A horrifying, realm-rending shriek tears through the woods, the dark creature behind me giving chase without hesitation. The ominous creak of rotting wood follows me into the night, and I flinch at every sharp snap of a broken branch. I don’t look back. I don’t have time. Right hand blackened with blood and ichor, clutching the wounds across my ribcage, I’m desperate to get back to Sophrosyne before bleeding out.
This time, Kieran isn’t here to save me.
My head feels heavy, too heavy to hold above my shoulders. My vision blurs, and I can hear the snarls closing in. The Leshy is gaining on me, and I have no idea how much further I need to run if I hope to survive. The acrid scent of the daemon’s torn flesh beneath bark and bone burns my nostrils, so intense that I can taste it on my tongue.
It may be delusion or wishful thinking, but I swear I can see the faintest bit of light shimmering through a clearing in the distance.
Keep running, Arken. Run, and find me.
Kieran isn’t here, but the memory of his words spurs me forward. I should have been smarter—should have run from the start, but?—
My foot catches on the gnarled root of a giant oak, and I stumble. With poison seeping into my wounds, my limbs become sluggish, far too heavy to react as I fall. When the dead weight of my body crashes to the ground, I want to cry out in pain, but all that escapes me is a pathetic whimper. The slashes at my side scream in agony, the torn flesh already necrotizing, the blood and ichor now mixing with wet soil and debris from the forest floor.
Fuck.
Before I can scramble to my feet, the Leshy is looming over me, faceless and foreboding.
I shouldn’t. This close to Sophrosyne, I really shouldn’t. But I don’t want to die today, and flight gives way to the only option I’ve got left:
Fight.
Gritting my teeth, I draw in as much aether as possible from my surroundings; the air, the mist, the earth—even the dark Shadows emanating from the daemon itself. I pull in so much power, so much raw arcane energy that I feel unstable, like I could burst at the seams at any moment.
I’m out of time. I only have one chance to take this thing out before I’m left fully depleted and defenseless. With a roaring bellow of pain and rage, pure aether bursts from my palms. Not Light, not Shadow, not Fire—but a white-hot, burning stream of quicksilver heads straight for the Leshy’s heart.
The daemon dodges, just in time.
My heart sinks with the horrifying realization that I’m about to die…
And then a blinding burst of Light aether illuminates the clearing, and a tall, slender, elegant woman with cornsilk hair strides into view. With her pale porcelain complexion and striking eyes the color of summer seas, she looks vaguely familiar. Not as if we’d met before, but almost like…I’ve seen her portrait somewhere.
As Light crawls up her arms like an arcane glove, I gasp.
That’s Theia fucking Frey.
Why was the High Scholar of Light, the Lady of the House of Light and Shadow—and Sienna’s stepmother—here in the woods? How did she know I was here?
Though the skies were previously crystal clear, a dark cloud now forms overhead as Lady Frey recites some sort of incantation. Her eyes glow just before she makes a fluid somatic gesture above her head, and a bolt of lightning—Light aether in its most chaotic form—strikes the Leshy’s torso, and the beast burns so quickly it is reduced to ash within a single breath.
A sigh of relief escapes me, despite the pain and the poison.
“The beast has been subdued!” Lady Frey calls over her shoulder. She keeps her blazing turquoise gaze affixed to me, but the words were clearly meant for others.
Subdued? Fucking Fates, it’s been obliterated.
“We have her cornered now.”
My heavy head is swimming with sea-sick confusion until one by one, they arrive at the clearing.
The Aetherborne. All nineteen of them. The elegant immortals move in silent grace, encircling Lady Frey and I with their ominous and otherworldly presence.
Naturally, it is Elura who speaks first.
“Very well done, my Lady of Light. You may take your leave now.” Her words are soft and lyrical, but those wicked fangs glint in the moonlight.
Lady Frey nods once and does not spare me a second glance before departing, her work here done.
The Speaker takes a slow, methodical stride toward me, the length of her silver-white hair fluttering in the breeze.