Page 26 of Claimed In Darkness
26
ZEPHIRAN
T he moment the vault doors slam open, the space fractures.
A blast of magic surges through the air, raw and unrelenting, tearing through my veins like a goddamn branding iron.
It hammers into my chest, sinking claws deep, dragging me under.
My father’s spellwork clings to my skin like a second layer of flesh, suffocating, inescapable. I feel him.
His amusement.
His victory.
His fucking ownership.
I know, without a doubt—he planned this.
Naira moves before I do.
Her dagger flashes in the torchlight, stance shifting as she spins toward the entrance, instinct kicking in before thought.
She thinks the guards will storm in.
She expects a fight.
She doesn’t expect the shadows to move on their own.
The atmosphere thickens with evil, the darkness pulling inward, curling like ink through water, silent, unnatural.
The smell of charred magic and rotting silk floods my senses.
My pulse throbs.
I know that scent.
I have smelled it before.
On my father’s hands. On the stones of his throne room.
On the altar where he first bound me to this curse.
The realization is a sword to the gut.
I don’t have time to react before the shadows lunge.
They lash out like living things, wrapping around my limbs, dragging me backward, forcing me to my knees.
A searing spark of agony erupts through my body, my spine bowing under the sudden, unnatural weight.
That’s when I hear it again—his voice.
A whisper, curling from the shadows, thick with mockery and something worse.
"Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, boy?"
The pain hits me like a fist to my insides.
I snarl, forcing myself upright, hands clenched into the stone, trying to fight against the invisible blocks pressing against me.
The curse burns through my veins, every nerve igniting in sick, relentless waves.
Naira whirls toward me, eyes sharp, hands already moving to grab me.
But she can’t help me. No one can.
My father has me exactly where he wants me.
The shadows shift, tightening their hold, pressing into my ribs, my throat, my mind.
"I gave you power, Zephiran."
His voice curls into my skull, threading through my bones, the sound of something ancient, something cruel.
"And now you think you can take it away?"
A choked, ragged breath drags through my lungs, my body fighting itself, muscles locking beneath the unseen weight.
I try to shove up on my arms, but they don’t fucking move.
My father is in me.
His magic, his control—woven so deeply into my being that I feel his amusement as clearly as I feel my own pain.
He isn’t even here but it doesn’t matter.
Nairavoice cuts through the haze.
"Zephiran."
A warning. A demand. A plea.
I force my head up.
She’s watching me. Her dagger is still clutched in one hand, but her fingers tremble.
She sees it now.
The real me.
Sees the way my body is failing, breaking, bending beneath an invisible force that I cannot fight.
Her gaze flicks over me, fast, assessing, calculating. And then she lunges.
Not at me.
At the relic.
The moment her fingers clamp around it, the magic shifts.
The weight loosens, just slightly.
Enough for me to suck in a breath. It’s enough for me to push against the hold.
"Clever little pet you’ve chosen," my father muses, the words slick with amusement.
"But it won’t save you."
A new pulse of pain lances through my nerve endings, sharper, crueler, meant to remind me that I belong to him.
But I grit my teeth.
I focus on the one fucking thing he doesn’t understand.
Me. And her.
I shove against the magic, the hold of his spellwork, forcing my body to move, inch by inch, breath by breath.
I can feel Nairafury in the atmosphere, the way her fingers tighten around the relic, the way she looks at me like she’s deciding whether to fight or run.
She shouldn’t be here.
She should never have been part of this.
I should have left her in the dark. She should keep loathing me.
Instead, she’s standing in front of me, her expression a storm, her voice sharp with rage.
"How the fuck do we stop this?"
I drag in a breath.
"Destroy it."
Her eyes widen, flicking between the relic in her hands and the way my body is visibly breaking.
"You’re sure?"
"No," I snarl. "But it’s either that or let my father have his way, and I’d rather fucking die."
Her grip tightens.
She raises the relic—and smashes it against the stone floor.
Magic erupts, an explosion of light and shadow, sound and silence.
The vault shatters around us, dust and debris cascading, the magic breaking apart stone and spellwork alike.
The curse screams.
My father’s magic howls.
Suddenly, the magic pulls away. A bit.
It doesn’t leave me. Not fully.
But it weakens.
I sag forward, hands braced against the rubble, breath heaving, skin damp with sweat.
When I lift my head, Naira is still standing there, panting, wide-eyed, furious.
Her mouth parts, as if she’s about to say something.
But before she can?—
Footsteps appear.
Fast. Unforgiving.
A dozen, maybe more, echoing through the ruined corridor outside.
The High Council’s guards.
We are out of time.
I grab her wrist, pulling her forward, dragging her into motion even as my body fucking protests.
"Move," I snap.
She doesn’t fight me.
She just runs.
As we tear through the shattered ruins of the vault, as the shouts of our enemies grow louder, as my body shakes, still bearing the scars of my father’s touch?—
I know one thing for certain.
My father won’t take this lying down.