He snapped his fingers.
The air rippled.
The spirits lunged.
A dozen blades flashed towards her at once. Katell swore and threw herself into the fight, her sword clashing against ghostly steel.
But she couldn’t stop them all. Cold, spectral blades tore into her ribs, sliced her legs, and burned across her skin. Pain flared, sharp and relentless, only to vanish as her wounds healed in an endless, maddening cycle of destruction and renewal. Each strike drove her forward, each fresh wound feeding the fire in her veins.
And beneath it all, fuelling her rage, was him.
Laran.
Her so-called father.
The insufferable, impossible god who goaded her at every turn. Brash, arrogant, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
How could the Rebel Queen have given in to him? He must’ve tricked her somehow. There could be no other explanation.
Magic flooded her limbs, her strikes growing faster, sharper. The spirits swarmed, pressing closer, and without meaning to, she sank deeper—into that dark well within. Power surged, heat coiling through her veins, spreading in a torrent of fire?—
Her chest cinched tight.
No. Not again.
“More,” Laran snapped, his tone steeped in disapproval. “Your magic is as vast as the Great Sea, yet you’re drawing only a handful when you could summon a storm. You’re holding back.”
Of course she was. He wanted her to dive into the abyss, to unleash the monstrous tide she’d barely survived before—the same tide that had consumed her body in the mortal realm and left wreckage in its wake. What if it happened again? What if she lost herself here, where no one could stop her?
She forced the dread down, refusing the pull of that endless current of magic. Instead, she reached for the smaller stream—the one she could still contain. Flames guttered at her fingertips, trembling, uncertain.
Leaning against his blade, Laran let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, I suppose you could always slow roast your enemies to death.”
Clenching her teeth, she forced more magic into her palm. A flame flickered to life, larger this time, but the moment a soul lunged at her, it snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
Again and again, she fought, slicing through the endless swarm of spirits, willing the fire to come, to obey her without tapping into the depths she feared. But no matter how fiercely she swung, no matter how many times she tried, the flames sputtered and died before they could take hold.
Her magic resisted her. Or maybe she was the one resisting it.
Hours passed before Laran released a long breath and waved the spirits away. “That’s enough.”
The souls vanished in an instant, and Katell crumpled to the ground, chest heaving. Sweat poured down her back, clinging to her skin like a second layer.
Laran studied her, unimpressed. “It seems your mind won’t let you see past your mortal limits,” he said flatly. “We’ll have to try something else.”
Her jaw locked. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but inside she was already unravelling. Afraid of what lay beneath the surface. Afraid of what would happen if she let go. Afraid of losing the last thread of control she still held. How was Laran any different from Dorias, when both seemed intent on dragging her into the same abyss of violence?
So instead she forced herself to speak, anything to pull his attention from her failure. “How many souls”—she broke off, dragging air into her lungs—“are there?”
“I’m not sure. Hundreds, maybe more.”
Katell sagged back onto the hard, cracked earth, unable to hide her exhaustion. “And they just… float around here for all eternity?”
Laran gave a nonchalant shrug, as if the fate of countless souls meant nothing. “The most vicious and vengeful ones eventually turn into demons.”
Realisation hit, and she jolted upright. “By the Moon, you mean the Makhai? They used to be wandering souls?”
“Yes.” Laran stretched, rolling his massive shoulders until the joints cracked. “Warriors twisted with hate and a thirst for blood—men who had already lost their humanity long before they came here.”
