Page 25 of Wicked Depths

Nyxara’s muscles coil beneath me, her power thrumming like a living pulse as she spreads her wings wide, catching the wind just before we reach the treetops. The force of it pulls at me,my grip tightening instinctively as we glide low over the forest canopy. Shadows stretch long beneath us, shifting with the movement of the trees.

I spot movement ahead—a cluster of figures near the base of a crumbling ruin, their torches flickering against the encroaching dark. My eyes narrow. Human scouts.

Morrin had been right.

Nyxara tilts her wings, angling toward them, her body coiling with the promise of destruction. The heat of her magic thrums through me, sharp and electric. She’s ready to burn them from existence. But something makes me hesitate.

I tap my fingers against the ridges of her scales. “Take us lower. I want to see them.”

She doesn’t respond right away. I feel her annoyance ripple through her like a second heartbeat.

“There’s no need for a closer look,” she growls. “They’re vermin.”

“Perhaps.” I lean forward, pressing my lips close to her ear. “But vermin often scurry from something larger. We should make sure this is only a scouting party and not the tail end of something bigger.”

She exhales sharply, a hot rush of irritation, but she obeys.

We descend, silent as shadows.

I scan the camp as we circle. There are six of them, all armored in the king’s insignia—red and gold emblazoned across tarnished steel. They’re speaking in hushed tones, voices barely audible over the rustling trees. I can’t make out the words, but their body language tells me enough. They’re nervous.

One of them, a younger man, keeps shifting on his feet, his hand hovering near the hilt of his blade. The leader—a broad-shouldered brute with a thick scar bisecting his cheek—paces near the fire, his fingers twitching like he’s waiting for something.

Or someone.

I frown.

They’re expecting reinforcements.

“We need to—”

The snap of a branch.

My breath catches.

The younger soldier turns suddenly, eyes lifting—Shit. The alarm barely has time to spread across his face before Nyxara moves. She tucks her wings and dives. The world tilts, gravity pulling hard as we drop into the clearing like a vengeful storm. The men barely have time to react before her fire erupts around them.

Viridian Wrath.

The flames are alive, a searing green inferno that ignites the trees in a wave of unnatural heat. The scouts scramble, shouting orders, unsheathing weapons, but it’s already too late. Nyxara’s talons rake through one of them mid-scream, his body crumpling before he can land a single blow.

I leap from her back as she tears into another, rolling into a crouch as I hit the earth. The ground is dry, brittle from the fire’s heat, but there’s still water beneath the soil—I can feel it. It calls to me, desperate and eager.

I reach for it, pulling.

Droplets coil around my fingers like sharpened daggers as I rise. A sword whistles toward me.

I twist, barely avoiding the strike, my tentacles unfurling in response. They lash out, wrapping around the nearest soldier’s wrist before he can bring the blade down again. He grunts, fighting against the unnatural hold, but I only smile.

"That’s not very nice," I murmur, voice dripping with venomous amusement.

He thrashes, trying to break free, but my grip tightens, twisting his arm at an unnatural angle. He screams as the bonesnaps. Two more soldiers charge me. I move fast, letting the water guide my motions. A flick of my wrist sends a sharp arc of liquid slicing through the air. One man stumbles, clutching his face as the water sears his skin like acid. The other swings at me. I duck, my tentacles snapping forward. One coils around his ankle, yanking him off his feet. He crashes to the ground with a curse, but before he can rise, Nyxara is there.

She doesn’t give him the chance to beg.

Her talons rip through his chest in one fluid motion, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake. The remaining soldiers falter, exchanging panicked glances. They know they’ve already lost.

"Run," I offer, voice lilting. "Or don’t. It makes no difference to me." One of them takes off, stumbling into the trees. The last one—the leader—doesn’t. Instead, he lunges for me, his blade catching the moonlight.

---