He dashed forward, holding the wand high, recalling the feeling of his first summoning—the rat conjured from the depths of his desperation. But now, when he tried to summon, the wand in his hand was a weightless husk. It felt fragile, useless. Doubt gnawed at him. Did he need to consume the mists first, or was there still energy within that he could use?
"You're not thinking hard enough, Henry! Wands need fuel, magic is hungry. Feed it, or it will stay limp in your hands. A twig in a storm," Elara chided, her voice chiming beside him, high-pitched and sharp.
He swallowed, focusing on the thickening mists surrounding him. As he tried to channel his focus, shadows formed within the fog, twisting and writhing, emerging as ghastly, winged creatures.
"Oh, look at them!" Elara breathed in awe. "Forest Flighters... such majestic, misunderstood creatures."
The name repeated in Henry's mind as the creatures took shape. Bats molded from mist and nightmares, they lurched forward with gaping, bloody maws, ragged wounds revealing empty, bleeding sockets where eyes should have been. Their tattered wings flapped like wet rags, and exposed organs pulsed grotesquely as they filled the clearing with a symphony of eerie screeches and snaps.
Henry braced himself, feeling the wand pulse faintly in his hand. Just in time, he ducked as one of the Flighters dove at him, its teeth snapping inches from his shoulder. He rolled to the side, feeling the chill of mist sweep over him as another swooped past. With nowhere to go and the Flighters bearing down, he inhaled sharply, the wand copying his move, desperate for something to happen.
The Flighter swooped closer, and before he realized it, the creature's vaporous form slipped past his lips. His reflex to swallow took over, and instantly, he regretted it. A thick, vile taste flooded his mouth—the rancid, necrotic flavor of rot, like he had just downed a mouthful of something long dead and decaying. The creature tasted of stale blood, sour bile, and something sharp and metallic that left his tongue tingling unpleasantly. He gagged, nearly doubling over, as the taste lingered, coating his throat with a burning, foul film.
The Flighter's form came back up. Sputtering in his mouth, breaking apart with sickly cracks and pops as it dissolved into the air. He fought the urge to spit it out, but the wand pulsed, drinking in every last wisp of the dissolving creature, forcing him to absorb it all.
As the mist surged through him, a flicker of memory ignited, dragging him back to a night he thought he'd buried deep within. Flames licked at the walls, curling up the corners of his room, smoke choking the air. He was small, trapped beneath the weight of blankets, staring wide-eyed at the fiery glow creeping under his door. Heat blistered the paint, and in the distance, he heard his mother screaming his name. The searing terror and helplessness returned with brutal clarity, gripping his chest. The mist fed off his fear, pressing in like the thick, acrid smoke that once filled his lungs. He stumbled, barely keeping his grip on the wand as the memory faded, leaving him shaken.
The moment he swallowed, he felt the power surge through him. Revulsion melted into raw energy, flooding his veins with a sensation that left him dizzy. The wand in his hand was no longer a husk; it buzzed with life, ravenous, a dark pulse thrumming through it. Thin, red veins snaked up its length, throbbing in time with his own heartbeat. It felt warmer, heavier—a reminder that the power he wielded came at a price.
The rotten taste clung to his mouth, but so did the strength. Summoning the creature felt almost effortless now. With grim determination, he raised the wand, and it responded instantly. With a flash, a creature appeared—a giant rat, its dark, bristling fur coated with filth, and its eyes glowing a sinister, molten red. It let out a low, guttural chitter, the sound unsettling, as if it came from some twisted throat. Then, like a furious sentinel, it charged into the advancing mist.
His breath caught as he took in the monstrous creature that followed the rat. A Mawling emerged—a grotesque, child-sized figure with a gaping mouth stretched obscenely across its face, nearly swallowing its entire features. Thick, red ichor dripped from that mouth, hissing and bubbling as it hit the ground. Its veined, sickly skin clung too tightly to twisted bones, while its spindly limbs bent at unsettling angles, lending it an insect-like, scuttling gait.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Henry's stomach churned. Were these Mawlings crafted from the remains of children like before, or purely summoned by the wand's twisted magic? The thought clawed at him, leaving an aftertaste of horror.
Another Flighter lunged at him, its gaping maw snapping. Henry leapt back, commanding the Mawling with a thrust of his wand. The creature responded, its twisted form leaping forward and crashing into the Flighter with a sickening crunch, mist dissipating as the two collided and vanished.
The remaining Flighters pressed closer, their shrieks blending into a frenzy that rattled his nerves. Henry's movements grew frantic as he swung the wand, struggling to keep them at bay. One lunged low, swiping at his legs, forcing him to jump back. Another snapped dangerously close to his shoulder, its maw stretching wide—a dark chasm filled with writhing mist. Desperation clawed at him. He couldn't inhale fast enough to keep up. Every corner of his vision filled with gnashing teeth and gnarled wings, the mist thickening around him until it seemed there would be no air left to breathe.
"Honestly, Henry, are you trying to feed it or wear it out?" Elara's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and scornful. "You're half-hearted—try harder, or you’re the one that’l be swallowed."
Henry gritted his teeth, frustration rising alongside his panic. "Maybe if you told me what to do instead of just mocking me, I'd have a chance!" he spat, his voice cracking under the strain. Elara's laughter was like chiming glass, distant and disinterested.
Dodging left, he ducked beneath the swipe of another Flighter's claws, twisting his wand to absorb the mists flowing around him. His confidence grew with each inhalation, a heady mix of power and dread thrumming through him. Another swipe—a narrow miss. He spun, the wand feeding greedily, each inhale stronger, faster.
The wand grew hotter, its surface darkening until it was almost black. Thin, red veins pulsed along its length, vibrating with an energy that both thrilled and terrified him. It felt alive in his hand, no longer a mere tool but something feeding off his actions, thriving in the carnage. A dark whisper curled in the back of his mind, urging him to keep absorbing, to pull in every last shred of mist.
A Flighter shrieked as he yanked it toward him, its body dissolving into mist that the wand consumed in an instant. This time, it was Henry's breath that drew it in, siphoning its energy as the wand throbbed, pulsing with power. The craving clawed at his thoughts, something he'd never felt before—an urge to dominate, to devour. He clenched his jaw, trying to shake it off, but it only grew louder, tempting him to let go, to give in to the wand's hunger.
The Mawlings grew in number, surrounding him like a ghostly shield, protecting him from the relentless assault of Flighters. One of the Mawlings scuttled forward without his command, limbs jittering as if pulled by invisible strings. Even as the one moved forward, their many mouths opened and closed in eerie synchronization, a sickening whisper leaking out like a chant. Henry took a step back, suddenly unsure if he could truly control these beings. They might be just as likely to turn on him as attack the Flighters.
The clearing was a haze of crimson mist, torn wings, and flashing claws. Henry weaved through the swarm, inhaling the mist as he went, his steps fueled by a frenzied rhythm. Each Flighter he captured fed his wand, amplifying his control over the Mawlings, which tore into the Flighters, shrieks and snapping jaws filling the air.
His lungs burned, every inhale a struggle as if he were drowning in fog. He staggered, doubling over for a split second before forcing himself upright. "Alright, think," he muttered, eyeing the Mawlings he'd already summoned. Maybe if he didn't need to inhale as much...
He jabbed the wand toward the mist directly, focusing on drawing the creatures to it instead of himself. Slowly, the wand began to pull in the mist, strands of it curling toward him as he steadied his breathing. It worked, and the Mawlings met the remaining Flighters in a resounding crash.
As the last Flighter dissolved into the mist, Henry stood panting, surrounded by the eerie silence of the aftermath. He stared at the Mawlings beside him, the gruesome figures awaiting his command.
Elara's voice drifted toward him, softer this time. "You wanted to command your destiny, Henry. But destiny isn't so easy to swallow, now, is it?" She burst out laughing and fluttered away, doing little kicks in the air as her wings pulled her backward.
Despite everything, he felt... invigorated. He half-expected the aftermath of the battle to leave him exhausted, yet instead, he felt as if he'd chugged six Red Bulls and woken from the deepest, most revitalizing nap of his life. His mind buzzed with a sharpness he hadn't felt in months.
He scanned the clearing, looking for any clue as to where the mists had come from. A hunch tugged at him, urging him in one direction, and he took off, hoping it wasn't too late to find the missing boy.