Page 92 of Wings of Shadow
Clarissa shivers beside me. I don’t look at her. I can’t afford to.
The book grows hot in my hands, unbearably so, but I don’t falter. I return it to the altar, the pages still shifting of their own accord. The silver runes on the cover blaze with a cold fire, searing against my fingertips.
The ritual circle pulses. Tendrils of dark smoke rise from the chalk lines, twisting into the air like hungry serpents.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—
The ground trembles beneath us. A low, guttural sound begins to vibrate through the walls, through my bones, through the very foundation of the mansion. It starts deep in my stomach and spreads outward, curling like a living thing within me.
The shadows congeal, thickening into a humanoid form. It towers over us, a being of pure darkness. Claws of shadow flex and curl, leaving trails of inky blackness in the air. Two slivers of burning red pierce the darkness—eyes, ancient and cruel.
A voice, like shattered glass scraping against stone, echoes through the chamber.
“Who dares summon me?”
I step forward, my stance strong. “I, Kaisner Drachenstein, have called you forth.”
The daemon shifts, its amorphous form undulating. Its jagged mouth stretches into something resembling a grin. “Ah,” it purrs, its voice slithering through us. “And you’ve brought me a gift.”
Clarissa stiffens beside me. Her hand finds mine, fingers tightening. I feel the tremor in her grip, the pulse of her uncertainty.
“She is not an offering,” I say firmly, though doubt claws at me. “She is here to assist in the ritual.”
The daemon laughs, a sound like ice splintering. “Is that what you told her, warlock? What pretty lies you weave.” It leans forward, pressing against the invisible barrier of the circle. “Did you tell her the true price of awakening your dragon? Of the blood that must be spilled?”
I don’t look at Clarissa, but I feel her gaze burning into me.
“What is it talking about?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I remain silent, too afraid of what might slip out if I speak.
Azrakan widens its grin. “Ah, I see,” it muses. “He hasn’t told you everything, has he? Poor, trusting little dragoness.”
“Enough,” I growl, forcing my voice to be steady. “I didn’t summon you for riddles. You know why you’re here. Fulfill your part of the bargain, and you’ll have what was promised.”
The daemon’s form swells, shadows stretching and thickening. “Very well, warlock. Let us begin.”
It raises its clawed hands, the atmosphere crackling with dark energy. The circle flares, the symbols burning white-hot, and the temperature in the room plummets. The stench of sulfur and brimstone fills the air.
Then, something shifts.
The pendant around Clarissa’s neck blazes—bright red, incandescent. The runes carved into its surface twist and writhe as if trying to escape.
Before I can react, the glow intensifies. A crack rips through the air. The amulet—the safeguard I crafted so carefully—disintegrates.
Ash. Dust. Nothing.
The daemon laughs again, louder this time.
“You fool!” it hisses. “Did you truly believe you could trick me? That I wouldn’t see through your pathetic deceptions?”
Panic claws at my throat. I miscalculated. The ritual is spiraling beyond my control. I never had any control.
How could I have been so blind? How could I have ever thought that any power, any glory, was worth the risk of losing her?
“Embrace your dragon, warlock!” Azrakan roars, its shadows surging forward. “I will claim what is owed!”
