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“Father,” she said breathily, and the sheer amount of gratitude she felt as she said the word took her by surprise.
Tartanis’s gait faltered for a moment, and it was clear that he, too, hadn’t expected to hear her say it like that. Perhaps he hadn’t ever heard her say it like that.
Elyria’s heart clenched.
“Daughter,” he said softly, eyes combing over her, lingering on her blood-spattered hair, the way she leaned into her staff.
“Not my blood,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Then, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, continued. “I . . . You came.”
“I did.” Tartanis offered a stiff nod, then gestured broadly. “We did.”
“The king?”
He shook his head. “A problem for another day.”
“Kind of feels like a problem for us right now,” called Raefe from the back of his gryphon. With a whistle, the glorious beast launched back into the air, and the flamecaller was once more lobbing balls of fire at the battlefield below.
“Who could’ve known we’d be flying into . . .” Sephone’s lip curled in disgust as she sent another spark of lightning flying from the palm of her hand. “What exactly did we fly into here?”
“Malakar had the entire village of Kinsgaith under his thrall—they threw themselves on our blades, spilled their own blood for some ritual he’s performing to get to the Line. He turned them into these creatures.” Elyria straightened, her daynight-trimmed staff once again tightly gripped in her hand. “He must be stopped.”
“What do you need us to do?” Tartanis asked.
Elyria swallowed, her gaze going to the full field of monstrous battling that lay between her and the mana spring. Unearthly bellows sounded as swords and blood-forged crystal clashed, as gryphons and abominations attacked each other midair.
“I have to get to Malakar,” she said, the words sparking the raging well of power in her chest as she pointed at the dark sorcerer and his final followers. “Help me get to the spring.”
It had to have been a coincidence. A remarkable accident of timing. But the exact, precise instant Elyria said the words, it was like the entire world shivered. Time hung suspended as her shadows rippled—over her skin, in her veins—with anticipation, a dark eagerness.
With a deafening boom, a colossal shudder rocked through the field, and the spring cracked open.
53
INTO THE VOID
ELYRIA
Elyria gaped at the spot where, just seconds ago, she’d been pointing at the beauty and majesty of the mana spring.
Now it was gone, and in its place was an ugly, rocky crater—a void. Where before there had been a glorious spiral of life, the richness of wild possibility, there was now only the absence of it.
Elyria’s wild magic mourned.
She knew where that crater led, though.
Malakar stood at the edge, his head turned just enough for Elyria to catch a glimpse of the wicked grin on his face. She would have sworn he wanted her to see it.
Because the next thing she knew, the sorcerer stepped off the ledge and fell into the dark.
Elyria didn’t think.
She just flew.
Her wings pumped once, twice, and she was high in the air, careening past monsters and men alike.
Shouts cut through the whipping wind. Words like “Don’t!” and “Wait!” echoed in her ears as she soared, weaving serpentine through the midair clashes of talons and claws, avoiding arcing arrows and bolts of blood magic.
She ignored them all.
