Page 160 of The Shadowed Oracle
Chapter Forty-Seven
Her body was no longerhers to control, sucked into another void, another endless expanse where the past and her present became indistinguishable from one another.
“Ingrid?’ Dean called out, “Ingrid!?”
But he couldn’t reach her.
The vision had an unescapable hold on her. As it was in the face of Enitha’s Hydra form, the visions offered themselves up to Ingrid. But this time she refused, trying desperately to return, to stave off the ill-timed vision for just a little longer. She begged the magic coursing through her. She thrashed internally, slamming herself against the walls of her power.
No, she said,not now.
Why now?
And there was no clear answer, no voice given to the magic that flowed within her, but there wassomething. Some disembodied nudge from beyond, urging her, guiding her, ordering her to go with it.
She had no choice.
Whether this was a sign of things to come, what her magic would demand, or a consequence of her inexperience, it was clear that an Oracle’s abilities didn’t strictly come from within.It had rules to adhere to. Limitations and obligations beyond simple recharging.
Weightless, she hovered over the never-ending, timeless void. She could no longer hear Dean or the sea outside the ship’s cabin. She was fully immersed in the past, drifting down a tunnel until she saw a light ahead.
It grew larger, and slowly her surroundings became familiar. She was in her hometown. On the outskirts, in a forest not far from Dean’s cabin. Wind gusts felt real against her cheek, and she floated along a dirt road until she came to a clearing, an almost perfect circle of uncut wild grass surrounded by enormous redwoods.
A figure emerged from the brush.
Then another.
The sight, the magic, the vision—whatever it was—nudged Ingrid again, pushing her closer.
The first figure was a male. A familiar male with long hair and a thick beard that came to a point at the end. Scars littered his hands, his forearms, but it wasn’t until she glimpsed his eyes that she knew. It was Karis. In the dark, the strange grey-blonde hair color registered differently. But it was him. The same male she’d seen in one of her earliest visions, back on Earth, that first night in Dean’s fortress.
She moved closer to him, dropping to the soil and feeling a phantom sensation tickling her toes where grass should’ve been. She was just inches from Karis, and feet from the second figure—another male. He was tall, just as tall as Karis, with a similar build, but wearing a hood draped so far over his head it was impossible to make out any distinguishable features.
She watched the second male as he drew closer to Karis. Felt the darkness inhabiting him. Heard the pounding of his heart as he unsheathed a knife from his belt.
This was the night, she realized.
The night it ended for Karis.
Ingrid screamed out to him in warning, but no sound emitted. She knew better, knew this had already happened. But she had to try. Had to explore the depths of her power while she was there.
She hung at Karis’s side, imploring him with a mental push of her own.
Run.
Karis didn’t move. His eyes were sunken in, darkened by exhaustion or something worse. It appeared to be an effort for him to even stand, though his posture was forcibly upright. Something was wrong. Something was so terribly, terribly wrong. He wasn’t fighting back. Wasn’t armed. Wasn’t doing anything to stop it.
His mouth opened, and the words that fell from it cut through time and space with piercing poetry.
“In unrest, I find my beloved Ealis wayward in the fight for dominion. Those souls gifted everlasting life have, in time, coveted death. Praised it. Hungered for it. A blessed Viator will be envied, hunted, but not worshipped. For true power now lies in the reforging of oneself as a God. And to become truly immortal, one must rule in the afterlife. Make followers of your enemies. Populate the spirit realm with those you’ve conquered. A foolish Viator seeks this power in numbers. Yet, a blessed Viator on his own, content in their wielding, may harness unimaginable gifts. The Mother spreading her love to many is rich in company. The Mother giving all her love to one chosen child is blissful in preoccupation. Lest we forget to rejoice in the Mother’s love, for it is a blessing to be held at all.”
Ingrid knew the last few lines. She’d heard them before, but couldn’t place them. Had she seen the line in one of Callinora’s books? Had Tyla or Dean recited it to her?
She felt the answer right there at the front of her mind, but her mind was not totally her own in that moment. The sight forced her to hone in on the scene before her. On Karis.
She reached out for the elder Oracle once more, but she could only watch as the second male shakily approached Karis, lifting the knife, hesitating long enough for Ingrid to notice an odd engraving on the blade.
A kingdom’s sigil? One of Makkar’s cursed symbols? Ingrid fixated on it until the last moment.
