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Caspian’s magic follows, more chaotic in nature, less disciplined than Lucien’s, but just as dangerous. His whip slithers into view like a summoned serpent, coiling up his forearm with a hiss of static and shadow. It pulses once, and the ground beneath him trembles. There’s no smirk on his lips.No quip curled at the corner of his mouth. Just silence—and Caspian’s silence is more terrifying than any blade.
Orin is last. He doesn’t summon a weapon. He becomes one. His body shifts subtly, the veins along his arms lighting with that eerie, corrupted glow I’ve seen only when his magic is fully awake. The shadows that cling to him aren’t just darkness—they’re memory. History. Magic that’s endured too long in a world that was never meant to hold it. His power doesn’t lash out. It mourns. And the ache in my chest isn’t from fear. It’s from the grief I feel radiating from him like it’s leaking through his skin.
I can see the way Lucien’s jaw trembles as he finally lifts his gaze to meet mine. In the slight shake of Caspian’s wrist as he readjusts the coil at his side. In the way Orin closes his eyes for half a heartbeat, as if bracing himself for what’s coming.
They don’t want this. Gods, theydon’t want this.
But they’re going to do it anyway.
I feel Riven step closer, his presence at my side like a live wire. He doesn’t raise a weapon, not yet, but his body is coiled with fury, with a promise. His voice, when it comes, is low and guttural. “They don’t want to hurt you,” he growls, the words shaking with the force of his restraint. “They don’t want this.”
“I know,” I whisper back, unable to look away from them.
And that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?
Because the world doesn’t care what we want.
Branwen stands just behind them, her expression serene as ever, like she’s watching pieces fall neatly into place. She thinks this is checkmate. But I’m not done playing.
And even if I was… they raised their weapons for her.
Now I need to show them who I really am.
To be continued…….