Page 44 of Bite Sized Bride
MIKANA
The world slows to a single, silent, screaming moment.
One instant, I am held fast against Kael’s chest, the solid, living reality of him a shield against the coming storm. The next, I am flying. He throws me, not with violence, but with a desperate, final gentleness. I tumble through the humming, supercharged air, landing in a heap on the soft, glowing moss in the clearing.
I push myself up, my mind a blank slate of shock, and I see it.
Kael, his massive form a silhouette of defiance, does not stop. He drives Lord Malakor, a prisoner in his own impenetrable golden shield, backward into the pillar of pure, white light. Into the heart of the Wildspont.
“KAEL!”
My scream is a raw, physical thing, a sound torn from the deepest, most vital part of my soul. It is a sharp sound of denial, of protest, of a world being ripped in two.
He does not look back. He cannot hear me.
They hit the light, and they are gone.
The pillar of white energy flares, a silent detonation of pure creation that washes over the valley. The humming in the airbecomes a deafening, soul-shaking roar. The world dissolves into a blinding, absolute whiteness. I am erased. The forest is erased. Everything is gone.
And then, the light recedes, collapsing back into the central pillar, leaving me blinking, my eyes streaming, in a world that is suddenly too quiet.
He is gone.
The truth of it is not a thought. It is a physical blow. A fist of pure, absolute agony that slams into my chest, shattering my ribs, my heart, my soul. The fragile, beautiful thing we had built, the impossible hope that had taken root in the ruins of my life, has been annihilated. He sacrificed himself. He chose to be unmade rather than let Malakor have me.
A sound, a low, animalistic whimper, escapes my lips.
“A pity,” a voice, cold and clinical, says from across the clearing. “He was a magnificent specimen. But ultimately, flawed.”
I turn my head. Vexia is getting to her feet, brushing the glowing dust from her purple silk robes. The remaining Miou warriors are regrouping, their swords drawn, their faces grim. They are closing the circle. The hunt is not over.
But the prey is no longer here.
Something inside me, a dam of grief and rage I have been building my entire life, does not just break. It explodes.
The latent power in my blood, the Purna magic that has been a dormant, sleeping thing, awakens. It is not a gentle stirring. It is a violent, cataclysmic eruption. The raw, untamed energy of the Wildspont, the very heart of creation, finds a conduit in my despair. It pours into me, a river of pure, white-hot power that feels like it is tearing my very cells apart and rebuilding them into something new. Something terrible.
I can feel the power coursing through my veins, a symphony of lightning and starlight. The world around me sharpens, thecolors becoming so vibrant they hurt my eyes. I can see the individual threads of magic in the air, the glowing life force of the moss beneath my feet, the dark, corrupted energy that clings to the Miou warriors like a shroud.
Vexia sees it. The clinical curiosity in her violet eyes is replaced by a flicker of genuine, startled alarm. She raises her hands, beginning a complex chant, a web of dark magic forming between her palms.
It is too slow. It is a child’s scrawl against a tidal wave.
I scream.
It is not a sound of grief anymore. It is pure, unadulterated fury. A universe being born in violence. And as I scream, the power inside me erupts outward.
It is not a spell. It is not a bolt of energy. It is a wave of pure, unmaking force. A ripple of silver light that expands from me in a perfect, silent circle.
The nearest Miou warrior, his sword raised, is the first to be touched by it. He does not cry out. He simply… comes apart. His armor, his flesh, his bones, they dissolve into a cloud of shimmering, screaming motes of light and dust, which are then scattered to the wind. There is nothing left. Not even a memory.
The wave continues its silent, inexorable path. The other warriors turn to run, their faces masks of pure, primal terror. They are too slow. The light touches them, and they are erased from existence. The twisted, iridescent trees they stand beside are unmade with them, their agonizing forms dissolving into a rain of rainbow-colored dust.
Only Vexia is left.
She has abandoned her spell, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. She throws up a shield of pure, black energy, a swirling vortex of darkness that meets my wave of silver light.
The two forces collide. The clearing becomes a battleground of absolutes. The raw, creative power of the Wildspontchanneled through my grief, versus the cold, ordered darkness of her practiced magic. Black and silver light wrestle, tearing at the very fabric of reality. The ground beneath us cracks, splitting open in deep fissures that glow with an angry, internal light.
