Page 122 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
“No, no,” Everinne mumbled, turning away from the group of mortals so quickly the world tilted, and the colors of the night blurred. She stumbled forward, gasping as smoke filled her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Her eyes burned and she swiped hastily at the tears streaming down her face. Everinne coughed, tried to wrench herself free from Atlas’s hold, but he refused to release her.
She could hear him calling her name while she continued to lurch away from the bonfire, and though he held tightly to her wrist, he didn’t try to stop her. He just kept pace as she staggered blindly into the night while the snow whipped around them, while the wind froze the tears on her cheeks. Her magic stretched, awakening the monstrosity inside of her. The power of death demanded payment and retribution. It sought vengeance as it clawed its way to the surface, ripping into her sense of self, snapping its angry jaws and tearing at her confidence and control like a raging beast.
Her chest heaved, lungs seizing with every ragged breath.
Zoryana was gone.
The cacophonous sound of pain, of death echoed through her mind. Loud, yet painfully silent.
Wisps of violet and ribbons of black poured from the tips of her fingers and Everinne clenched her hands into fists, until her nails bit into the chapped skin of her palms, until she drew pinpricks of her own blood. She clutched them to her chest as the violent power snaked around her heart, squeezing it in a vise-like grip, slashing it with blades of hot iron. It cloudedher mind and battled her judgment, feeding off the swell of her storming emotions like a tempest of wrath.
Suddenly, Atlas was there.
He captured her face with both hands, warmth bleeding into her, his voice sharp and demanding when he said, “Look at me.”
Everinne’s eyes snapped to him.
Atlas’s magic flowed into her, it shimmered down the bond like a gleaming sword of strength, defending her.
“You are in control.” He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. His magic surged and the bond expanded, amplifying as he guided her out of the darkness. “Feel your power, Everinne. Own it. Rule it.”
She swallowed hard, searching every gaping, cavernous part of herself. If she could summon it in the dungeon, then she could call it back, she could prohibit it from overtaking her once more. Shard by splintered shard, she collected every broken piece of herself, gradually piecing the shattered fragments back together until it resembled the reflection of her soul. Gazing into Atlas’s eyes, she found clarity, but more than that, she found peace. With each breath, the agonizing pain subsided, the need to hurt, to destroy, ebbed. She gathered all the slivers of darkness, slowly plucking them from her heart. The veins of violet and black receded, her emotions calmed, and all the while there was an indistinct cadence, a sensual calling of familiarity that never left her. As though it had always been there.
As though he’d always been there.
“We’ll get her back,” Atlas murmured, his nose gently grazing hers.
His words struck her with a pang of despair. “You knew?”
Atlas leaned back, grasping both of her hands. The snow continued to fall, heavier now, so clumps of it gathered on his golden waves. “I knew, but I only just found out.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“Of course I was going to tell you,” he pleaded, and she felt the distinctive tug of the bond, the aching strain of his heart for her. “But you’d just been drugged, Ever. I was trying to protect you, or at least give you time to recover from one traumatic event before informing you that your best friend had vanished.”
Everinne knew he didn’t mean to hurt her, she could feel it in the way the weight of his gaze settled upon her—it was brimming with an emotion she didn’t want to recognize, that singular feeling that would make all of this so much more than a fated bond.
“I know.” Her words were soft when she spoke. “I know you were trying to keep me safe. But I have to find Zoryana.”
She turned to leave and Atlas’s arm shot out, snagging her by the waist. “Where are you going?”
“There’s only one place I can go if I want answers.” Everinne’s gaze drifted past the mighty stone walls that wrapped around Starysa, toward the forest blanketed in a dense layer of snow. “The wicked wood.”
Thirty-Seven
Atlas followed Everinne to the Deszvila Forest.
No one stopped them from loitering in the shadows near the towering stone wall, and no one noticed when Atlas summoned his wings, scooped Everinne into his arms, and flew them over the other side. The main gates leading out of the city were already locked for the night, and though Atlas could’ve asked a guard to open them for him, he didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention or raise any curious questions that could circulate back to his father.
It was bad enough he was already going to have to deal with a pissed-off Captain of the Guard, Atlas didn’t want to face the kralv, too.
He landed on the other side of the wall, just along the forest’s encroaching edge. The trees groaned in the wind, creaking like old aching bones, and the evergreen boughs, already heavy with snow, drooped low, reaching for the frozen ground like misshapen claws. Long shadows shifted between gnarled branches and with each gust of frosty air, the woods seemed to expand, to inhale, as though it was breathing in Atlas and Everinne’s scent. The hairs at the base of his neck stood on end, a shiver of unease trekked down his spine, and though Everinnewas already wiggling out of his arms, he wasn’t at all keen to let go of her.
The forest was dangerous.
He knew the lore, he knew the stories born from the horrors of the wicked wood.
In all of his 148 years, only once had he dared to venture into the Deszvila Forest. That was on the night his mother died, and he’d stayed away from it ever since.
