LYRE
Thom stares at me in both confusion and blind devotion, already shifting from scared little quail to absolute certainty I’ll be able to fix everything in a moment.
It’s almost embarrassing. Especially after how little I’ve been able to do in the past few days.
Power hums under my skin, but its resonance is tainted by the contaminated aura of Isabeau’s underground prison.
"Fucking sanguimancers," I mutter. Owen’s never going to get this place purified under his own power. Even with his angelic ancestry, this level of corruption would take forever to scrub clean. Isabeau’s created a monstrosity spanning miles.
Manipulating the flow of arcana in this space is as easy as breathing for me under normal circumstances. With my power halved, it requires a little more concentration.
I send up a half-prayer, though it’s really more of a sardonic comment than anything: I’m not interfering too much... The wards were already here. So don’t make the punishment too severe this time, okay?
Of course, no one’s listening. People gave up on me centuries ago.
I let out a soft breath as I reverse the flow of arcana in each ward, feeling the magic within them bend and twist under my will. Isabeau’s work looks like child’s play to my eyes, but to someone like Thom, her work is that of a master.
As much as I might mock her skills, the system she’s created in this place is methodical, with a decent level of precision. She certainly spared no expense to throw wards at every twist and turn—then again, it isn’t as if she placed much value on the lives she drained to acquire the power.
I vaguely hear Thom calling my name, his voice thin and distant through the veil of magic as my consciousness flies through the interconnected ley lines of Isabeau’s wards, disabling them as if flicking switches on a circuit board. The network unfolds before me—elegant in its cruelty, a labyrinth designed solely for that bitch’s feedings.
In seconds, I’ve finished mapping the layout and identified the areas with flickering life signs. Three distinct areas with pulses, weak but persistent, buried deep in the northeastern quadrant.
My consciousness snaps back to my body with a jolt. The room tilts sideways for a moment before settling, something that would never happen if I was at full power.
Thom stares at me, paler than ever behind his copper-wired glasses. He looks relieved with my consciousness returned, which means...
I lick my lips, unsurprised to feel my fangs have extended. Judging by Thom’s expression, my eyes probably went full predator. No wonder he looks like he’s seen a ghost; he’s only ever seen my human facade.
"It’s done," I say calmly, not acknowledging his worry.
What I did was easy, but with only half my power, it’s more draining than it should be. The taste of copper floods my mouth, and I swallow it down. If Thom sees blood coming out of my mouth, he’ll probably faint, and I have no interest in dragging him back above ground.
I glance at the mummified corpses. The wards here were steeped in their blood, and I’ve tasted too many memories belonging to the dead in this room—flashes of terror, confusion, resignation. The bitter end of hope.
"There are three groups of survivors," I say, lifting one hand to point. "Northeast section. All the wards have been disabled, so it will be safe for any extraction team to get to them."
Arcana flows from my fingertip in a few faint threads, creating blue-lit lines along the floor as they snake to their destinations. Arcana pulses gently, creating a path in the darkness.
"What are you..." Thom adjusts his copper-wire glasses, blinking rapidly. "What did you just do?"
His confusion makes sense; all this time I’ve forced all the work into his limited hands.
But explaining isn’t really an option, so I just ignore it.
"Guiding the way. Come. We’re going back."
He falls into step beside me, stealing glances when he thinks I won’t notice. I do my best to hide how my legs have gone somewhat numb, my muscles tingling with pins and needles.
It shouldn’t feel this way; the amount of power I used isn’t very much, and arcana’s still brimming inside me.
But sucker-punching my way through contaminated arcana always comes with some level of backlash. It’s easy enough to deflect... but dodging the price of my actions will only increase the severity of whatever restriction comes my way. It’s a carefully considered risk versus benefits scenario.
The temporary pain of backlash is worth the reduction of the restriction I’ll face.
Though I seem to have overestimated my own ability to handle the backlash. How long has it been since I’ve faced true pain?
I fight back the urge to cough; if I do, I’ll spray blood. My chest hurts. My vision’s hazy.
I almost stumble over my own feet and catch myself against the wall.
"Are you—" Thom hesitates, his perpetual nervousness momentarily overridden by concern. "You don’t look well. Should we stop? I could try to—"
"I’m fine," I cut him off. "Just peachy. Nothing a nap and a sacrificial virgin wouldn’t fix."
His eyes widen. "I’m more than willing to help—"
Damn. That is not what I meant.
"I’m fine, Thom. It was a joke." Swallowing back the blood rising in my throat is not my idea of a good time, but this puppy-like quail is already trembling like a leaf in the wind...
Ah, it would be a lot easier if Aaron were here. At least I could trust him to carry me back if I fell.
"You don’t seem fine. Why would you... do it yourself? You’ve been teaching me this entire time. Did you think I couldn’t handle it?"
The wizard’s eyes well with tears.
I stare at Thom in mild exasperation. The man’s creating his own little story in his head and now he’s feeling sorry for himself.
"This type of magic would have eaten through your arcana reserves before you finished mapping the first corridor. No matter how many times I top you up, I can’t increase your maximum capacity."
His face falls, those watery eyes somehow getting even more pathetic. "I’m not good enough yet?"
I sigh again, deeper this time. Would be nice if Aaron were here. His confidence might be annoying as all hell, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about curating his tender sensibilities every five seconds. Aaron would have just nodded, maybe thrown in some sarcastic comment about my methods, and gotten on with it.
The weak wizard, on the other hand, needs his emotional hand held in a literal death chamber.
"Thom," I say as calmly as I can manage, "you’re going to need to take care of the rest. I’ve overstretched myself."
There’s nothing left to take care of, though the lie should at least boost his confidence. But the effects of the backlash are, unfortunately, real. They might not kill me, but it’s going to be a hell of a ride for the next few hours.
The copper taste in my mouth is growing more insistent.
His face brightens a little, desperation shifting to determination in my shimmering haze of fading vision. "I’ll do whatever it takes. You can count on me." He squares his narrow shoulders, a quail impersonating an eagle.
I open my mouth to reply, but instead fight back a violent cough. My chest feels like someone’s pouring concrete into my lungs. They’re heavy and tight, impossible to expand as I suck in a greedy breath, oblivious to the nasty remnants of blood-rot.
My vision abruptly fades in and out, and I stumble.
My legs buckle beneath me.
Damn it. I should have brought Aaron along. He’d have caught me, carried me out without asking stupid questions.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; down here, without any reception whatsoever, there’s only one thing it can be.
The App is back.
Within seconds, the arcana within me severs its connection, leaving me in actual mortal peril since I made the decision to endure the backlash.
Fuck.