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Az is not.
He’s sideways. Well, I suppose I’m the one who’s sideways, laid out like Gwenyth’s corpse upon the swaying grass.
He stands there, hands clenched against his sides as he stares in front of him, his face the picture of awe.
Because of course he’s awed.
I am too.
I wasn’t able to see the Rip before, not when it was sutured, but I can see it now.
It’s good we came at night. The reasonable part of me knows it was so Blaise could walk freely with us, but it’s good all the same.
Because the sliver of light that shines through the Rip is all the more beautiful in contrast to the darkness.
Gentle rays of the sunlight of another world peek into our own, shy and glorious.
Even the runes written in Az’s blood glow, purified and white in a circlet around the Rip.
I think maybe it’s not so bad, this Rip, I whisper to my magic.
I don’t think he answers back.
Probably as drunk on Blaise’s venom as I am.
But then Az takes his own wrist, the one still dripping with blood from his self-inflicted wound, and dangles it in front of the ray of light.
He waits there for a moment, and then it comes.
I recognize it from my magic’s visions.
Its decadent coat glistens silver in the moonlight, as if it’s a fallen star that the moon itself shone down on in approval.
Its feline paws, as large as saucers, pad against the grass, long sharp fangs protruding from its maw.
Something thick and viscous drips from the end of those fangs. Where the substance drips onto the ground, the earth hisses in rejection.
Vaguely, I remember what my magic called this creature in his stories—a mere, one of the Others that haunt the Nether.
Az is reaching out for it, to touch the flat space between its sparkling eyes.
Part of me wonders if I should call out to him, warn him that the beast is as dangerous as it is beautiful. But then again, Az would have fit the same description, so he likely recognizes the monster for what it is.
But when Az reaches out for the beast, it doesn’t maul him like I assumed it would.
It’s perfectly still, though Az’s blood drips down its snout as he pets it. Its papery tongue laps at the blood that dribbles onto its snout.
I think for sure this will be the moment it attacks. That I will watch my friend turned enemy be ripped to shreds in front of my face, as I’m unable to look away.
The beast does nothing. Not even when Az brings his blade to its forehead and slices.
Az wipes his hand on the bleeding wound, then brings the silvery substance to his mouth.
Something about Az changes then, though in my drunken stupor, my eye can’t quite make sense of it.
And when Az whispers something to it, it…bows?
Then the beast turns. It roars, a command that sends a flock of ravens cawing, sprinkling the stars with darkness as they flee.
