Page 196 of The Shadow Wand

Shunning.

Sentenced to the sublands below.

Two Alfsigr doves circle overhead, their arcing flight sweeping Rhys into a more intense sensation of vertigo.

A greater pain pierces his heart as he worries that these birds could be kindred messengers, able to send heartbreaking images of himself and Cael bloodied on the ground to his beloved one, Wynter Eirllyn.

Rhys’s love for Wynter Eirllyn is so strong, not even the Zalyn’orimprint around his neck has been able to subdue it.

The taste of blood thick in his mouth, Rhys turns toward Cael Eirllyn, Wynter’s brother and the Elf he’s a bonded Second to.

Cael is also down on his hands and knees on the white marble ground, streaked in bright lines of blood and breathing heavily, his face defiant. A rope of bloody saliva hangs from the corner of Cael’s mouth, his strong, muscular form no match for the slashing power of runic whips.

Monarch Talonir’s rune sorceress steps forward.

The tall, dour Elf raises a silver rune stylus as she glares down at Cael and Rhys.

Rhys flinches as a translucent dome made of faint, whirling silver runes springs to life above him and Cael to encompass a large circle of marble beneath them. The ground under the dome begins to take on the fantastical appearance of a rippling silver lake, even as it remains solid to the touch.

But not for long, Rhys considers with great foreboding.

No. They’re about to be hurled down into the subland abyss. For their support of Wynter Eirllyn.

An Icaral.

Anguish sparks in Rhys’s core, matched in intensity by the pain streaking through his back.

But his resolve is unmoved.

They could whip him completely to shreds and he’d never turn Wynter over to the Alfsigr. He only regrets not getting to see her one last time to tell her how much he loves her. How much he’s always loved her.

“Caelidon Eirllyn and Rhysindor Thorim,” the ivory-robed monarch booms, his silver eyes glacially cold as the line of white-robed Alfsigr Royal Council Elves look on along with their cold-eyed soldiers, all of them grouped around the Royal Council’s guarded entry into the Subland Realm, the pale marble walls around them carved into a swirling design.

“You have set yourselves against both Alfsigroth and our Blessed Shining Ones by sheltering a Deargdul demon,” Monarch Talonir mercilessly continues. “You are hereby shunned by Alfsigroth, not fit to stand on the blessed, sunland soil of the High Elfkin—the unblemished Elfdom. You are infected with the evil of the Deargdul, corrupted beyond redemption and a danger to Alfsigroth.”

The monarch straightens, his prismatic eyes flashing sunlight as his tone takes on a hard-edged, official cadence. “For the crime of refuting a clear summons to bring the winged Deargdul demon Wynter Eirllyn to Alfsigroth, I sentence you, Caelidon Eirllyn, and you, Rhysindor Thorim, to banishment in the sublands. You are hereby cast out of all Elfindom, in this life and the next.”

A white-robed priestess steps forward, an ivory crown set on her long snowy hair, its silver wrought into the shapes of the Shining Ones’ sacred flock of starlight birds flying in a swirl. Sacred silver runes are marked on her flowing garments, and she’s bracketed by several Alfsigr soldiers in silver-plated armor.

The dour rune sorceress falls in behind her.

All of them pass through the runic dome as if it’s made of air, the runes flashing silver as they make contact with it, but Rhys knows that he and Cael would run into a solid wall if they tried to get out.

The soldiers descend on Rhys and Cael, strong hands gripping their arms as they yank them both over and force their backs to the ground.

Fresh sparks explode in Rhys’s vision as horrific pain streaks down the lash wounds on his back. Cael groans low in his throat and Rhys turns to him, his friend’s head tipped back in obvious distress, the misery in his pale silver eyes so intense that Rhys’s heart gives an agonized twist.

The priestess unsheathes the sacred runic blade at her side and strides to Cael as he’s held pinned to the ground. She drops down to one knee, takes firm hold of the center of Cael’s tunic, and slashes her blade straight down its length, exposing his pale, bruised chest and his Zalyn’or marking. Then the priestess expeditiously moves to Rhys and does the same, triggering a fresh explosion of pain through Rhys’s body as he bites back the urge to cry out.

And then, the rune sorceress presses her rune stylus into Rhys’s Zalyn’ortattoo, the tattoo giving a painful sizzle before morphing into a three-dimension runic necklace, a shadowy rune pendant dangling from a slim silver chain. Then she moves to Cael and repeats the process before gracefully rising.

“You are hereby no longer a child of Alfsigroth,” the priestess declares to Rhys and Cael both, disgust swimming in her gleaming eyes. “You are vile creatures of the Deargdul and, as ourEalaiontoriancommands, are to be cast down into their pit of corruption.”

Dazed from his crippling haze of pain, Rhys looks up at the gem-like blue of the sky, the pale birds wheeling, the blinding white of the sun, its rays fracturing in his vision.

The most horrible realization bolts through him, devastation spearing in with it—

After he and Cael are thrown into the sublands, Wynter will be all alone when she needs them the most.

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