Page 83 of Crown of Ashes and Desire

One of the hooded figures raised a blade that gleamed with unnatural light.

"Stop!" I commanded, my voice carrying the full power of my light magic. The room blazed golden as I stepped forward, power crackling around me in electric arcs.

The hooded figures turned as one, their faces hidden in darkness.

“This is not your concern, Lady of Light,” one of them hissed, voice distorted as if coming through water. “Return to your palace.”

“Release the child,” I demanded, light gathering at my fingertips, forming into deadly spears. “Now.”

“The ritual requires completion,” another figure intoned. “The Shadow Realm weakens when the solstice approaches. The ancient tithe must be paid.”

The solstice—nine days from tomorrow. The same day, Hakan had scheduled whatever ritual he planned for me. The connection couldn’t be a coincidence.

My mind raced with terrible understanding—both rituals must serve the same purpose: to strengthen the Shadow Realm’s boundaries at their weakest point. If the boundary between realms could be fortified through the sacrifice of an innocent child, what might be achieved through the sacrifice of an adult light-bearer with royal blood? The Crown of Ashes Ritual that Hakan had mentioned must be a more refined version of this ancient, brutal practice—different methods for the same terrible goal.

The child's eyes found mine across the chamber—dark eyes, terrified but defiant. Something about her defiant posture struck me. Despite her fear, she held her chin high, refusing to cower. She reminded me of Kiraz—not in appearance, but in that spark of stubborn will that refused to be extinguished even in the face of terror.

At that moment, I didn't think. I unleashed my light, a blinding explosion that sent the hooded figures flying backward. I moved through the chaos, cutting through the child's bindings with a blade of pure light, gathering her form to my chest.

"Hold on to me," I whispered urgently. "Don't look."

She buried her face into my neck while I turned to flee, but our path was blocked. The hooded figures had recovered, their shadows coalescing, reaching for us with clawed hands of darkness.

"You interfere with sacred rites," their leader snarled. "The price for such sacrilege is death."

"Try me," I challenged, light blazing around us in a protective shield. "I've faced worse than shadow cult fanatics."

Their attacks broke on my light, darkness hissing where it touched the golden barrier. But I could feel their power growing, feeding off the interrupted ritual, off the fear still radiating from the child in my arms.

We were trapped, outnumbered. I could hold them off, but for how long?

"When I say run," I whispered to the child, "I need you to follow me. Stay close behind me, don't stop, don't look back. I'll get you out of here and to safety."

She nodded into my shoulder, her body trembling but resolute.

The darkness pressed harder on my shield, cracks appearing in the golden light. I gathered my remaining strength, preparing for one final explosion of power that would give the child her chance to escape.

“Now!” I shouted, releasing a blast of light that momentarily blinded everyone in the chamber. I set the child down, pushed her toward the door. “Run!”

She bolted, quick as a shadow herself. Two of the hooded figures moved to pursue her, but I sent spears of light to block their path.

“Your fight is with me,” I taunted, though my strength was fading rapidly.

Their combined attack drove me to my knees. Darkness closed around me, suffocating, consuming. I fought to maintain consciousness, to keep my light burning, but it was dimming, flickering as a candle in a storm. When my vision darkened, the air suddenly changed—pressure building as if before a storm, followed by a dramatic drop in temperature that sent the cultists'chanting faltering. Frost crystallized across the ancient stones in delicate, deadly patterns.

The darkness shifted, no longer the chaotic shadows of the cultists but something deeper, more controlled—ancient shadow magic wielded with precision. The door exploded inward with such force that stone fragments embedded themselves in the far wall. Through the dust and debris stepped a figure wreathed in shadows so deep they seemed to devour light.

“What,” said a coldly familiar voice, “do you think you’re doing?”

Hakan. The recognition came with a rush of conflicting emotions—relief, anger, confusion. Behind him stood Sarp, and behind them both, palace guards with weapons drawn, their faces grim.

The cultists froze, their attack faltering.

“My lord,” their leader began, “we were merely?—”

“Attempting unauthorized blood magic in my city,” Hakan finished, his voice deadly quiet. “With a child. Against my explicit orders.”

I managed to see Hakan standing in the doorway, Sarp a step behind him, all traces of his usual humor gone, hand on the hilt of a blade that glowed with strange blue light. Shadows writhed around Hakan in serpentine coils. His eyes burned blue-white with cold fire, his expression a mask of controlled fury.

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