Page 190 of Dark Fate

Danica

89

The catacombs? More like a damp, dreary dungeon. Each step echoes like a drumbeat, reminding me that this place is as lively as a graveyard. I coax my little ball of light closer, and it dutifully floats ahead, a tiny hero fending off the darkness.

I'm clad back in my well-worn leathers, the supple material molding to my curves like a lover's caress. The familiar weight comforts me, and a sense of power and purpose settles over me.

My fingers dance over the hilts of my daggers, the blades gleaming in the dim light like predator's eyes. These deadly little beauties are more than just weapons. They're an extension of myself, a part of me.

Beside me, Rhyland and Erik are a mirror image, their leathers hugging their muscular frames. Erik's hand rests on the hilt of his sword, the blade name of which I recently learned: Gravewarden. Fitting.

The walls are covered in moss, and nature's attempt at interior decorating has gone wrong. The air is thick with the smell of decay as if centuries of stagnation have thrown a musty party. And let's not forget the subtle hint of something metallic, like a forgotten penny in a puddle.

Emily's text arrives, sending a tingle down my spine.

Emily: "It's go time, bitch! A hundred witches."

The witches' chanting grows louder with each step, their ancient words bouncing off the stone walls.

A hundred witches? Fantastic.

Their voices swell, a magical medley oozing from the rocks. I can practically taste the magic in the air, and it's not a flavor I'd recommend.

As we approach the undercroft, flickering candlelight beckons us closer. And there, in the center of it all, lies Lucian, sprawled on an altar. The witches form a circle around him, but wait—where's the rest of the coven? I count maybe half of what Emily mentioned. Something's not adding up.

We duck behind some columns, holding our breath like we're playing the world's most intense game of hide-and-seek. We're about twenty paces away, close enough to smell the magic but far enough to avoid being turned into toads. Erik and Rhyland are like ninja statues behind me, so quiet I'm half-tempted to check for a pulse.

"There's only half the witches here," I shoot into Rhyland's mind, my thoughts like a bullhorn in a library.

Rhyland nods. "We stick to the plan," he whispers. His eyes then lock with Erik's, relaying the same message telepathically.

The chamber is straight out of a medieval fantasy, complete with flickering candles casting eerie shadows. And there, in the center, stands the High Witch, looking like she raided Morticia Addams' closet.

Her hair is so black it could be mistaken for a void, and her skin is pale enough to make a ghost look tan. Her icy blue eyes could freeze a lesser witch in their tracks. Her hands are decked out in rings that look like they were forged in the fires of Mount Doom.

When the High Witch speaks, her voice cuts through the chatter like a hot knife through butter. "Sisters of the night, gather 'round," she commands, and I swear I can feel the pull of her words. "The hour of convergence is upon us."

Dramatic much?

The coven circles the altar, which looks like it was ripped from a heavy metal album cover, complete with silver skulls and symbols. The witches join hands, forming a link tighter than skinny jeans after Thanksgiving dinner.

The High Witch raises her arms, kicking her voice into high gear. "Feremous, avanteen, liricoul..." The words fill the air, and I feel the ancient power vibrating in my bones.

The coven joins in, their voices blending like a supernatural choir. "Aetherus spiricor, noctarum revelous!" The air hums with their chanting, and the candles flare up like they're trying to high-five the heavens.

Here we go.

The chanting swells like a dark tidal wave, and I can't help but glance at Lucian in the center of the ritual circle. He's the picture of serenity, but his eyes sparkle with mischief. He looks like the perfect sacrifice, a helpless lamb among the witches' gathered power.

I sneak a peek at Rhyland, his presence as solid as the column he's lurking behind, his steel-blue eyes laser-focused on the unfolding scene. Despite the carvings and gloom providing our cover, the anticipation between us is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

The witches' voices rise and fall like a hypnotic metronome. "Nocturna ligatu, umbra secorum," they chant, their words bouncing off the stone walls like verbal ping-pong balls.

Lucian goes limp under their spell, eyes closed, dead to the world.

"This better fucking work," I mutter.

"Corpus et anima, entwine in our divine chorus!" the High Witch's voice booms, rising above the collective chanting. Her fingers twitch like she's directing an orchestra of shadows.

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