Page 20 of Bound By the Beast Man
With a raw scream that is a mixture of all my pain, my grief, and my rage, I unleash it.
The spell does not fly from my hands as a simple blast. It erupts outward as a net of golden, runic light. It moves with impossible speed, ignoring Corvak completely, and slams into the two witches who are closest to him. They shriek, a sound of pure agony and utter disbelief that is cut short with a horrifying, grinding crack. Their beautiful, graceful forms contort and twist, their limbs locking at unnatural angles.
Their luminous skin hardens and thickens, the color draining away to be replaced by a sickly, mottled stone-grey. They are frozen in place, their faces eternal masks of their final moment of terror. The spell has worked.
They are no longer living things. They are grotesque statues, a horrifying monument to their own evil. The remaining Purna,including the silver-haired leader, stop dead in their tracks, their mouths agape, their attacks forgotten.
They stare, first at their fallen sisters, and then at me. Their expressions are no longer of arrogant cruelty, but of pure, unadulterated shock and fear.
The silver-haired leader looks at me, and I see fear in her cold, violet eyes. She recognizes her own magic, twisted and turned back against her with a power she does not understand.
I am no longer their specimen, no longer their stolen prize. I am an unknown, a monster of their own creation that has just bared its teeth.
“This is not over, half-breed,” she hisses, her voice dripping with a venom that is now laced with that fear.
She makes a sharp gesture, and she and the remaining Purna retreat, their forms dissolving back into the writhing, unnatural shadows from which they came. The clearing falls silent.
The oppressive magic dissipates, and the night is once again just a quiet, snow-filled wood. The only sounds are the soft crackle of our dying fire and Corvak’s harsh, ragged breathing. We are alive. We are alone.
The moment the last of them vanishes, the immense power that has been flooding through me is gone.
The magical backlash hits me, a violent, ripping sensation, my very soul is being torn from my body. All of my strength, all of my energy, is ripped away in an instant. The world tilts violently on its axis.
My vision swims with a dizzying kaleidoscope of black spots. My knees buckle, no longer able to support my own weight. I am falling.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. Corvak is there, wounded and bleeding, but holding me. I collapse into his embrace, the familiar, safe scent of him filling my senses, a grounding anchor in my spinning world.
His solid form is the last thing I register. My final thought before the darkness claims me is not one of fear, but of a single, soaring, triumphant realization.
We survived. Together.
29
CORVAK
She is a dead weight in my arms. The moment the last of the Purna vanishes, the immense, golden power that had blazed from Diana extinguishes, and she collapses. I catch her before she hits the ground, my own wounds and exhaustion forgotten in a fresh surge of adrenaline and fear for her. I hold her close, my heart hammering against my ribs as I check for her pulse. She is breathing, her pulse a faint, thready beat against my thumb. She is not dead, only unconscious, the magical backlash having drained her completely.
I hold her for a long moment, simply absorbing the fact that we are alive. I look around the clearing. The two grotesque statues, their faces frozen in masks of terror, stand as a chilling testament to her power. The victory feels hollow. This was a battle for survival, not honor, and it was won at a great cost to her. And as I stand here, holding my mate, a fresh wave of grief for my brothers crashes over me. This victory is mine and Diana's alone, but my true unit, my sworn kin, is broken and scattered.
My gaze falls to my own wounds. The deep gash along my ribs is the worst, a deep, angry tear that still weeps blood. I knowthat if I do not tend to it properly, it will fester. We cannot stay here.
“They will be back,” I whispered to the unconscious Diana.
I look down at her pale, still face, and a new vow, harder than iron, forms in my soul. She will never be taken again. But to keep that vow, and to have any hope of fulfilling my first vow to my brothers, we need a real shelter, a place to recover and gather information.
With a grunt of pain, I carefully adjust her weight in my arms and stand. Every muscle screams in protest, and the gash in my side sends a fresh, white-hot spike of agony through me. But the feeling of her small, unconscious body held securely against my chest is my only motivation. I am her shield. I am her protector. I will not falter. I choose a direction, north, always north, toward the distant goal of Rach, and begin the most difficult journey of my life.
The journey through the deep snow is a grueling, agonizing test of my endurance. Each step is a battle. The deep snow sucks at my boots, and the biting wind finds every tear in my tunic, every gap in my dented armor. My internal monologue is a torrent of conflicting duties.
“Just a little further,” I whispered to her. “I will get you to safety.”
But my thoughts are a constant, painful litany of my brothers' names. Silas, Caspian, Tarek, Ronan, Lucaris. Are they enduring a similar hardship? Are they lying wounded in the snow? Or are they already dead, their bodies lost to this cursed, hostile land?
The act of carrying her to safety feels like a penance for having failed to keep my brothers safe on the ship. I am saving her, but I was unable to save them. The thought is a torment, a poison that seeps into my soul with every agonizing step. I push onward, fueled by a desperate, warring mixture of love forthe woman in my arms and a profound, crushing guilt for the brothers I have lost. I must get her to safety. And then I must find them. I will not fail again.
Just as my vision begins to tunnel, just as my wounded body is about to give out completely, I see it. It is a faint, orange glow in the distance, a smudge of light against the oppressive grey of the mountains and the driving snow. It is a sign of a settlement, a haven. The relief gives me a final, desperate burst of energy, and I push onward, my steps stumbling but my resolve like iron. The journey from the first sight of the lights to the edge of the village feels like a lifetime, but finally, I am there.
It is a small, rustic place, its buildings made of rough-hewn timber and stone, smoke curling from the chimneys. I find the largest building, a sign depicting a foaming mug hanging over its door. An inn. I push the heavy wooden door open and step inside, the warmth and the smell of stew and ale washing over me. All conversation stops. Every eye in the common room turns to me. I ignore them and walk directly to the stout innkeeper, placing the silver buckle from my armor on the bar.
