Page 93 of Wings of Shadow
Heat erupts from my core. Power, fire, searing through my veins. My skin prickles, then burns as obsidian scales ripple across my forearms, spreading upward.
My dragon, so long dormant, roars to life within me. I can feel its hunger, its desire, its overwhelming need to be unleashed. The need to complete the ritual is overwhelming. I’m so close to seizing my destiny?—
But then, through eyes rapidly changing, pupils stetching into slits, I see her.
Clarissa.
Her sapphire eyes are wide with fear. Fear of me.
The realization hits like a death blow.
If I take this power, if I let this ritual complete—Clarissa will die.
I won’t let that happen.
I clench my fists, forcing the fire down, forcing my dragon back. “No!” I growl.
The daemon snarls, sensing my resistance. “You cannot back out now, warlock!” It lunges toward her, claws extending?—
I move.
A blur of instinct and desperation, I throw myself between Clarissa and the daemon. My hand rises, fingers drawing on the depths of my power. Shadows coil around me, gathering like a storm. I call on them, shaping them into a solid, unyielding barrier.
The air thickens, the shadows expanding into a shield that flickers and pulses with dark energy. The daemon snarls, claws scraping against the wall of darkness. Its shadowed form presses against the shield, and I can feel the strain in the magic. It will not hold much longer.
Pain sears through me, white-hot agony, as the daemon’s wrath begins to burn through the thinning shield. The shadows quiver under its pressure, and I stagger back slightly, teeth gritted.
“Run!” I roar at Clarissa.
She doesn’t.
Instead—
I hear her footsteps racing, not toward the door, but to the altar. My heart lurches in my chest, dread and admiration warring within me as I realize what she’s doing.
Through the haze of pain, I see her seize the Book of Shadows, its worn leather cover gleaming in the infernal light. Her voice rises, strong and clear, as she begins to chant an ancient banishing spell.
Pride and terror rush through me. She shouldn’t know these words. She shouldn’t be involved in this magic. But her voice—her strength—ignites something within me. A spark of hope, a surge of strength.
I force myself to stand, pain be damned, and join her, our voices intertwining, rising.
A piercing howl rips through the air, Azrakan’s form writhing as the ritual circle burns even brighter, its runes flaring in defiance. The air crackles with energy, the scent of scorched sulfur thick in the room.
The ground trembles violently, books flying from shelves, their pages flipping open midair before slamming to the floor. Artifacts topple from pedestals, their ancient magic sparking and hissing in protest.
“You will pay for this, warlock!” Azrakan growls.
Its form begins to unravel, its edges fraying like smoke caught in a storm. The summoning circle flares, a final act of defiance, sealing the daemon’s banishment.
I stagger back, breath ragged, muscles coiled in anticipation of retaliation. But nothing comes.
For a fleeting second, relief floods through me. We’ve survived. Clarissa is still standing, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Alive.
The barrier held. The spell worked.
We won.
And then—agony.
