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I just blink at him, allowing a smile to graze the edge of my eye.
In actuality, it’s more of a grimace, but I’m betting on the assumption Az won’t be able to tell the difference behind the gag in my mouth.
He smiles, a beautiful smile that lights up all his features, and I figure I assumed correctly.
The closer we get to the Rip, the more the ground underneath my feet seems to hum, aching and thrumming with an ancient power that calls to both me and my magic.
When we reach the location of the Rip, the sheer power that leaks into the air surrounding us gives me pause. I stop my feet, wishing simply to stand in awe of it for a moment.
Az won’t allow that, of course. He just whispers at me that we don’t have time to waste and pushes me forward.
The Rip itself isn’t something I can see; at least, not since it’s closed. I wonder if it will become visible once it opens again.
Except we’re not opening it again, my magic reprimands.
Right.
It’s not that I have any intention of opening this Rip of my own volition. It just seems Az has thought out too much of his plan at this point to overlook the simple fact that I might refuse.
My friend is clever, cleverer than I’ve ever given him credit for.
I can’t help but assume he has a backup plan.
Even though I can’t see the Rip, I can feel it. Thrumming. Whistling in the faint breeze. There’s a sliver of the air in front of us that seems to call to me more brightly, and I find myself reaching for it, though I’m not sure what I’m expecting.
It’s not for my fingers to find solid air, the silky sheen of a Fabric invisible to my eyes.
My entire body shudders at the chill of it. The Fabric, invisible as it is, is cold. I wonder how far I could trace the Fabric. If I clung to it, could I follow it all over Alondria, feel the Fabric that separates the realms, or could I only feel it because of the energy emanating from the Rip? Once I reached a far enough distance, would the connection then fail?
A hand traces up my arm, Az closing in on me from behind. The heat of his torso presses to my back, and my stomach turns over.
He traces his fingers up my arm until he too touches the Fabric I hold between my fingertips.
“You feel something, don’t you?” he asks, his warm breath shooting shards of icicles into my ear.
I nod. Az knows anyway, and it’s to my benefit that he believes I trust him. Maybe then I can convince him to remove the gag.
Wouldn’t that be nice. Imagine what we could do to him, then, says my magic.
I don’t particularly want to imagine, but I can’t really blame my magic for its excitement over the idea of torturing Az.
“Blaise, bring me my satchel,” he says. There’s shuffling behind us—Blaise, doing as he says.
Tools rattle as Az reaches into his satchel behind me.
What he produces from the bag, I can’t see, but he lets out the slightest of gasps, and when he brings his fingers to mine again, they’re dripping with blood. His blood, I realize.
I flinch as he spreads the warm, wet substance over my fingertips, whispering hushing sounds in my ear, as if to soothe a child after a minor fall and scrape.
Once my fingers are coated in Az’s blood, he takes my hand and begins to use it as a quill.
The runes Az traces on the Fabric in his own blood are unfamiliar to me.
My magic scoffs. Are you so familiar with any runes?
I’m not, so that’s fair.
Still, these aren’t like any script I’ve ever read, and though some of them look like pictures, others have shapes that trigger absolutely nothing in my memory.
