The question is unexpected. “There is no need to fly here.”
“But do your wings miss it?” he presses, his childlike logic cutting through my defenses. “The sky?”
I stop my work, looking down at the blade in my hands, then at the child beside me. Does a part of me miss the cold, clean air of the high peaks, the silent solitude of the clouds? The question is illogical, sentimental. And the answer, I realize with a jolt, is yes. “Sometimes,” I admit, the word feeling strange on my tongue.
He seems satisfied with this answer. A strange, unfamiliar peace settles over me. The presence of this small, curious creature is not an intrusion. It is a… comfort.
After a time, I set the blade aside. I see him looking at the smooth, flat river stone in my other hand. An idea, illogical and sentimental, presents itself. I do not question it.
I hold the stone up. With a single, precise flick of the claw on my right index finger, I etch a symbol into its surface, the hard stone giving way like soft clay. It is a series of intersecting, flowing lines, an ancient sigil that has not been carved, I would wager, in millennia. It represents not just a bloodline, but a unit forged by choice and circumstance. A shield wall. A pack.
I hold the stone out to him. He takes it, his small fingers warm against my cool skin.
“What is it?” he asks, his thumb tracing the fresh carving.
“It is the Vrakken sigil for… a bonded unit,” I explain, the word feeling strange and new in my own mind. “It means we protect each other. It means family.”
He looks from the stone, to my face, his dark eyes wide and searching. I expect to see confusion, or perhaps even fear. Instead, I see a flicker of something else. Recognition. Understanding. A faint, silvery light, the tell-tale sign of his Vrakken heritage, shimmers in his pupils for a heartbeat.
He clutches the stone tight in his small fist, and finally, he looks at me not as a monster, not as a stranger, but as something more.
“Father,” he whispers, the single word a profound, shattering blow to the last remnants of the cold, apathetic creature I once was.
31
ELZA
Afragile peace has settled over the ruins. My people, though still grieving, have begun to rebuild, their spirits buoyed by the hope of a future. Eoin has become a silent, powerful fixture in our small community, his actions speaking a language of protection that has slowly, painstakingly, begun to earn their trust.
We are lulled into a false sense of security. It is a fatal mistake.
They come at dusk, appearing from the deep shadows of the Gloomwood like wraiths. There are only five of them, but they move with a speed and a predatory silence that makes the Crimson Wing seem like clumsy recruits. A Vrakken hunting party. Elite.
The alarm horn sounds, a panicked, wailing cry that shatters our peace. My people scramble, grabbing weapons, their faces pale with a renewed terror as the children hide in a secret chamber. But this is not the disorganized slaughter of Haven. We are fewer now, but we are harder.
Eoin is beside me in an instant, a whisper of displaced air. The psychic connection between us ignites, no longer a river ofemotion, but a sharp, clear cord of pure, tactical intent. “Cailan,” he growls, his eyes fixed on the leader of the party—a massive Vrakken with hair the color of burnished bronze. “He was my second. He is fast. And he is without mercy.”
The battle is joined. Cailan and Eoin are a blur of motion, their blades a singing, whining shriek of steel on steel, a whirlwind of violence at the center of the clearing. The other four Vrakken descend upon my people, and the sounds of battle—screams, curses, the wet, sickening thud of blades finding flesh—fill the air.
I am not on the sidelines. I am in the thick of it, my dagger in one hand, my Purna magic a golden, defensive shield in the other. The link with Eoin is a miracle, a weapon. I do not need to see him to know where he is. I feel his intent, his movements, as if they are my own. I know when he is about to feint, and I throw a concussive blast of light to make his opponent stumble. He knows when I am about to be overwhelmed, and he creates an opening, his raw power forcing a warrior back, giving me a precious second to recover.
We are a single unit. A two-headed, four-armed creature of magic and steel.
But we are outnumbered. Tarek goes down, a Vrakken blade slicing deep into his thigh. I scream his name, sending a wave of healing energy toward him even as I parry a clumsy swing from another warrior.
The distraction is almost my last. Cailan, in a move of blinding speed, disengages from Eoin and comes for me. I see the bronze flash of his hair, the cold, dead light in his eyes. He is the true threat. He knows I am the heart of this resistance.
Eoin roars my name, a sound of pure, primal terror. He moves to intercept, but he is too far. Cailan’s blade is a silver blur, aimed at my throat.
There is no time to think. I drop my dagger and throw both hands forward, pouring every last drop of my energy, my life force, into a single, desperate, explosive shield of Purna light.
The Vrakken’s blade hits the shield, and the world explodes in a flash of gold and a sound like a thunderclap. The force of the impact throws me backward, my head hitting the stone wall of a ruin with a sickening crack. My vision whites out, the sounds of battle fading to a distant roar.
Through the haze of pain, I see Eoin. He moves with a fury that is biblical. Cailan, knocked off balance by my blast, is unprepared. Eoin does not just kill him. He annihilates him, his blade a blur of motion, a dozen fatal strikes in the space of a single heartbeat.
The remaining Vrakken, seeing their leader fall, break and flee into the darkness of the forest.
Victory. But the cost is immense. My head is throbbing, my body is a symphony of pain, and my people are wounded and dying around me. Adrenaline, hot and sharp, is the only thing keeping me on my feet.
