Page 143 of Magical Mayhem

The battle had begun.

And I would not yield.

Malore’s form shimmered with storm light, his shadow edges flickering like torn banners in the wind. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the courtyard and rattling the Academy’s very bones.

“Pathetic,” he bellowed, his voice rolling like thunder. “Shifters, witches, fae, linking arms as if unity could shield you from what is inevitable. Weak. Frail. You think yourselves strong because you clutch at one another like frightened children?”

The fighters behind me bristled, wolves growled, fox-fire flared, runes lit brighter, but his words still landed, heavy and piercing. I could feel it in the line of my father’s shoulders, in the way some students shifted their stance, doubt cutting like a blade.

That was his power. Not just the shadows. Not just the curse. Division.

Every family sundered, every clan scattered, every heart turned against another fed him. He thrived on the fracture, on fear whispering that your neighbor could not be trusted, that your ally would betray you. The more we splintered, the stronger he became.

And hadn’t he already won so much of that fight? Gideon turned. Keegan cursed. My parents divided. Stonewick itself torn from Shadowick.

He had always been on both sides, blending fear and temptation, pulling strings until no one could remember what was truth and what was a lie.

My heart hammered as the realization dug in. We could not let him divide us again.

“Weak?” I shouted back, my voice cracking but fierce. “No, Malore. Weakness is ruling through fear. Weakness is tempting with darkness because you can’t stand the light. We aren’t weak because we stand together. We are strong because we do!”

For the first time, his smile faltered. But only for a moment.

“Then I will break you first,” he growled.

And with a roar that split the storm, Malore leapt. His shadowed form stretched wide, claws gleaming with stormfire, his whole being plunging straight toward me.

I braced, the earth trembling under my boots, and I knew this was the strike that would decide everything.

Chapter Forty-Three

The courtyard erupted in bedlam as Malore lunged, his shadowed form blotting out the stormlight. His claws swept down like spears of lightning, tearing trenches into the stone as I dove aside, rolling hard across the ground. Sparks and shards exploded where he struck, the air thick with smoke.

I scrambled up, my palms burning, and thrust both hands to the earth. The ground answered with a roar once more as spires of jagged rock ripped upward. Malore snarled as the stone slammed into his chest, knocking him backward a step, but only a step. He swiped his claws, shattering the spires into rubble that rained across the courtyard.

“You cannot root me out, Maeve,” his voice thundered, heavy with contempt. “I am in the marrow of this land. I am its shadow.”

“I don’t believe you,” I spat, sweat stinging my eyes. “You’re not Stonewick’s marrow. You’re its sickness.”

He laughed, rolling thunder across the skies, and swung again. This time, I met his strike with a wall of earth, forcing the ground to surge up and harden into a shield. The impact nearly tore me in two, the stone cracking, splinters of rock slicing my arms, but it held long enough for me to counter.

I flung my arm wide, vines erupting from the cracked wall, thorns glowing with Hedge fire. They lashed around his arm,biting deep into shadow-flesh. Malore roared, his form writhing, and for a heartbeat, I thought I had him.

Then his eyes blazed storm-white, and lightning surged down the vines, running straight into me.

The pain was blinding. It slammed me off my feet, the smell of burning thorns and seared fabric filling my nose. I hit the ground hard, my whole body spasming, and forced air back into my lungs.

Get up,I told myself.Get up, or it’s over.

Malore strode forward, massive, unstoppable, his shadow rolling like waves around his legs. The ground cracked with every step, the air warping with his fury.

“You are not enough,” he hissed. “You never were. Your grandmother bound herself to a cursed Academy. Your father fell to the bite of embarrassment. Your boyfriend is choking on his curse. And you,” he sneered, claws rising high, “you are only firewood for my storm.”

Rage burned hot in my chest, stronger than fear.

I slammed both hands into the stone.

The earth exploded upward, not in spires this time but in a wave, a rolling crest of stone and soil that crashed into him like a sea. He staggered, bellowing as he tore through it with claws and lightning, but I was already moving, already weaving flame into the roots beneath the ground.