Page 102 of Angel in Absentia
Darkness poured from the creature’s wounds—not blood, but a black mist that twisted and clawed at the broken stones.
Clea stumbled back against the far wall, heart hammering, as the battle exploded before her.
The ground shuddered underfoot. Around them, the ruined ceiling cracked, ancient stones crumbling as vines writhed and tore free from their moorings.
Ryson fought like a man possessed—every movement precise, brutal, and beautiful. He twisted past the creature’s strikes, each blow faster than the last, carving deeper into the writhing mass that tried to consume him.
The creature screamed—a sound that wasn’t human, wasn’t beast—a raw, tearing sound.
The darkness spread with every strike, seeping into the broken city like rot. Buildings collapsed in the distance. The sky itselfseemed to blacken, clouds spinning in a great whirlpool above the ruins.
And still Ryson fought. Pushing the creature back, blow by blow, toward the shattered heart of Salanes.
But it wasn’t enough.
The darkness kept coming. More tendrils sprouted from the creature’s back, the ground splitting open under their weight, new limbs forming and lashing out.
Clea felt the sickening pull of cien flooding the world around her, felt the city dying under the weight of it. The dead citizens of Salanes grew from the earth, coming back to haunt their hero.
Ryson staggered, a blow catching his shoulder—a spray of blood arced through the air.
The creature howled, sensing weakness.
It lunged, all claws and teeth and bone.
And Ryson caught it, grappled it, twisted it, and slammed it down onto the shattered stones with a roar that shook the ruins. He pinned it, blade against the writhing mass of its throat.
“Now!” Ryson bellowed, voice raw.
His silver eyes locked onto Clea’s across the collapsing world.
Pleading. Commanding. Trusting.
“Heal him!” he shouted.
Clea staggered forward, the world tilting around her. The ruins cracked and groaned, the sky blackened to near-night. Everyinstinct screamed at her to run, but Ryson was holding the darkness at bay.
Clea reached deep, deeper than she ever had—past fear, past doubt, into the place inside her where light still lived. She crossed the broken stones, knees buckling under the weight of the darkness. The creature shrieked and writhed, but Ryson held it fast, snarling through gritted teeth.
Clea dropped to her knees beside them.
The creature turned toward her, and for the first time, she saw not rage but terror in its face.
Its form exploded out around them in a blasting wave of darkness. Ryson transformed, and he was a beast swallowed in an ocean. The ocean called to them, a million voices with a million temptations, and Clea stood at the center of it.
Looking across her world, she saw it eclipsed in waves, and the beast of Ryson’s form kept it all back from her. Suddenly, the torrent of noise came to a complete stop.
Silence. There was only darkness, a thin layer of water at her feet, and the quiet chiding of another world.
Let me have your heart. Give me your soul.
Like a pulling and pushing tide, she recognized that she waited atop an ocean, boiling softly in red and black, each cresting wave commanding:
Let me have your mind. Give me your body.
Never satisfied. It was hunger. It was cien. It was madness, and it had found a home in them all.
Those voices quieted to a whisper, and she stood slowly, searching the world around her and seeing vague forms of wings and claws and shapes, knowing that in this moment, Ryson protected her from the violence of it all.
