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I have to hurry. Or else we’ll be overwhelmed by the undead.
Once more, I close my eyes. In my mind, I picture the binding circle within which Natharius stands and imagine myself at the very edge of its markings. As the spell takes shape, the aether within me flows more violently.
“Laxus!”
Magic bursts free. Purple energy flashes through the dark hall like lightning.
In the next instant, I’m standing upon the spot I envisioned. My boots lie just before the boundary of the binding circle. Stepping even a hair’s breadth closer will cause me to be shackled by the same obsidian restraints as Natharius.
I don’t have time to examine the Void Prince’s expression. Now I’m beyond the safety of Taria’s golden shield, the hordes of undead are already swarming toward me.
I clutch my crystalline staff in both hands and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to draw on even more aether than I did for the previous spell. I don’t have long to destroy the binding circle and free Natharius. My first spell must succeed.
More aether pours into my body. Somehow, even in this shadow-infested place, aether rushes toward me like a thundering waterfall. My skin must radiate with sheer power.
“Ignir’quatir!”
I slam the staff against the onyx floor. Flames explode, swarming across the binding circle. In my haste, I don’t consider Natharius’s safety. But I assume that the Void Prince can withstand the fiery blast.
The flames lick away at the dark magic and, bit by bit, wash away the markings.
“Nozarat!” Mulgath roars from behind.
I whirl around to see a phantom knife hurling at me. I clutch my staff and pull aether around me to form a hasty defense, but there’s no time. The dark blade is already upon me. Within mere heartbeats, it will pierce my chest.
All I can do is watch death hurl at me.
But death doesn’t greet me.
Before the phantom blade reaches me, an arm wraps around my lower back, pulling me to safety. My forehead slams into what feels like a solid wall.
Barely a heartbeat later, the stable wall jolts, throwing me back. But I don’t hit the polished floor. The arm holds me tight.
I didn’t realize I was squeezing my eyes shut but they open, the impending threat now having passed. My mouth falls open as I understand what just happened.
Natharius’s arm is wrapped around me. He pulled me to safety. And he took Mulgath’s attack in my place.
I tilt back my head, straining my neck to get a look at the Void Prince.
The obsidian shackles which bound him are nowhere in sight, nor are the markings beneath our feet. My fiery spell succeeded in obliterating the binding circle.
Natharius’s jaw is clenched, and his brows are furrowed. Pain glints in his crimson eyes.
His gaze flickers down to meet mine. In this moment, a thousand questions burn on my lips. Why did he save me when I hadn’t commanded him to do so? Why didn’t he leave me to die so that he can return to the Abyss? Is it because he wants to ensure Arluin doesn’t release the Lich Lord from his icy tomb?
I’m not sure whether the demon can read the countless questions in my eyes. But even if he can, he has as little time to answer as I have to ask them.
A growl rumbles from his throat. He releases me, his arm withdrawing. I stumble back, only now realizing how tightly he was clutching me.
Shadows envelop him, growing with intensity until they cover the entire hall.
A hulking figure emerges from the cloud of darkness: Natharius’s demonic form. His onyx horns almost impale the vaulted ceiling and glisten in the pale light emanating from the many braziers lining the hall. In a deadly rhythm, his cloven hooves clatter across the polished floor. Draconic wings sweep out, their leathery surface the color of the midnight sky. Crimson markings glow across his alabaster skin, the eerie light reflecting off the obsidian walls, and his eyes burn the shade of vehement flames.
I instinctively withdraw behind him. His fearsome size alone acts as a barrier between me and the hordes of undead around us.
Despite his terrifying appearance, three undead charge toward him. Perhaps those who are already dead have little to fear. Except for Mulgath. I’m certain his expression is that of fear, though it isn’t easy to read a skull’s face.
Natharius raises his enormous sword. The dark steel glints wickedly as he holds it overhead. In a swoop, it descends on his enemies. The behemoth blade crushes through bone and stone alike.
