Sylas storms down the stairs, each of his steps echoing like a desperate heartbeat through the narrow stairwell. Only when we leave the hidden room with his help do I realize I would never have escaped alone. And Sylas knows it too. He has made a deliberate choice to confront the enemies—or rather, not to turn his back on his people.
The screams from the village grow louder, a chaotic chorus of fear and pain reverberating off the walls. With every scream, Sylas' face tightens, and I can feel his tension, sharp as an invisible blade cutting through the air. Moments later, we reach the heavy front door.
Sylas halts. His hand rests on the door handle, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he casts me a glance—brief yet filled with doubt. His face reveals the inner struggle still raging over the decision he made in the hidden room. He knows that protecting the village is essential, that he must act—immediately. But within him, another battle burns.
The fear in his eyes has nothing to do with the screams outside. No, Sylas dreads standing against his father. And that fear, it seems, is worse than anything waiting for us beyond the door.
Resolutely, Sylas pushes the heavy door open, its groan breaking the tension, and steps outside. Instantly, a sharp, acrid smell assaults me, clawing at my lungs and clouding my senses. Is this the infamous Mord Vupu? That lethal mist Sylas warned me about not long ago? A poison so potent that its devastating effects manifest within the first breaths.
Before I can grasp the situation, my throat constricts as if bound by invisible chains. A choking sound escapes me, followed by violent coughing that steals the air from my lungs. My body fights desperately for oxygen, but each breath only intensifies the burning agony. The world around me begins to blur, life slipping from my grasp.
But Sylas doesn’t hesitate. With the calm and precision of an Elindine, familiar with such dangers, he places his hand over my mouth. A cold, clear sensation spreads across my lips, like the whisper of an icy river. Suddenly, the invisible chains around my chest loosen, my airways open, and the suffocating air loses its deadly edge. Gasping, I glance at my companion, whose eyes burn with determination.
A thin, protective layer of water gleams on Sylas’ lips, and I realize he has shared the same protection with me.
“That’s Elysea,” he explains tersely, his voice calm yet urgent. “Water of extraordinary purity. It comes from the Kairon pond. It neutralizes all poisons of the outside world. It shields your pores and prevents the mist from entering your body through your mouth and nose.”
“But?” My voice is fragile, but I sense there’s a catch in his explanation. Otherwise, the Mord Vupu—the deadly poison that terrifies all of Elindros—wouldn’t be so feared.
Sylas nods grimly. “Elysea is fleeting. Only its constant connection to the Kairon keeps it potent. In small amounts, it begins to evaporate immediately upon exposure to air. We have only a few minutes before its protection fades.” His words are like a drumbeat in the silence. “The bunkers beneath the village—they’re our only chance. My father has lined the walls with pipes through which Elysea flows constantly. They repel all toxins.”
I nod, no reply necessary—time is of the essence. But before we can move, my gaze catches something that steals my breath once more—this time, out of horror. The houses where the Solniw lived just hours ago are ablaze. The flames devour the wood with feral greed, the heat splitting and cracking the beams with loud pops. Thick smoke billows into the sky.
Beneath the collapsing ruins of one building, I glimpse an arm reaching ghostlike from the rubble. My breath catches as Sylas follows my gaze. Suddenly, he darts forward with the speed of a predator, dropping to his knees before the wreckage. For an endless moment, the world falls silent. Then, like a volcano, his despair erupts—a scream raw and laced with agony tears through the air.
With wild determination, he begins to smash at the debris, his fists pounding the ground. But it’s not enough. For all his strength, he cannot lift the weight of the past.
“I should never have left them!” he roars, his voice trembling with self-reproach.
He knows exactly whom he’s found beneath the rubble. For the Solniw, faces aren’t necessary; they know each other as brothers and sisters of an ancient family.
“I could have saved them all. None of them had to die like this!”
His words cut through the silence, and for a moment, I barely dare to breathe. Finally, I kneel beside him, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder.
“Sylas,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. “What’s done cannot be undone. I understand your pain, but the Elysea only lasts minutes. There are still lives to save—lives that depend on us. We cannot delay.”
He freezes, his fists trembling, then lets out one final, frustrated strike against the ground. His breathing is heavy as he slowly rises. With a look that carries a thousand unspoken words, he nods at me.
“If we encounter a Sualtier,” he says, his voice eerily calm, “You must not fight. Promise me you’ll find safety.”
I don’t respond. Inside, I know I won’t run—not when it matters. But I nod, aware that arguing would waste the precious minutes of Elysea. Without another word, we turn away, leaving the lifeless form of the Solniw behind as the crackling of burning houses accompanies us.
The silence presses on our shoulders like an invisible weight. It’s not mere absence of sound but a forewarning, a lurking growl in the shadows. Every breath is sliced by the fear that the enemy might strike at any moment—mercilessly, relentlessly, leaving no time to react.
With each step closer to the heart of the ravaged village, a grim gallery of the lost reveals itself. Victims of the Mord Vupu lie scattered, their deformed bodies a testament to the horror. The poisonous mist has turned their skin an unnatural shade of violet—a cruel proof of the merciless death that stole their breath. The memory of that suffocating grip on my own throat still burns within me—a dance on the edge of oblivion.
Sylas’ eyes flicker briefly to the corpses before he abruptly averts his gaze, as if trying to banish the images from his mind. But I see the tension in his posture, the pain he carries in silence. Whatever he feels, it is deep and unyielding—a fracture that will never heal.
How could I have ever believed that the people of Elindros had no words for hatred, murder, or war? Naïve—I was hopelessly blinded by an idea that now reveals itself as an illusion. Is there even a dimension where only peace exists? Can true order persist without chaos to shape it? Or is peace merely a mirage, a deceptive light that shines only in the presence of darkness?
“Leave them alone!” The words crash through the air like a thunderclap, their source unclear at first. But the voice is unmistakable, and it sends ice through my veins. Before my mind can process what I’ve heard, Sylas is already sprinting ahead, like an arrow loosed toward its target. Without hesitation, I follow, my steps weighed down by the looming sense of danger in the air.
The path takes us into a narrow, shadowed alley that opens into a ravaged park. The scene is oppressive: shattered trees, torn earth, a world teetering on the brink of ruin. And at the park’s entrance—a figure I would never have expected.
Mrs. Strömert.
She stands unsteadily, facing a Sualtier, his grip on Mirael as unyielding as an iron band. The girl thrashes desperately, kicking her legs, but the enemy’s claws refuse to relent. Mrs. Strömert is breathing heavily, blood dripping from a deep wound on her right arm, her eyes brimming with despair. Just behind her looms a second Sualtier, his face partially obscured by a mask that reveals only its cold, greedy eyes. But it’s him who holds my attention—his bloodshot eyes glow like fire, a cruel promise of violence.
“They haven’t noticed us yet,” Sylas whispers with restrained relief. His gaze is sharp, his body taut as a coiled spring. “Stay here and keep hidden. I’ll help Mrs. Strömert and Mirael. They won’t make it on their own.”
I nod, reluctantly, and watch as he moves forward silently, every step purposeful, his focus unbroken. My heart pounds wildly, my hands trembling as I wait for what comes next.
“Let my daughter go! Take me instead!” Mrs. Strömert pleads suddenly, her voice cracked and choked with tears. “She’s just a child!”
Her words hang in the air, but the Sualtier holding Mirael does not respond. Instead, he raises a single finger and slowly draws an invisible line through the air—and the unthinkable happens. Mrs. Strömert’s body collapses suddenly, her head hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.
Mirael tries to scream, but no sound escapes her. Her gaze flickers, her mind teetering on the edge of darkness.
“Your daughter is more valuable to us,” growls the second Sualtier, his laughter echoing in the night. “Let’s take her to the others.”
But before they can drag Mirael away, a liquid whip of water slashes through the air, striking the back of the first Sualtier with brutal force. A strangled cry escapes him, and his grip on Mirael loosens instinctively. She tumbles heavily to the ground, rolls, and bolts as fast as her frail legs can carry her.
“Cursed brat!” snarls the attacker, clutching at the searing wound. “I’ll have her yet!”
His partner moves to give chase, but Sylas suddenly steps into his path. His eyes blaze with fury, lingering briefly on Mrs. Strömert’s lifeless body, and I see his hands clench into trembling fists.
Mirael catches sight of me from the corner of her eye and staggers in my direction. I raise my arms to catch her, just as the murderer of Mrs. Strömert snarls at Sylas with a menacing voice: “Do you want to die too?”
Before Sylas can respond, the Sualtier raises his hand again to draw a deadly line in the air. But this time, the invisible blade is deflected by a barrier that appears out of nowhere.
Startled, the attacker pauses, his stance shifting abruptly into one of tense readiness.
A soft, dangerous hiss escapes his lips: “Interesting.” He leans forward slightly, his presence growing even more ominous. “That makes you even more intriguing.”
Sylas, usually composed and quiet, now resembles a brewing storm. The air around him ripples with charged energy, and his voice, deep and foreboding, leaves no doubt that he will not back down.
“Today, you’ll pay for everything you’ve done.”
The first Sualtier lets out a booming laugh, arrogance echoing in his tone. “Is that all you’ve got?” His gaze on Sylas is devoid of respect—only contempt. His partner, a burly figure with a grim expression, remains silent, his hands resting loosely on the hilts of the daggers at his belt.
Sylas narrows his eyes, his face hardening. The air around him begins to tremble, an ominous hum spreading through the ruined streets. With slow, deliberate movements, he raises his left hand. His fingers trace spiraling patterns in the air, like streams of invisible energy coursing outward.
Suddenly, the burly Sualtier lunges forward, but he doesn’t make it far. A violent choking sound tears through the silence. His hands clutch at his throat, his eyes widening in terror as his skin turns ashen pale. Sylas lifts his hand higher, his index finger jerking downward, and crimson spots bloom across the Sualtier’s body. It’s a gruesome, almost organic display—the blood vessels bursting beneath his skin like snapping threads. His body crumples inward, lifeless.
“You bastard!” shouts the remaining Sualtier, though he holds back, staring at Sylas with a mix of rage and fear.
The lifeless man collapses to the ground, a hollow shell that was brimming with life mere moments ago.
“Filthy bastard,” growls the surviving Sualtier, his voice sharp with disdain. “You’re just like him... I can see it clearly. You’re using the same miracle water to survive our poison. You’re his son, aren’t you?”
Sylas’ fury swells, like a storm about to break. “What did you do to my father?!” he roars, his voice booming like thunder. He throws his arms wide, and from his hands emerge two lashing streams of water, hissing and snapping in the air. “I’ll destroy every last one of you until there’s nothing left!”
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The Sualtier folds his arms across his chest. “I’d like to see you try. But if he’s your father, then my people have already brought him to his knees.” He steps back, his form beginning to shift. The contours of his face dissolve, his body melting like smoke. “It’ll be my pleasure to send you to him.”
The village of Solnya lies in ruins. The streets are illuminated by flames, and the stench of burnt wood and blood hangs thick in the air. A steady wind whips through shattered windows, making the remnants of buildings flicker in the night. Sylas stands amidst the chaos, his eyes fixed on the two Cata Sualti opposing him. One already lies lifeless on the ground, shattered and disfigured by Sylas’ last move, but the other remains calm, his cold, empty eyes locked on Sylas as his body begins to change.
Without warning, the remaining Sualtier dissolves into mist. His form splinters and liquefies, blending into the cool night air until only a shimmering haze remains.
“You can’t win,” hisses the voice from the mist, as though it’s coming from everywhere at once—from the air, the houses, even the ground itself.
Sylas’ eyes narrow. A quick glance at the lifeless body of the first Sualtier—this fight is far from over. He raises his hands, the water around him swirling as if alive.
“Come out, coward!” Sylas’ voice echoes through the ruins. But the mist remains silent, the air trembling faintly in response.
Suddenly, the mist flickers and takes shape once more—this time behind Sylas. A lightning-quick movement, as if the Sualtier has emerged from thin air. Sylas whirls around, but the Sualtier is faster. A dark shadow, a shifting mass, solidifies in mere seconds and throws a powerful punch at Sylas. The air around the blow tears apart, the wind howling with its force.
Sylas dodges in a flash, but the Sualtier vanishes again, dissolving in another direction, shooting off like a black streak and returning as an eerie shroud. It’s as though the mist itself obeys him, and with every passing moment, the Sualtier grows more dangerous.
“You can’t catch me,” taunts the mist, its voice becoming a whisper, seemingly from all directions. “The mist is my domain, and you are just a toy.”
Sylas’ anger swells, his features hardening. He spins in place, his water whips slicing through the air, cutting into the mist. Yet every time he lands a strike, the mist bursts like shattered bubbles, only to reform instantly. The Sualtier is nothing more than a ghostly, ever-shifting figure.
“Coward!” Sylas roars as he lashes out again. This time, he lets the whip curve into a wide arc, creating a vortex of water that engulfs the mist. But the Sualtier evades once more, vanishing in an instant.
Again, the Sualtier strikes, this time from a different angle, swift and deadly. Sylas senses the attack too late, but an instinctive leap saves him. The Sualtier’s blade, now formed from a liquid, mist-like substance, slices through the air and lands with such force that Sylas is nearly knocked off his feet. Blood sprays from a deep wound at his side, yet he reacts faster than the mist itself.
With a hoarse cry, he raises his arms in a final, desperate move. The water whips coil into a massive vortex, wrapping around the Sualtier and seemingly binding him. The Sualtier struggles against the current, but the sheer power of the water tears at his form. Sylas’ eyes burn with determination.
Yet the mist remains relentless. Slowly, the Sualtier dissolves again into a faint haze, slipping free of Sylas’ grip and dissipating into the cool night air. Sylas’ water whips lash at empty space.
“You’re impressive,” the Sualtier says, now a distorted silhouette within the mist. “How many years has it been since I faced someone like you? I promise you, your death will be long and filled with unimaginable pain. But before that, I have something else to take care of.”
Before I can process the words, I feel it—a cold, iron grip around my neck. The Sualtier has reformed, and in a moment that feels like an eternity, he has me locked in his grasp. His hold is like steel, unyielding and crushing. The air around me grows thin, as if the mist itself is draining my life away.
“Mirael, run!” Sylas shouts, his voice distant and muffled to my ears. Mirael’s panicked screams pierce the air as she stumbles backward, but after only a few steps, her legs give out. She collapses to the ground, her eyes wide with terror as her body trembles uncontrollably. Sylas turns toward us, desperation etched on his face, his water whips coiled and ready to strike. But the Sualtier is quicker.
“No, no, no,” he whispers through the silence, his voice laced with chilling satisfaction. He leans closer to me, his breath hot and razor-sharp against my neck. “The blood of death... at last.”
“You’ll regret it if you harm her,” Sylas growls, his voice dripping with fury and resolve. His arm darts protectively in Mirael’s direction, shielding her from harm as best he can.
“Harm the vessel?” the Sualtier replies incredulously, a deranged, guttural laugh escaping his lips. “She is far too valuable to slaughter like that poor old woman. No, no, that would be far too simple.”
“The... vessel?” Mirael repeats, her voice trembling as the words cut into me like a knife. She turns toward her mother’s lifeless body, her eyes now brimming with pain and confusion. “Liora is the vessel of the Sonatius Mortaeda? She’s the reason my mother died? A Losniw?”
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. The truth of my origins—long hidden, long denied—tears open a gaping wound in my heart. I had just wondered if it would ever matter, if the people of Elindros would judge me for who I truly was. And now, as Mirael looks at me with this revelation burning in her eyes, it feels as though the weight of the entire world has fallen upon me.
The girl who had reached out to me moments ago, her trembling hands seeking solace, now stares at me as though I were a monster she should never have known. Her eyes, which had so recently been filled with trust and concern, are now brimming with hatred and betrayal.
"A Losniw destined to establish a world order where your kind will be the inferior race," the Sualtier declares with a grim smile, as though he already knows the course of history. "It was a good fight, Solniw. But my task lies elsewhere, and I will complete it now. We will meet again."
Before I can react, the Sualtier dissolves into mist once more, his form melting away and dragging me with him. Yet at that moment, as everything around me begins to blur, I feel something strange—my own body starts to turn to mist, my very being begins to dissolve.
"Stop!" I cry out in a final desperate scream, and to my astonishment, the world around me halts. The mist freezes mid-flow. Time itself doesn’t just break—it seems to suspend entirely.
I glance around in panic. Sylas and Mirael are frozen in place, their faces locked in mid-motion as if reality has slipped beyond their reach. Their gazes are fixed on me, yet somehow distant. Has time truly stopped? How is this possible? Zyar barely taught me anything about thought-weaving. Could I have accidentally triggered my powers and stopped time?
"You’re the first vessel to be caught so easily," a soft but resolute voice sounds behind me. The Sualtier’s grip still holds me, yet I sense a new presence manifesting. Though I cannot see it yet, I know it’s there. "I couldn’t stand by any longer."
At that moment, a young woman steps into view. She has chestnut-brown hair, short save for a single, long braid that falls down one side and reaches her back. Her gray eyes examine me with a mix of curiosity and disappointment. She appears delicate, yet there’s an undeniable force about her, a presence I can feel in my core. She is the center of this pause in time, a danger far greater than I could ever imagine.
"How do you expect to tame the Sonatius Mortaeda when you can’t even handle this Sualtier?" she asks, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "It’s fascinating how even after 500 years, the Cata Sualti haven’t curbed their violent nature."
"Who are you?" I manage to ask, my voice trembling with confusion. Deep down, I have a suspicion of who she might be.
"Eldralith Entium," she introduces herself confidently, her voice clear and authoritative. Then, with a calm gesture, she places her hand on the Sualtier’s arm. Instantly, his grip on my neck vanishes. "Vespera, you have much to learn. You are the vessel that should never have been. Your journey will be unlike those of the vessels before you."
She steps toward Sylas and pulls a vial from his pocket. With a swift motion, she takes his hand and gently presses it to Mirael’s mouth. A soft glow appears on Eldralith’s forehead, spreading to Sylas’ hand. The protection granted by the Elysea forms around Mirael’s lips, shielding her from the deadly influence of the Mord Vupu.
With one last look at me, her expression softens into a nearly maternal smile. Then, as if with a thought, she lets time resume.
The world rushes back—the howling wind, the crackle of flames, the ruined, burning village surrounding us. Relief floods through me, but it’s tinged with a haunting emptiness.
"How?" the Sualtier mutters, his confusion evident as he stares at his hands, now powerless to hold me. "You…"
Before he can finish, a sharp whistling sound cuts through the air—from the northeast. The Sualtier looks at me, and despite the mask that hides his face, I can feel the fury burning in his eyes.
"You won’t escape us forever," he hisses.
And with one last wisp of mist, he vanishes.
I exhale in relief, my hands instinctively moving to my throat, which still aches from the Sualtier’s grip. Mirael rushes to her mother’s lifeless body, sobbing uncontrollably, while Sylas glances toward me, his face filled with concern. I nod at him, a silent reassurance that I am unharmed, and he moves toward Mirael, who kneels beside her mother, overwhelmed with grief.
"Why did you come to our village if you’re the vessel?" Mirael screams, her tears glistening as anger fuels her words. "What did my mother ever do to you to deserve this? She welcomed you, fed you, treated you kindly! Why? WHY!"
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. Nothing I could say would be enough. She’s right. She’s right about everything.
“You cannot hold her accountable for all this!” Sylas’ voice cuts through the icy stillness as he looks at Mirael intently. “The fact that she’s here in Solnya is entirely because of my father and me. We knew the risks when we allowed Vespera to stay in one place for too long.”
“Vespera?” Mirael repeats the name with surprise before her lips curl into a mistrustful smile. “Even your name was a lie? My mother was right—your kind, Losniw, are scum.”
“Mirael!” Sylas hisses, aghast.
“She’s right,” I admit bitterly, my gaze sweeping over the devastated village.
The flames of the burning houses dance against the night sky, their embers drowning out the stars. The sweet, acrid smell of soot mingles with the heaviness of loss. All around us lie the ruins of a past that will never return. Solniws who had hoped for tomorrow are now mere shadows of yesterday. All of this—just to protect the vessel.
“Words can’t ease your pain,” I finally say, forcing myself to meet Mirael’s gaze, though the shame weighs heavily on my shoulders. “But I am sorry. For everything I’ve caused. I’ll leave now. Alone. Tonight has shown me the impact I have on this world—and the price others pay for it.”
“You can’t just leave!” Sylas’ voice is filled with desperation as he steps toward me. “Ves, don’t let your emotions drive you to such a decision. We’ll find a way!”
I gesture toward Mirael. “The Elysea around her mouth—didn’t you notice?”
His eyes widen as he scrutinizes Mirael. With trembling fingers, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the vial. His gaze fixes on its dwindling contents, and he freezes. “It was used... but how? You can’t control the water. Only Solniws can.”
“I spoke with Eldralith,” I reply softly.
“Eldralith Entium?” Sylas’s voice is thick with disbelief. “But she lived 500 years ago! How is that possible?”
“Perhaps all vessels are connected,” I speculate. “Or Eldralith still has a link to us. I don’t know. But she opened my eyes. My path is predestined, and I will follow it. No more innocent lives will suffer because of me.”
“I can’t leave my father behind!” Sylas hesitates. “The village needs me. It must be evacuated, and the remaining Mord Vupu must be driven out! I can’t abandon my people at a time like this!”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say quietly. “The blood pact binds you to me, but if there’s a way to free you, I’ll find it.”
“I don’t want to be free,” Sylas responds after a moment of silence. His eyes drift over Mirael, the slain Sualtier, and Mrs. Strömert’s lifeless body. “I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“Sylas, you don’t have to!” I am appalled. “Why would you leave your village for a stranger?”
“Because our fates are intertwined,” he says with a faint smile.
“I’m coming with you.” Mirael’s unexpected voice cuts through the tension.
We both turn our gaze toward her.
“The murderer of my mother still lives. I won’t find peace until I see him dead.”
“Mirael, it’s far too dangerous!” Sylas’s concern is evident in his tone. “Stay with your father. He will protect you.”
“She should come,” I say finally. “She—”
“I can speak for myself!” Mirael snaps, her eyes blazing with fury. “If you can protect her, you can do the same for me. Or are you more loyal to a Losniw than to a Solniw?”
“It’s not like that!” Sylas sighs and finally nods reluctantly. “Fine, then you’re coming. Don’t you want to say goodbye to your father?”
“I’d better not,” she replies, her voice heavy with sorrow. “He wouldn’t understand my decision. We should leave before he sees us.”
With heavy steps, we leave the scene of horror behind. The eerie silence that blankets everything leaves no doubt that the Sualtier have long since vanished. But just as we’ve taken a few steps, a bloodcurdling scream pierces the air. We freeze in place. My gaze meets Mirael’s, and in her eyes, I see a flicker of an emotion I know all too well—fear.
Slowly, we turn around. The battlefield lies in ghostly stillness, but two figures come into view. Two men. The older one has snow-white hair, but his crystal-clear blue eyes radiate a strength that doesn’t seem to fit his aged body. Beside him stands a younger man with shimmering, light green hair cascading in gentle waves to his shoulders. It’s the older man who had screamed. A bag lies on the ground beside him, apparently dropped in shock. Next to it, a fishing rod. And suddenly, I understand.
These are Mr. Strömert and his son Maren. Mirael’s father and brother.
“Gisela!” The pain in Mr. Strömert’s voice seems to make the earth tremble. He kneels down, cradling his wife’s lifeless head in both hands, his fingers trembling as he strokes her cheek. Silent tears of anguish stream down his face. “What… what happened here?”
“MOTHER?!” Maren casts a panicked look at his father, whose desperate silence cuts through the air like a knife. “If mother is here… then where’s Mirael?”
Mr. Strömert lifts his head, his eyes widening as his son’s words sink in. For a moment, he seems to forget that the world is shattered. And then it bursts out of him: “MIRAEL!” His shout echoes through the ruins. “MIRAEL!”
“Friedrich!” Zyar’s voice cuts through the scene like a sharp blade. “When did you arrive? There’s no time for...” But then he sees it. Mrs. Strömert’s corpse. His words die on his lips. His face hardens, and a dark shadow falls over his eyes. “By Rhovan Ardelon’s heart...”
He looks like a man who has fought a war—and lost. His clothes are burned in several places, a deep wound stretches across his cheek, raw and bloody, a scar in the making. Even a Legate of the Elements hadn’t emerged unscathed from the battle against the Sualtier. But if Zyar bears such marks, how powerful was the creature that attacked him?
Mr. Strömert’s voice breaks again, this time filled with desperate rage. “What happened here, Zyar? Where is my daughter? Who did this? WHO?”
His fury is abruptly cut off as he begins to cough violently. His body shakes, and seconds later, Maren starts wheezing too, his shoulders heaving in frantic breaths. The Mord Vupu. It’s eating through their bodies, and I see a flicker of fear break through Zyar’s eyes.
“I’ll take you to the bunker,” he says at last, his voice like steel. “Mirael is safe. She was evacuated with the others. The Mord Vupu must be purged before it destroys you completely.”
But Mirael stands motionless. She’s not in the bunker. Her eyes are empty, and yet deep within them, a fire burns that only I can see.
“I’ve seen enough,” she whispers finally. Her gaze drifts away from her father, her brother, and I know there’s no turning back. “Let’s go.”
Her voice is like ice. Her thirst for vengeance has transformed her, severing her from the past—and from her family. My bond with Sylas has severed him from his father. And Zyar... will he ever forgive me?