In the corner of my eye, I spot another Phovus slip down the side of a tree. In a heartbeat, the creature descends upon me.
My legs buckle and I hit the ground with a thud.
“Fuck,” I yell, and a jolt of pain shoots up my spine, fuzzing my mind along with the throbbing in my ankle. I shake my head, fighting through the dizziness, but every breath is a constriction around my ribs.
My eyes widen as I kick my legs, watching as shadows pool from the creature’s body. A spiral of darkness breaks away from it, slithering up my leg like a serpent.
Drake’s yell reaches my ears seconds before his fist connects with the side of the Phovus’ head. As the world sharpens into focus, he moves swiftly to grasp its wings—its only vulnerability.
A shockwave thrums up my leg as I deliver a powerful blow with my boot to the creature’s face, the snap of its teeth cracking under my heel. I slide a hand up my skirt, then unsheathe the onyx dagger. The blade glides through its wing, and it emits a high-pitched screech.
I leap back, putting some distance between myself and the Phovus I kicked just in case it wakes up and resumes its attack.
The Phovus Drake is fighting morphs into a serpentine shape, winding itself around him in a death hold.
Tears run down my cheeks as Drake desperately gasps for air, his fingers clutching at the writhing form of the Phovus. Panic seizes me as the shadowy mass twists and turns, constricting him until bones snap.
I won’t die today. Drake will not die.
It starts as a deep rumble in my core. As the death magic seeps out of me, a bone-chilling coldness envelops me—the foul odor of decay and rot surrounding us.
The power slips through my skin like ink, blackening the ends of my fingers. I stare at them, horrified as I use them again, despite vowing that I would never do so.
Drake cries out, and I force away the shock, acting on instinct. The pain from my injuries dissolves as my power takes over.
Running my hands over the skin of the creature’s textured wing, I clutch it to my chest, digging my nails into the wing, releasing a primal roar. The creature squeals, its noise grating through me, as its wing disintegrates in my hands until it falls away into ash. Its eyes widen when it looks at me, and for a second, I glimpse the soul it once was as it lets out a horrified scream.
Winds whip through the graveyard from the forest, sweeping away parts of it as the rest of the creature turns to ash, until there is nothing left.
The second Phovus shifts, the mass of its body swirling like smoke, until it takes the form of a human man. High on adrenaline, I run at it, my fingers poised for its neck.
It should have killed me. It had the chance, but it is frozen in place, as if it is staring at a monster more terrifying than itself.
My brows furrow, but I can’t falter. Not even for a second.
My heart leaps as I throw myself at the Phovus, as if it’s trying to escape the deadly attempt I put us in. My blackened fingers grip the sides of its ribs, and I yell, all of my anguish concentrated into one scream. It struggles as its skin turns ashen, crumbling as it is incinerated within my fatal hold.
Tears run down my cheeks as it crumbles, the ash covering my arms and chest. When it stops screaming, I take my first proper breath, my lungs aching with each gasp. I gaze at the puddle of ash, melting under the rain, and I am reminded that it had once been a witch or warlock before its soul was cast into the Darklands and was forced to become this.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of the trance, and turn my focus to the third as it slips away from Drake. It stares at me for a few seconds, tilting its head with unnerving curiosity, before disappearing into the darkness.
The magic dissolves slowly, curling back into me like an unwelcome visitor. As if it knows the danger has passed. I grab the dagger from the ground, quickly sheathing it, then turn to Drake.
He lies on the ground, his body twitching much like mine had all those years ago after the Phovi attack. I run my hands down my rain-soaked face and press my lips tightly together. It is moments like this that I wish I had my sister’s powers to heal, although her magic is different to the other healers—it is beautiful. Unlike mine.
Finally, Drake’s bloodshot eyes fling open.
I lift him slightly, and he groans, wincing from the pain. As I look around, making sure no one has come upon hearing the commotion, I let out a tense breath. “I have to get you to Arabella. Stay with me, okay?”
I hate forcing him up, especially when I can see every breath and step is a labor. If we don’t move now, we’ll both be dead.
FIVEAzkiel
Birds flock from the trees as my shadows descend upon the Phovus, binding his smoky-black wings. The creature squirms, my shadows crumpling the delicate skin under the swirling darkness coating his entire body.
“Tell me again how they destroyed my statue.”
Rage takes the reins as I watch the Phovus panic, my eyes narrowing as he screeches, squirming in the contours of my magic, attempting to shift from his humanoid image to serpentine, so he may slither from my bonds. My magic is a shield, and the harder he fights, the tighter it constricts.
The creature’s voice is an echo of distorted voices overlapping. Every word is an unbound offense as he speaks into my mind, like listening to a bow glide across broken strings.
I tried to stop them.
Ropes of darkness drag him to my feet, forcing him to his knees on the pebbly shore.
“Lies. You ran,” I growl, then lean over him. While he may appear deceivingly intangible, as if I could put my hand right through his air-like form, underneath the tenebrous outer body, is a physical form—one I can bend and break at will.
He speaks into my mind once again.
One of them, a witch, she holds your power. She killed the other Phovi with one touch, turning them to ash. She would have executed me, too.
“It is impossible.” With my eyes fixed on the stormy horizon, I crouch and seize a pebble, pulverizing it within my grasp as I envision it being the witch’s fragile bones. Only one strain of magic can kill by touch. Mine.
I wince, my lip twitching as the foreign feeling dips into my core. No one is supposed to hold our ethereal power. It is what makes us gods—it is what makes us who we are.
Realization washes over me. In underestimating Nyxara, I must have misinterpreted the double meaning in the prophecy. Doomed with death.
The witch isn’t only fated to die in The Harvest, so her death will undo the spell on them. She is doomed with my power—the power of death.
