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If I move, Dashel will take it, and he might not survive.
If I stay, then I’ll take the flames right to the chest.
Mother always warned me about the black flames.
I stand my ground, staring my father in those awful violet eyes.
And take the flames center mass.
I don’t stumble. I’m not tossed backward like the heirs were.
The flames aren’t fire.
They aren’t concussive force like the heirs’ catapulted bodies made it seem.
The flames are pure magic, direct from the source.
And that lightness that descended on me moments ago? Space.
It is the space I need to take this magic into me.
Black flames pour into me, filling me down to my toes until I’m crackling with my realm’s magic. And it doesn’t like sharing.
The demon magic rings explode off my fingers in a shower of sparks and smoke.
Even the glamour ring.
“Holy fuck, she’s getting a true form from the magic,” Enzo says.
“No, Enzo,” I say as the Flames of Celestus decimate the angel script sigil tattooed on my hand keeping my native power locked away.
My wings burst from my back, wide and white.
“I’ve just been hiding,” I say, staring into Malachi’s soul.
He shakes his head, as if not believing what he’s seeing. “No.” Malachi’s voice trembles.
“Yes,” I say simply and move forward, letting the Flames push me off the ground until I’m eye-level with Malachi.
“This can’t be. You can’t summon the Flames. Only I can do that. I’m the only one for a thousand, thousand years.”
“Looks like we both can. Now, you can either leave, or I can make you leave. The choice is yours.”
His gaze goes wild, darting around. “You can’t have them, too. Only I can summon them. It must only be me.” He lunges for me, but I dart out of his reach, and the Flames, somewhat on their own, knock him to the ground.
I lower myself so my feet are on the ground, then bend over and look at the man who killed my mother. My best and only friend on Celestus. “You deserve far more than this,” I say and stomp on his throat. It won’t kill him. But suffocation is excruciating.
“Enzo!”
He’s at my side in a moment. “Please tell me I can kill him. Please, oh, please.”
“Grab his arms.” Enzo rips Malachi’s hand from around his throat and wrenches them to the ground.
“Not like that. Hold them over his head.”
He smiles, eyes shining with pure joy, and yanks Malachi’s arms upward.
“Bastian, get his legs.”
