Page 55 of The Shadowed Oracle
Chapter Eighteen
Ingrid didn’t havetime to fully familiarize herself with her enemy. She only made out Sylan’s shadow, the cloak over his large frame, his dark hair, and the small blade hurtling at him.
The knife appeared out of thin air and barreled directly at the general’s heart, but darkness swallowed them again before she could see the dagger’s landing spot. When the illumination returned, it was pinned to the steel frame of the door just behind him, and Sylan still stood upright, untouched.
There was no hurry in the prince’s movements. Either he didn’t understand how close his prize was to escaping, or he wasn’t concerned about his ability to catch up to her. His hair jostled with each deliberate step forward, and his voice was a rich but gravelly growl as he spoke to his caged servant.
“Tell me, Wrane, how long have you been in service to the true King Makkar?”
The Wrane answered gleefully, as if honored to be asked. “Since the beginning, my lord. Since first I heard of our king’s gracious proposal.”
“And how long had you been on this ugly rock? Better yet, how long before you realized this…” He spoke without looking at Ingrid. “This girl here was an Oracle?”
“Only a day, my lord.” The creature’s elated tone had become a pitiful squeak. “When first we crossed paths, I hadn’t known. I hadn’t been able to see the signs. Her eyes. I hadn’t seen them. Hadn’t?—”
“And why is that? Why couldn’t you see them? Why couldn’t you sense her power?”
The creature had trouble calculating what its master might have sought. “I just hadn’t, my lord. I wasn’t close enough. Couldn’t feel anything. Maybe she’d?—"
“That will be all.” Sylan pivoted quickly, and with deathly calm, finally fixed his eyes on Ingrid.
It was here that she was able to take him in completely. He was as tall as Raidinn, but far more agile and athletic. His hair was a void-like black. Face sharp, predatory, but youthful. The onyx armor he wore was adorned with intricate depictions of creatures and horrors not unlike Ingrid’s tattoos. And his eyes were a piercing gold. It was like looking into the eyes of an animal that was trapped in a human body. Only, he wasn’t human. He was Viator. An immortal warrior.
“Dean,” Raidinn whispered. “Any idea what the fuck is going on?”
“I… I don’t know.”
The generator still whirred, the lights continued to flash, but the rapid beeping had plateaued. The monotonous bleating of the machine seemed to fade into the background, and everything came to a standstill. Even the lights appeared dimmer.
As a consequence, all attention was turned to Ingrid’s hunter.
“Oracle,” Sylan said, still holding his unabating glare on her. “I will make you an offer. Come with me, and I swear on Mother Ealis, you and your friends will not be harmed.”
The words barely registered. She couldn’t focus. With his glare, his size, his rumbling voice, the swords and daggersadorning his belt, he looked every inch a born killer sent from a world hellbent on ending all of Earth.
She could only stare, paralyzed.
“Go fuck yourself,” Dean answered for her. “If you want her, you’ll have to kill me first.”
The others looked to him curiously. Even Sylan was speechless. A little amused, but speechless nonetheless. He wasn’t used to such an invitation.
Just as the smile began to form in the corner of the prince’s mouth, Dean reached for his waist, solving the mystery of where that first dagger came from as he unsheathed another just like it.
“She won’t be your puppet,” he said.
“Puppet?” Sylan arched a brow. “No, nothing like that. All my subjects are treated with the utmost respect. See for yourself.”
He snapped his fingers, and it was only a moment before the things that had been incessantly banging on the door made themselves known.
First, hovering at a hauntingly slow speed, came an armored Wrane from the main hall of the basement floor. It was larger than the one trapped below them, its claw-like fingertips much longer, and its lower machinations no longer a mystery. Indeed, it had legs and feet and toes not unlike the sharp talons of its fingers, but beneath that nearly prototypical anatomy was a whirling plume of black smoke that seemed to carry the creature in mid-air.
Following close behind the soldier wraith, lumbering apace, were two gargantuan wolves.No, not wolves, Ingrid realized. They had the shape and gait of a canine, but the heads and necks were far thicker, wider, with long yellow fangs protruding well over their bottom lips. Foaming at the mouth, baring their claws, with that earthy, sour smell steaming off of their thick fur.
The creatures looked to Sylan, beggingly. The Wrane did the same, no question of their intentions. They wanted to attack,wanted to feed, wanted to reap the reward for all their tracking and following, all their hammering and breaking and pushing to get where they stood now.
“Patience,” their master called them off. “Patience.”
The creatures at the prince’s side made small growls of disapproval, but stood their ground. If the point Sylan was trying to make was that his soldiers had autonomy, he’d proven it. They were still glaring at Ingrid, inching closer, not seeming at all afraid of the consequences of disobeying.
