Page 25 of The Dark Mage

I n the night, Ren’wyn fell down a long, black hole into a pit filled with claws and dark, hidden beasts. They tore at her face, her arms, her legs. Above her, lit from behind, stood Erst.

“Come out,” he taunted. “Come out, Ren’wyn. I can save you if you belong t o me.”

And she knew—she knew the choice was death, a long, slow, and painful death in the darkness of this pit, or a lifetime with Erst: pinched, belittled, and slowly destr oyed.

So she fought her faceless attackers as they sliced at her arms, then her back and stomach, while Erst wat ched.

She was bleeding—bleeding and dying and screaming—and the pain was too much. Too much...

Ren’wyn jolted awake, covered in sweat. Her throat was sore, as though she had been screaming. All the blankets were on the f loor.

And then she saw Fael.

He crouched at her bedside, hands on her arms. He had been shaking her, and his eyes were wide with con cern.

“Ren’wyn,” he ch oked.

She was gasping, weeping, and sweating, touching her face and arms to make sure it had been a dream. Just a dream. Fael was here. This was real—this was real. It had only been a d ream.

Ren’wyn grabbed his forearms as he held hers. It was a physical tether to reality—the feel of his warm skin and the heat of him so close. Her gaze dropped, and she saw he was shirtless, the powerful muscles of his chest and abdomen on full display as he gripped her.

A shock of arousal washed away her lingering fear. He was so warm. Heat and fire crawled along her bones, and she leaned toward him, her face hea ting.

Fael let go and tipped back. “Are you alright?” he asked. “You were screa ming.”

“I will be,” she replied, shaking her head to clear it and climbing back into bed. Her voice was rough, so she took a sip of her water. “A bad dream. A bad memory. When they mix…” She twisted her mouth. “I’m reminded of what I left behind—and that I have nothing to retur n to.”

His hand brushed her hair from her cheeks before tracing the path of her last tear. Then, he swept her into a gentle embrace, whispering, “This is real. I won’t leave you alone. We can be strong toge ther.”

She held onto his warm skin, the scent of him enveloping her. Reassured by his gentle voice, she let him lay her down and tuck the blankets back around her.

When he climbed into the bed next to her, wrapping her in his embrace, she stiffened and tried not to gasp in surp rise.

“Sleep now, Ren’wyn,” he whispered, stroking her hair slowly. “Sleep, and don’t be af raid.”

And she did.

Darkness. Exhaustion. Even the air weighed heavily on Ren’wyn as the days passed.

She couldn’t summon an appetite. Sleep became a distant memory until dawn, when it crept in on the heels of nightmares and fear.

Ren’wyn didn’t rise until late morning, arriving at the apothecary late.

She knew she kept forgetting her tasks but couldn’t manage even the simplest ones.

The shelves, the customers, and the herbs in the apothecary all blurred together.

Axel’s gentle hand and soft voice found her staring, dazed, out the windows more than once. The contact—the conversation—it hurt.

Fael slept in her bed, shaking her awake when the nightmares manifested and her magic lashed out.

In his arms, she surrendered to the tears and pain that came with her memories.

Unlike Axel’s contact, Fael’s strong arms and warm skin banished her dreams with reality—his embrace was the only light before the darkness of her insignificance descended a gain.

Ten days of avoiding training. She floated like a shade through the bare minimum needed to e xist.

On the eleventh morning, Fael took her outside and lifted her into the double saddle on the innkeeper’s horse. Mounting up behind her, he nudged the horse into a walk.

Slow and easy, the horse traveled down the road, and Fael pulled her to his chest so that her weary head rested against his shoulder.

How did he know exactly what to do? He talked aimlessly of the birds and the farms they passed, pointing out the fences he had mended and the families he had delivered her medicine s to.

Unbelievable—how he remembered each farmer, each family, by name and job.

They reached an abandoned house shortly before lunch. Fael lifted her down and walked her to a small bench in an overgrown garden. Crushed mint wafted up from beneath their feet, the plants tangled with bindweed. Pulling out his pack, he handed her a roll and an a pple.

“You shouldn’t go hungry for this,” he said, encouraging her to eat.

She took a few bites and swallowed against her constricted throat before asking, “For what?”

“I heard a story from a farmer about two weeks ago.” Fael’s eyes lingered on her as she ate, his expression solemn. The same gaze he’d worn during meals for the past week—he hadn’t let her skip eating, even when her appetite had vanished. “He told me about this blackened h ouse.”

His voice softened as he gestured to the farmhouse’s charred remains.

“There was once a family who loved each other very much—a farmer, his devoted wife, and their three sons. The middle son dreamed of following in his father’s footsteps, farming the land to feed a family and sell corn and wheat in Delmor.

The youngest son dreamed of adventure, perhaps enlisting in the governor’s army in Ishvaen. But the ol dest...”

Fael’s voice faltered, and his expression grew grim as he stared over the blackened carcass of the farmh ouse.

“The oldest son dreamed of magic. He was a druid, and he loved water. He called the rain, helped his neighbors find new wells, and felt the movement of water under the e arth.”

His tone was thoughtful, hushed, like the calm before a s torm.

“But though he was always careful, a traveler saw him call a rainstorm. The stranger knew he could profit by selling out the young man to the imperials. I’m sure he made a fine am ount.”

Ren’wyn’s curiosity rose, accompanied by a sense of foreboding. What was Fael leadin g to?

“A regiment came the next day to arrest the young man. He was eighteen. His father and mother refused to produce him—they had sent him into the woods to hide when they heard the imperials were ne arby.

“When the family said no, the guards cut down the father to prove their intent, but the other three held their ground. The imperials knew the boy was lost to them without his family’s betrayal, so they locked them in their house and set it on fire.

“The druid ran from where he was watching in the tree line. He ran to bring the rain onto the burning house, his family screaming inside. He ran and didn’t look—and the captain of the guard shot him through the heart with an arrow, waiting until he reached the h ouse.”

Fael’s voice cracked. He took a few slow breaths, curling his fingers into his linen pants. Ren’wyn watched anguish write itself on his face.

“I hope they didn’t see him die,” Fael whispered. “I hope they believed he was free and safe.”

Silence fell as Ren’wyn processed the terrible story. She couldn’t stop crying, the gut-wrenching loss and destruction breaking something inside her. Once the tears began, they became a f lood.

Fael pulled her roughly into his arms, his own tears hot against her neck.

“Come back, Ren’wyn,” Fael pleaded after they had composed themselves. Crickets hummed in the tall grass, and bees buzzed in the wildflowers growing around the broken, blackened cot tage.

“Come back.”

Loss, fear, and sadness rent her apart—and over it all, she was so, so tired. Fatigue threatened to swallow her whole, pulling her into a black pit without end.

“Come back,” he whispered a gain.

Then, his chest pressed against her as he inhaled sha rply.

Her magic had aw oken.

Death reached up from the ground, curling over their feet and legs like fog. Darkness spread from the bones of the house, misery and pain seeping like blood from an open w ound.

A brutal wind blew ice flakes around them, catching shadow and darkening the sky. Whispers grew louder. Fael’s tears froze on his cheeks, then thawed as he let his own power rise into f lame.

Ren’wyn stood, feeling the pull of the Void for the first time since the night of the broken m agic.

This was no night mare.

Here, she was the creature that hid in the shadow and called forth d eath.

She would not be the victim—not here.

Fael squeezed her shoulder, and Ren’wyn lifted her hands toward the sky. The bright afternoon sunshine dissolved into black, and in the hull of the old house stood four figures. Their margins flickered as though they still burned. Agonized screams carried on the wind.

Ren’wyn pointed at them, her other arm sweeping against her stomach, then slicing down ward.

The shades disappeared—then reappeared in front of her. Fael’s grip tightened on her shoulder. She was his safe harbor, and the thought filled her with stre ngth.

“Speak,” Ren’wyn comma nded.

The shades shuddered, dragging their clawed hands down their shadowed faces. The smallest one finally answ ered.

“Why would you call us? Leave us in peace.” The words were harsh, consumed with agony. The other three ghosts twisted behind him.

Another presence manifested behind Ren’wyn, soft compared to those in the house. She drew it in, like a beacon in the night of the Void. When she looked past Fael, a young man stood—tall and fair—in the overgrown front yard. Only a dark stain in the center of his tunic gave away that he was dead.

“Come,” she said to him.

Ren’wyn returned her focus to the angry shades in front of her. The young man approached tentatively, his profound grief a weight in the air.

When he drew level with Ren’wyn, he stopped. As though he, too, saw the state of his family’s shades, he collapsed to his knees and reached weakly toward them.

“Tell your story,” Ren’wyn’s voice rang through the mist.