainfang hurriedly declared, “Prime Raocete and your faerie are safe.”

Alpenstride paused.

More tears spilled from the sorceress’ eyes, but her face remained unmoved. And as she spoke, Azryle felt each word like a jab to his gut. “Syrene, listen to me. You need to run, as far from her as you can. Felset is not who you think she is—she is not of this world at all. Felset was the one leading that enemy army in the Jagged Battle, she forged Drighrem to terminate all hemvae, but the King of Hemvae managed to thwart her somehow, and used Drighrem to seal her portal.” She shook her head, eyes shut tight. “The point is, she would do anything, cross any limits to have Drighrem back—to have you back. Collect the Kaerions, let them do what they must—”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?” hissed Alpenstride, but she could not hide the tearing in herself Azryle felt down the bond, the shock and fear in her scent.

“She’s creating things,” Rainfang went on. “She—she …”

She squeezed her eyes shut again, aggressively shook her head, as if to shuck off some invisible insect, and grunted. When she opened her eyes, the veins in them had turned black. Lilac eyes like dark gems.

Rainfang blinked harshly. This time, the eyes returned to normal. She lifted her hand, and the fog that coiled it wasn’t lilac—but darker than anything Azryle had ever seen.

Her eyes—hopeless and dead—lifted to Alpenstride, who was glaring wide-eyed at the fog. “She’s creating things like me, Syrene. If she got Drothiker … if she seized your power—”

Rainfang advanced another step; the wind grew tougher in reply, in confrontation. The sorceress stopped short, her bony hands shot up—Azryle didn’t fail to notice the disappointment and the regret and the self-loathing Syrene’s reaction caused.

“You can kill her,” Rainfang trudged on, “with that power … you can end her. But if she got a hold of you, she will be your wielder. But—but you can do that, Syrene. I believe you can kill her—”

“When,” Syrene whispered. For once, her face unreadable.

She didn’t have to elaborate, because the sorceress’ face grew hard—went still. “Always. You never met me, but this … this thing inside me. I met you, Rene. I watched you every day from … from wherever I was in this body. I fought—I promise, I fought the darkness, tried to reap tiny bit of control to tell you, to just meet you once. Me, not the darkness Felset was governing. But I failed every time. I’m sorry, for every foul thing that came out of my mouth, I’m sorry for your brother—your mother.” Every next word thicker, heavier than the last. She rubbed at her tears. “Run from here … train the power. Please—”

Rainfang’s legs visibly buckled before she dropped to the ground, dark in her eyes shuttered, as if fighting to return and seize control.

Alpenstride slid her hand from Azryle’s and lunged for the sorceress, swept to the ground before her. Azryle took a step back.

Alpenstride’s hand lifted to the sorceress’ cheek, tears mustered in her eyes. “Deisn.”

The sorceress nodded, lips thinned, wobbling.

Their foreheads met, hair gusting in the wind.

Alpenstride’s thumb rubbed the tears off Rainfang’s cheek. “What do you think brought me to you, to be your friend, Deisn? I don’t think it was the desperation to have a friend, but the robust will I saw in your eyes, the fighting. I’d known you, even when we didn’t really meet. I’d known and loved you—not that darkness.” A pause. “You fought—you fought and you survived, that’s what matters—”

“No,” Rainfang whispered and withdrew her forehead from Syrene’s. She lifted to her feet. “I’ll buy you time—my work is not done.” She smiled weakly. “Bury me in a forest where sounds never cease.”

“Deisn—” Alpenstride started, voice cracking.

But the darkness was already seeping from the sorceress, towering her, her eyes leached of color once again and she tipped her head back, arms open wide.

The golden-brown of her hair inked stygian dark, including the nails and veins beneath her skin.

Dark fluid and fog flowed from her mouth, and the world seemed to have shuddered in its wake; the darkness around her spread in a gigantic wave that had Azryle losing his footing and lurching a step back.

Syrene screamed her friend’s name, but it was drowned by Deisn’s own painful cry that seemed to have rattled Azryle’s bones.

Dark shed the city—the world—dawn was concealed by it.

Night—it felt like they’d leapt into night.

A black storm tucked Rainfang inside itself. Began at her feet, soared up until it pierced the sky. Alpenstride was clawing at the sand to keep herself from being snatched away—Vurian Alpenstride and the woman with him were in a similar progress. Azryle kept himself balanced with all his training of three centuries, and hurled his mejest gripping Syrene’s cousin and her friend with him.

Alpenstride was weeping and mouthing, “Deisn, please …” Though he could not hear her voice over the noise stabbing his ears.

The darkness returned to the sorceress in the same forceful wave—this time, Azryle braced himself enough to keep his feet intact.

The storm fell.

But all that had remained of Deisn Rainfang were her raining ashes, as if she’d been burned inside out.

Quiet fell. The world seemed to stop. When Azryle shut his eyes, and focused on the surroundings, he realized then—what the sorceress had done, what she’d used her dark power in.

The ground had paused shaking.

Distant ripping of ground had ceased.

She’d bought Alpenstride time—paused Ianov’s destruction.

Deisn Rainfang saved the whole planet. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

With a jolt, Azryle felt something stirring in himself, clouding all his senses. He only caught a glimpse of Alpenstride weakly lifting to her feet before he felt darkness seizing him tight enough for his bones to bend.

The last Azryle remembered was tumbling.

Sᴇarch the FindNovel.net website on G𝘰𝘰gle to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.