Page 142 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

More witches joined her.

“We are witches. Let us remind them what that means,” she growled as her wyvern flew in a circle above. Finally, all the wyverns and their riders fell into formation.

“For the Blacklands!” Blair screamed, and all of them, a chorus of witches, answered, raising their swords, grinning up at her, teeth and swords glinting.

“For the Blacklands!”

***

The battle turned into an outright slaughter. Palisandre threw magic at the witches, who ripped into them like a burst dam. Blair lunged, slaying warrior after warrior, swearing at the slaughter and the tang of blood that coated her tongue. At some point, rain set in, the metal of her sword singing in the air, a melody to the screeching of her wyvern as its teeth and claws shredded flesh.

She knew then that war changed a person. Shaped them anew. Whatever dark creature she’d been before, she had turned even darker.

She readied her blade for another blow and breathed in the symphony of gore and blood and mud, trying hard not to think about her mothers somewhere on that battlefield. There were just so many high elves.

The army of elves they’d spotted had been tiny compared to what was coming for them now. Another trick from Palisandre—reinforcements waited but a day’s march away and were pouring in minute by minute, swamping the valley.

Blair stood knee-deep in mud and gore, no longer able to tell the two apart. Fatigue had long since set in, but now despair started to weaken her blows, made her shields waver.

A lot of the witches had stayed back in Akribea, too far away to reach them in time. They were outnumbered. Defeat was inevitable.

Death was inevitable.

She knew then that all the witches she brought here were going to die tonight.

She readied her blade regardless as she stared down the impossible flood of soldiers coming for her.

A crack of dark lightning divided the sky, followed by bone-shaking thunder as equally black clouds collided.

For a moment, the slaughter stilled and everyone stared.

Then a horn blasted—their signal to retreat. Blair shouted commands, her wyvern banking and cutting sharp over the battlefield. It picked Blair up in its claws and veered right back to the mountain where their camp was set and where her aunt was standing at the very edge, her wide robes billowing, her red hair flowing around her dark crown like a halo of fire.

Wyvern after wyvern shook the mountain as they landed, wings flapping, witches dismounting. Blair didn’t take the time to dismiss her wyvern when more bolts of dark lightning began to strike down from the sky. Celestial magic.

Caryan’s magic.

Huge craters and burnt flesh and soil were all that was left where they met the ground. Palisandre had no time to react, barelytime to retreat or throw up their shields as a shadow fell from the sky. Blotting out the sun.

No, not a shadow. An angel with black wings.

An angel who kept butchering every single soldier, surrounded by a tornado of blackest night and chains of darkest lightning.

And, as Blair stepped next to her aunt and gazed down at the carnage, she realized that the witches had just been a distraction. A prelude.

Caryan was her aunt’s true weapon.

The only one she really needed.

45

Melody

Riven is gone in the morning, but, again, there’s a bubble bath waiting for me, along with that cup of perfect cappuccino that refills itself as soon as I empty it.

While I steam in the water, I try to ignore the tattoo on my wrist as best as I can, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s watching me.

I scrub at it, but all that happens is that my skin flushes. I wouldn’t be surprised if, should I dare to peel my skin, it just renewed itself.

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