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My sister, Olwen, would just love to hear me admit that.
Though she would probably laugh over my dead body, telling me it’s my own fault for not taking the responsibility of my magic more seriously. Still, I can’t exactly be glad she isn’t here, given if she were, I probably wouldn’t be in my current situation.
Which is surrounded by a pack of mere, venom dripping from their ugly yellow fangs as their coats reflect the moonlight.
They’re beautiful creatures, really. Stunning. The type I might be tempted to sit in awe of, if I wasn’t pretty sure they’re about to eat me.
The first launches, and though I parry with my sword, the only weapon I’ve ever felt remotely comfortable with, I’m not prepared for the weight of the mere’s attack.
My sword protects me from the blow, but then the mere swipes its paw, knocking my blade from my grasp and sending it flying into the shadows.
I gesture toward the ground, and beneath the torso of the nearest creature shoots a vine riddled with thorns. It wraps itself around the beast’s torso. As I fist my hand, it squeezes, sinking its thorns into the creature’s skin.
The cry that bellows from the mere’s mouth as the thorns slowly dig into its flesh might provoke pity in me, were I the one to attack first.
The mere currently being strangled by my singular vine writhes, flailing its paws to escape from the thorns, but the harder it resists the more I squeeze.
I’m almost impressed with my magic, which, to be honest, I haven’t bothered touching in decades.
I once told Ellie that I didn’t like doing things I was bad at.
I’m pretty sure that was the first moment she related to me.
Still, it seems like a petty excuse now, as the other mere, incensed by their comrade’s pain, shriek in rage and advance, closing the circle they’ve formed around me.
It would be better if I could produce multiple vines at a time, which is exactly what Olwen would say if she were here. And probably Jerad too, if I’m being completely honest. Though his advice would come more from a place of wishing to save my life than laughing in my face and saying, “I told you so.”
I keep one hand fisted, turning to the rest of the pack. With my other hand, I wield a shoot from the ground. It bursts forth from the earth, and I will it to grow.
It stops short of the length I would have preferred, and the thorns refuse to multiply with the expanded length, but it’s all I have.
I flick my wrist, and it lashes toward the feet of the creatures, intending to cut off their legs from underneath them in one fell swoop.
The monsters jump, evading my vine with ease.
And then they pounce.
I barely have time to jolt out of the way before the first mere strikes, the tips of its claws a hair’s breadth away from my cheek.
It comes crashing to the ground without even a thud—the creature is so light-footed.
The next attack comes in careful succession, and this time, the mere aims its maw at my torso. I might not have made it out of the way, but out of instinct my vine comes swooping in front of me, ready to protect.
It does little to harm the mere, but it slows it all the same, the mere having to claw through the stubborn little thing.
It really is thin, now that I’m getting a good look at it.
Unfortunately, looking at my pitiful excuse for a vine means I don’t see the next attack coming.
Something crashes into my back, pain rippling through my entire body, sending me careening toward the ground.
My chest hits the earth with a thud, air whooshing from my lungs.
The weight of the beast falls upon me an instant later. There’s the slicing of flesh as the creature paws at me. Its claws scratching at my skin without digging in. It swats at me, flipping me over on my back.
I look up to find the creature licking its maw, its tail whipping in the breeze.
Playing with its food.
