7. Redemption
1202 Words
[Present Day – The Ashen Wilderness]
Orin turned away from his wooden shelves. The milky cloudiness in his eyes
cleared with a sudden, sharp focus. The trembling frailty of an old hermit
vanished, replaced by the grim weight of a warrior who had spent twenty-three
years waiting for a reason to stop running.
Draven did not argue. He kept his jaw tight and knelt lower by the straw pallet,
his large hands hovering just over Arya’s trembling, feverish body.
Orin pressed his palm firmly against Arya’s forehead. Her skin was so hot that
the dry straw beneath her back began to char, sending thin wisps of smoke
curling into the air.
"Hold her down!" Orin ordered. "Do not let her break the ring!"
Draven lunged forward, pinning her fragile shoulders to the pallet.
The exact moment his skin made contact with hers, the Spectral Moon-Chain
Connected but this time, it went insane. The geometric, silver links flared with a
blinding, aggressive light.
Suddenly, a wave of agony ripped through Draven’s body.
His inner wolf began to howl in sheer terror deep within his spirit. The chain
wasn’t draining his life—it was punishing him. Because he was an assassin sent
to kill her, the cosmic bond was forcing his body to physically endure every
ounce of the searing, burning pain she was feeling.
Draven gritted his teeth. A brutal snarl ripped from his throat as sweat poured
down his neck. His muscles bulged under the strain, but he refused to let go.
"Drink!" Orin commanded, forcing the smoking, bitter mixture down Arya’s throat.
The scream that followed ripped the air apart.
It wasn’t a human sound. It was an echoing, high-pitched vibration that shook
the timber walls to their foundations. The clay jars on the shelves shattered
into pieces. Tiny cracks spidered wildly across the floorboards.
Arya’s eyes flew open. They weren't brown anymore. They were solid, blinding
orbs of pure silver.
"Steady!" Orin shouted over the roaring magical wind rushing through the small
room.
Draven felt the raw force lashing out like whips, scorching his shirt
and piercing his chest like needles. He looked down into her glowing eyes.
Past the terrifying cosmic power, he saw the raw terror of a girl who had been
kept drugged for twenty-three years, completely oblivious to the fact that her
soul held the weight of the universe.
"Stay with me," Draven rasped, fighting the cosmic current to keep her pinned.
"Fight it!"
A thick, oily black smoke began to leak from Arya’s pores. It was the toxic
residue of the Cult’s suppressants. It hissed and rolled onto the floorboards.
The moment the dark mist touched the ring of salt and ash, the ground scorched
black beneath it, neutralizing the poison.
"Almost there," Orin’s face turned a sickly, exhausted grey, his hands trembling
violently against her chest as he guided the purge.
Outside, the Ashen Wilderness suddenly went dead silent.
The wind stopped howling through the trees. The insects went mute. The forest
held its breath.
Draven’s sharp wolf ears pricked. Through the roaring echo of Arya’s power, he
heard it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The heavy march of enchanted boots crunching through the brush. The distinct,
terrifying rattle of spiked chains scraping against armor.
"The Carnifex are here," Draven’s eyes darted toward the door.
Desperate, Draven tried to force a shift. He called upon his shadow wolf form,
needing the massive beast to tear the attackers apart. But his inner wolf,
completely paralyzed by the soul shock of the Moon-Chain, still flatly refused to take
control.
"Damn it," Draven hissed under his breath.
Cursing his own trapped soul, he abandoned the shift and drew his combat knife instead. The metal gleamed sharply in the firelight.
"Do not move!" Orin warned, his hands remaining glued to Arya's chest as the
last traces of black smoke cleared.
"The Carnifex are right outside," Draven argued, his grip tightening on the
knife.
"The ritual is not locked! If you break the circle now, the magical backflow
will kill her instantly."
Draven glared at the door, then down at the girl weeping on the pallet. He was
an elite assassin of the Gloom Pack, a lethal weapon trained to hunt and kill
without hesitation. Yet, for the first time in his existence, he felt the
paralyzing weight of a choice that could destroy him.
"We are here for the girl," a raspy, distorted voice boomed from the darkness
outside the hut. "And the head of the traitor, Orin. Step away now, Gloom Pack
stray. Leave them, and the Ouroboros will let you walk away alive."
"What are we going to do?" Draven demanded. "We can't fight them in here."
Orin stood up slowly.
He reached behind his shattered herb shelves and pulled down a long iron staff. Deeply scratched into the metal were three names—his mate, his pup,
the family he had lost twenty-three years ago.
He looked at Draven. For the first time, a tired, peaceful smile crossed the old
man's face.
"Behind the hearth, there is a hidden passage," Orin’s voice was
remarkably calm. "It leads out of the wilderness and directly into the Seam. It
is a lawless borderland strip between our world and the human world. Go there.
Blend in among the humans. You will be safer there than anywhere in the
mountains."
The heavy boots crunched closer. The Carnifex were surrounding the cabin.
"Take her," Orin pressed a small glass vial into Draven’s calloused hand. "The
purge is finished, but she will be unconscious for some time. Give her this when she wakes."
Draven looked at the old shaman, realizing exactly what the man was about to do.
"Thank you," Draven muttered, a rare sliver of respect in his voice.
"GO NOW!" Orin roared.
Orin turned toward the front door, lifting his iron staff high. His spine was
perfectly straight. The frail hermit was gone. His voice carried the absolute,
terrifying authority of the Supreme Leader he used to be.
"I was a coward twenty-three years ago!" Orin shouted into the approaching dark.
"Today, I will not die as one!"
Draven didn’t wait another second. He scooped the glowing, unconscious Arya
securely into his arms, her head resting against his chest. He kicked through
the hidden stone door behind the hearth and dove straight into the pitch-black
darkness of the tunnel.
Behind them, the pathway slammed shut, sealing the entrance.
Draven ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
Muffled through the rock, he heard the brutal, deafening clash of iron against
armor. He heard Orin's final, defiant battle cry. And then, he heard the heavy,
sickening crunch of a staff breaking, followed by absolute silence.
Draven did not look back. He kept running through the dark, Arya’s heat pressing
against his chest. He ran to keep her alive. He ran to keep himself alive.
But as the sounds of the battle faded entirely into the shadows, a chilling
realization made his blood run cold.
The old man hadn’t just been trying to save the prophecy. He had been
intentionally buying them time. And he had paid for their escape with the only
thing he had left to give.
His life.
- Writer
