“I can’t. Not without my magic,” he replied, letting an edge of his desperation come through.
“Of course you can. Draw out the sigils, as you did for me before. Explain it to me. You may think yourself above us, but I can assure you, I will understand,” Yarug said. The raven landed on his shoulder. Alwyn would have expected him to droop with the weight; but instead, together they were even taller than Zesh. Somehow, both he and the bird were looking down at Alwyn with the same expression of annoyed disinterest.
He had to figure something out. Drawing out the sigils might buy him some time, but he doubted the orcs would let him stall for long.
“I will try,” he said weakly, kneeling down in the dirt.
Silently, he began to trace out the first glyph, moving in slow and deliberate movements to try to buy himself more time to think.
“And make sure you do it right,” Zesh said from above him. “If it doesn’t work when Yarug tries it, it’ll be Krujha who pays.”
“Itwillwork, so long as you have the magic for it,” Alwyn muttered. He regretted the goading words as soon as they were out of his mouth; something hard impacted his side, sending pain exploding through his torso as he collapsed on the ground. Evidently, Zesh hadn’t liked them either.
“Oops,” the orc growled, bending low to glare down at him. “Better start over. I can’t get a good look at it now.”
Alwyn gasped for air, feeling the wind knocked out of him. When he finally caught his breath, he groaned as he pushed himself back up into a sitting position. The sigil he’d been working on was a mess now, but as he looked at it, he realizedwhat he could do: with some small adjustments to each of the glyphs, he could make the sigil for an explosion. The force needed for both spells was similar, and neither of the orcs would be familiar enough with the runes to realize the difference until, hopefully, it was too late.
It would surely kill him. If he could just get even a trickle of his magic to funnel into it, he knew he could create an explosion with enough force to all but demolish this hilltop. There would be no survivors.
Hopefully, that meant it would be quick. And as long as Krujha was still safe, down in the camp, he could hopefully escape in the ensuing chaos. Tears burned in Alwyn’s eyes at the thought.
There was no point in denying his feelings to himself now. Somehow, Krujha had become his closest confidant—his most reliable friend—someone who had pushed him to be better than he’d ever been. In a hundred years, he never would have guessed it, but it happened all the same. If they had both made it out of this, maybe more could’ve happened between them. It felt like they were right on the cusp of something more for so long.
Now he would never know. But if Krujha lived, that was a sacrifice he was ready to make. After all, he had nothing outside the Order: no dreams, no ambitions, no life apart from what Tessarion deemed fit to give him. He might have, if only he had met Krujha sooner.
Tears were streaming down his face now, and he lifted a hand to wipe them away. Above him, Zesh let out a bitter laugh of disbelief.
“Thisis who they sent to kill me,” he remarked. “A sniveling child.”
“They will never underestimate you again, Warlord,” Yarug said quietly.
Alwyn had drawn out the glyphs carefully, all the while reaching for his magic. He still felt that same flash of heat, alittle closer each time. If he could get even a tiny tendril of his power to feed into the sigil, his mission would be accomplished—it would all come down to whether or not he could pull that flame into his hand.
“Well?” Yarug snapped impatiently—Alwyn nearly jumped, startled to be addressed again. “Don’t try to fool us now, elf. Finish the sigil.”
“It’s done,” Alwyn said hollowly, scraping out the final mark.
This was it. He seized desperately at his magic again, reaching as deeply within as he could, all while imagining Krujha riding safely back to Drol Kuggradh. Krujha, smiling and whole—his strong arms, the scent of him pressed close to Alwyn’s face—his fist closing around nothing as he told Alwyn to condense his magic.
Alwyn grasped the flickering flame deep within him and pulled with every ounce of effort he could muster as the sigil glowed to completion. All at once, his magic poured into him and out of him—not extinguished, but fanned into a frenzy.
Fire sent him careening backward, senseless and blind. Somehow, he was alive. He tried to cut off the spell—but his magic, now released, would not obey. Condensed down to a flicker of candlelight, the sigil had summoned it into a raging inferno, but he had no more control over it now than he did when it was that distant, tiny flame.
Alwyn was on his back in the dirt, and the sky above him was red with fire. The roar of it might have been deafening, but something sharp and agonized pierced through the overwhelming sound. It was his own voice—his own screams.
Then there was rapid movement across his field of vision—the raven, its feathers alight, and its beak open wide as it shrieked, wings flapping. Even through the pain now searing at his skin, the sight of it became a moment of clarity. He had to finish the job.
This time he did not try to stop the overflow of magic, but instead directed it into the familiar motion of the blood magic he’d used a thousand times before—the killing motions he’d demonstrated over and over mere days ago for the druid. He could see the magic as it burst from him, a line of white-hot flame—everything,everythingwas on fire. It pierced straight through the raven in a shower of blood and feathers; its massive form dropped silently to the blazing earth.
Alwyn whimpered, pushing himself up onto all fours. Every nerve in his body was burning with agony, but he couldn’t succumb yet. Two figures were still on the hilltop—the druid, who had fallen and was thrashing desperately against the fire, bursts of his own magic causing the flames around him to vanish only to re-alight seconds later—and Zesh, who had stumbled to his feet and was trying to wrench off his burning clothes with his one hand.
He had to act fast. He directed his magic again, focusing on the druid. Lines of scorching light were surging wildly out from him, but they obeyed his call, honing in on the lifeblood of the druid. Fire and viscera burst from the old man’s throat. His eyes were huge and glassy as they swung toward Alwyn, but then he was consumed with flame again, and the orc’s body slumped silently back into the dirt.
“You fucking elf bitch!” Zesh howled, now stumbling toward him. He’d managed to get his cloak off, but flames still licked at his clothes and hair. He’d drawn his sword, which was turning black with fire, and swung wildly in Alwyn’s direction. “I should have killed you!”
“But you didn’t,” Alwyn rasped. The burning limbs of his magic surged forward, far faster than the orc could ever move, but his control was wavering. They didn’t burrow cleanly into his veins and burst out through the throat, the way they had with Yarug. Now, they pierced into him in every direction, digginginto his arm, his chest, his stomach, his legs. Zesh roared in pain and fury, still trying to stumble toward him. He barely bled, each wound cauterized the moment it was made.
Alwyn stumbled to his feet. He wasn’t dying fast enough. Before Zesh could swing his sword down in a killing blow, Alwyn leapt at him, tackling him around the waist. His magic was exploding out of him in streams of burning light—with his arms wrapped around Zesh’s waist, fingers digging into his burning skin, they pierced through him in a hundred more places. Zesh howled and struggled against him, but the overflow of magic was more than either of them could take. Over and over Alwyn ripped through his flesh until Zesh became dead weight against him, collapsing backward. He was covered in burnt-over wounds, but fire now flickered out from the mess of his torso—his body burned from the inside out.
