Chapter 55.
782 Words
The iron shackles were more than just physical weight; they were a persistent, agonizing hum that sought to drown out Rhiannon’s very existence. Every time she tried to reach for the magic that usually danced beneath her skin, the cold metal bit back, sending a jolt of numbing suppression through her nerves.
Gorgon had left her alone in the damp cellar, the door thudding shut with a finality that suggested she was already gone. He had taken her silver dagger, her dignity, and a significant portion of her blood.
Rhiannon leaned her head against the stone wall, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The gaslighting was trying to take root- the dark whisper that Fenris had seen the gold and the brand and decided she wasn’t worth the war. For a moment, the despair was so thick she felt herself sinking, the place where her magic used to be felt like an empty hole expanding like an ink blot.
I am the owner of my skin.
The phrase echoed in the quiet of her mind, but it didn't sound like her voice anymore. It sounded like a low, pained rumble. It sounded like Fenris.
Suddenly, the despair didn't feel like a weight. It felt like fuel.
Rhiannon’s eyes snapped open. She realized that every time she had used magic before, she had been trying to find peace- the "silent center" Fenris had taught her. But she wasn't in the courtyard anymore. She was in a cage.
She stopped fighting the iron. Instead, she leaned into the rage. She thought of the way Gorgon’s fangs had felt in her neck; she thought of the gold bags mockingly left in the snow; she thought of the sheer, arrogant belief that she was a toy to be reclaimed.
A spark ignited in her chest. It wasn't the soft, shimmering light of a healer. It was a violent, neon-green flare.
The iron shackles began to glow, the metal groaning as her magic reacted to her fury. It wasn't enough to break the chains- the leaden drug in her system was still too strong for that, but she realized her magic wasn't just a tool for combat. It was an extension of her spirit.
If I can't reach the air, I'll reach the earth, she thought.
She closed her eyes and pressed her bare feet against the damp stone floor. She imagined her magic not as a flame, but as a root. She pushed the neon-green light down, out of her body, through the iron, and into the very foundation of the safehouse.
She felt the mountain. Even here, miles away from the Nightshade peaks, the earth was connected. The mana lines- the ancient, invisible veins of the world, thrummed beneath her.
Rhiannon didn't scream with her voice. She screamed with her soul.
She poured every memory of the pull into the ground. She sent the scent of the frost, the feeling of the wooden trainers in her hands, and the electric spark of his touch into the stone. She hummed a wordless, rhythmic pulse- a lighthouse beacon of neon-green energy that vibrated through the rock and soil.
I am here. I am mine. Find me.
Miles away, leaping over a fallen cedar, the great black wolf suddenly skidded to a halt.
Fenris’s head snapped up, his ears twitching. The rage in his mind hadn't just changed; it had been set on fire. He didn't just smell her scent anymore; he felt her rhythm. It was a low-frequency thrumming in his paws, a heartbeat echoing through the very crust of the earth.
It was green. It was fierce. And it was screaming his name.
Malphas let out a sound that was half-howl, half-sob of relief. The scent he had been following was a fading, but this- this was a map. He could feel the direction of the pulse, the way it moved through the veins of the earth like a signal fire.
She was fighting. She was alive. And she was calling him home.
Fenris didn't hesitate. He adjusted his course, his massive paws tearing up the earth as he pivoted South-West with renewed, terrifying velocity. The forest became a blur of black and white as he ran, his heart beat syncing with the neon pulse vibrating through the ground.
The vampire had tried to silence her. He had tried to drown her in iron and drugs. But he had forgotten that a fairy’s light doesn't just shine- it sings. And the wolf was finally tuned to her frequency.
- Writer
