Page 9

9

LIORA

T he dark elves see us.

The energy from the artifact pulses through the air, thick and charged, making my skin itch with something wrong. My magic stirs, reacting to whatever’s inside that relic, but it’s different this time—not raw power, not instinct.

It hurts.

Like something pressing into me, burrowing deep, twisting.

I stagger back, clutching my chest.

Dain grabs my arm, yanking me close.

"We need to move. Now."

The elves don’t hesitate.

One lifts a hand toward the artifact, whispering something sharp and cutting in their tongue.

Magic surges.

A shockwave erupts from the relic, slamming into the cavern walls, rattling loose rocks and sending the slaves into a frenzy.

Screams break through the silence. Chains clatter, feet pound against stone.

The prisoners are running.

The elves barely spare them a glance.

They're focused on us.

Dain snarls. His claws flex, wings twitching like he’s fighting the urge to rip them apart.

My heart slams against my ribcage. “What do we do?”

His fingers tighten on my arm. “We fight.”

The first arrow flies

He moves before I can react, shoving me behind him, his wing snapping outward, catching the projectile mid-air. The force cracks the membrane, but he doesn’t flinch.

The second arrow doesn’t miss.

It sinks into his shoulder.

He growls, ripping it out like it’s nothing, but I see the way his muscles lock, the way his magic falters again.

The mine is interfering with him. The dark elves realize it, too.

They move in fast, closing the distance. Two wield spears, another channels magic through a curved dagger, the blade glowing sickly green.

Poison.

Dain sees it, too. He moves, too fast for their eyes to track, too strong to stop.

He closes the space in a blink, claws raking through the first elf’s armor, slicing into flesh.

A scream.

Another elf lunges at me.

I barely throw myself aside, the blade whistling past my face. I stumble, unarmed, too slow, too weak.

The elf grabs my wrist, twisting hard enough to make me yelp.

Dain turns his head. His expression changes.

Something sharp snaps inside him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t just attack—he demolishes.

The elf restraining me barely has time to react before Dain is on him, slamming his claws through his throat. Blood sprays hot against my face, against my hands.

The elf collapses.

Dain’s eyes are still burning.

I press a hand to my chest, breath shaking. “Dain?—”

“Move.”

Another magic blast rips through the cavern. He shoves me down, taking the brunt of it. The force sends him staggering, but he doesn’t fall.

The artifact pulses again.

I feel it now.

Not just its magic, but its wrongness.

It isn’t just a relic. It’s alive. And it wants something.

Dain catches my hesitation.

His claws wrap around my waist this time, hard, possessive. “Focus.”

I try. I try.

But something inside me is pulling.

Not just the artifact.

The mine itself.

Whatever the dark elves are digging for—it’s waking.

Dain notices it at the same time I do. His wings flare.

"We have to get out of here," he says.

The dark elves regroup, closing in again.

A chant rises from one of the remaining elves, his words curling into the stone, into the walls.

Dain flinches. The artifact’s magic is messing with him.

I don't hesitate this time. I grab a fallen blade from the ground. The elf chanting doesn’t expect me to attack.

I slam the dagger into his heart.

His mouth gapes, eyes widening in shock.

I twist the blade and blood dribbles past his lips.

His magic shatters and the artifact falters.

Dain moves instantly, catching my wrist and yanking me toward him.

More elves are coming.

I hear it. The roar of the river.

Dain hears it, too. His gaze snaps toward the cavern’s edge.

The slaves are gone.

Some fought, but most ran.

Now, only we remain.

The elves lunge one final time.

Dain doesn’t let them.

He throws me into the river.

The world turns to cold.

The current grabs me, dragging me down, tossing me against sharp rocks, against churning darkness.

I can't breathe. Can't think.

A hand clamps around my arm.

Not an elf’s. Dain.

His grip is iron, unrelenting, pulling me toward him.

His wings snap open beneath the water, pushing against the current, guiding us instead of letting the river take us.

His magic flickers—still unstable, still weak. But his strength is not.

He doesn’t let go.

Not once.

I cling to him, choking on water, on breathless terror. His heat burns through the cold, his presence the only thing keeping me from being swallowed whole.