Page 46 of Wicked Depths

Her smile is slow, knowing, victorious.

"But if you betray me," I growl, stepping closer, letting my magic coil around us both, "you will not live long enough to regret it."

She laughs.

And it fucking infuriates me.

The wind howls as I fly over the forest, the night air crisp with the scent of damp earth and distant rain. Vaela clings to my back, her body warm against my scales, her silver hair whipping behind her as we soar.

Below us, the land stretches wide and endless, silver-barked trees gleaming beneath the moonlight, their iridescent leaves shifting in waves of violet and green.

The moment we land, Ismellit.

Blood.

The clearing is littered with bodies—human and not. The air is thick with the remnants of battle, the scent of blood clingingto the damp earth, mixing with the pungent burn of steel and sweat. The ground is soaked in iron and death, darkened soil churned from the chaos.

Rhyzan’s remaining warriors stand guard, their weapons still drawn, their armor splattered with gore. They are weary, battered, but their stance remains rigid, prepared for any lingering threats. Among them, other creatures of my realm have come forward—those who survived, those who could not stand idly by while their land was attacked. A towering centaur kneels beside one of Rhyzan’s men, his thick fingers pressing against the wound on the warrior’s side, muttering something under his breath. Near the edge of the tree line, a dryad weaves strips of glowing vine around a gaping injury in another soldier’s chest, the soft luminescence dimming with each pulse of healing magic.

And then there are the sounds.

The groans of the wounded, the ragged breathing of those barely clinging to life. The hushed, hurried voices of those trying to mend the damage. A guttural cry splits the air as a man writhes on the ground, his leg barely attached, his pain thick enough to taste in the atmosphere.

I stiffen, my claws flexing at my sides. This is not the first time I have seen my people suffer. It is not the first time I have seen them bleed for me, for my realm. But it does not sting any less.

A rustling of silk pulls my attention.

Vaela slides from my back, her bare feet pressing into the earth. She takes one look at the wounded and steps forward without hesitation.

The river nearby stirs as if sensing her presence.

The water darkens, then glows, a faint, eerie bioluminescent blue creeping along its surface, winding through the current, reaching for her like a creature desperate for its master’s touch.

She lifts her hands.

The river answers.

The water surges forward, splitting into delicate tendrils, writhing through the air like living veins of power. It moves toward the injured, curling around them, seeping into wounds, stitching together torn flesh with liquid grace. The wounded gasp, their pain twisting into stunned relief, their bodies shuddering beneath the weight of the magic that now fills them.

I watch her work, my throat tightening, my magic curling at the edges of my skin like a restless storm.

She is power.

A force as ancient as the tides. A goddess among mortals. And yet, she is here. Healing my people. But what’s shocking the most, is she does not hesitate. She does not falter. For the first time, I do not know whether to hate her for it or be grateful.

My people do not fear her.

Theyrevereher.

Even Rhyzan watches her with something unreadable in his molten-gold eyes. Not reverence, not yet but something close. Something that unsettles me.

A whisper in the trees.

My body stiffens, instincts flaring. The scent of sweat and steel—wrong, human—snakes through the air, sharp against the damp, moss-laced scent of the forest.

I hear the rustle before I see the movement.

I turn too late.

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