I know it.
The weave knows it.
But still, I fight.
The weave retaliates instantly, a fresh wave of torment that sends me crashing back to the ground. My hands claw at the dirt, and black spots dance across my vision. Every inch of me screams for release, for relief, for anything but this. Anything other than this insanity.
Pain blossoms in my chest, spreading like roots burrowing into flesh. It digs deep, piercing every nerve and joint, until I can’t tell where the magic ends and my body begins. My vision blurs as the weave coils tighter, binding me with its will. My own magic flickers weakly, a dying ember against a hurricane, and my limbs collapse as the ebon chain binds me, trying to break me apart molecule by molecule.
The world narrows to a single command: Submit.
My chest heaves, my strength crumbling under the unrelenting assault. I scream, a guttural sound that fades into a hoarse whisper. The fight bleeds out of me.
I’m defeated and the blood weave drains every last drop of my resistance until it’s crystal clear I’m defeated. It wants me to understand I’ve surrendered and to learn that I will never beat or escape it.
Its grip finally eases, leaving me sprawled and trembling on the scorched earth, a bitter clarity settles over me. I can’t escape her, not the girl who wields chaos like a blade and wears destruction like a crown. Zara isn’t a burden I can cast off or a choice I can refuse—she’s a sentence handed down by forces I’ll never comprehend, one I’ll carry whether I want to or not.
My chest aches, not from the fight or the pain of the weave but from the sharp, unyielding inevitability of her. Zara and I are bound, not just by magic but by something deeper, darker. She is a tempest and I am the fool standing in its eye, daring to think I can survive. And as much as I hate the thought, I know there’s no turning back.
Whatever comes next, I’ll have to face it with her.
Or be torn apart trying.
