Page 62 of Chasing the Flame
He’s already chanting.
“Fuck,” I snarl, throwing a bolt of raw power—rootbind—to cut him off. Roots tumble from the ground, snapping around his anklesand lock him into place. Dahlia moves in behind me, a wicked grin on her lips, and finishes what I started with a flick of her wrist and a blade that sings when it cuts.
Silence falls again. Heavy. Drenched in magic and blood.
We press deeper into the tunnels, my pulse thundering. My body aches with the need to run, to roar, to rip apart whatever cage she’s been locked in. My instincts are burning now, dragging me forward with animal desperation. We round one final bend, and then—
I feel her.
Averie.
A jolt crashes through my spine, something primal, furious and hers. My knees buckle under the weight of it.
I don’t need light. I don’t need a map. I know exactly where she is.
My beast roars inside me, and I charge forward, hand grazing the jagged wall when I see it.
An obsidian door, half-lit by flickering torchlight, carved with runes that hum against my bones.
I reach for it—and everything else goes quiet.
Averie
Pain blooms at the side of my neck.
It’s sharp and slow, like something toxic sinking into my bloodstream. My skin is cold. My mouth tastes like metal. I try to move, but my limbs feel sluggish—like I’ve been drugged.
No, not drugged—injected.
Memories skitter just out of reach. Luke’s voice. A silver needle. My scream, cut short by the feeling of falling.
My lashes flutter open to darkness lit by flame.
I’m back where I started. The ceiling curves high above me, black rock slick with condensation. Shadows ripple along the walls, thrown by torches and hooded figures standing in a wide circle around a makeshift altar.
Around me. Caging me in.
Panic floods in, thick and fast.
My wrists are bound with coarse, rune-etched rope. I tug against them, but they hold. My legs are bound too, and I almost snarl. There’s no warmth to the cracked slab beneath me—only the bite of stone and old blood.
I’m at the center of a ritual.
And the chanting has already started…
“Exsurge, Ashbraith. Exsurge per flamma et umbra. Exsurge per sanguinem electae.”
The words are Latin. I don’t know the exact translation—but Ifeelthem. Like something deep inside me recognizes what they’re trying to wake.
I twist my head to the side—and that’s when I see him.
Luke, thatfucker!
His obsidian robes are immaculate. His smile practiced. But his eyes—those eyes are pure fucking madness.
“I was wondering when you’d wake,” he says, like we’re catching up over dinner.
“Where… am I?” My voice is sandpaper. My throat aches and I’m desperate for a drink of water.
