Page 45 of Wild Ivy
Torin growls as well to my right, also recognising and not liking where this is going.
The ground beneath us shakes. Roots burst from the earth, wrapping around our legs, but they’re not normal roots. They’re crystalline, translucent, showing both growth and decay simultaneously.
“Something’s wrong,” Torin shouts over the rising wind. “This isn’t like what Blackthorn described! He said they weren’t particularly painful!”
“He clearly lied!” I snarl, fighting with the roots, which are wrapping themselves tighter around my legs.
This is darker, more primal. The ritual isn’t just stabilising the anchor point - it’s feeding it. Making it stronger. Through my fated bond, I feel Ivy’s presence more strongly than ever, but there’s something else, too. Something hungry.
“We need to stop!” I try to move, but the crystal roots hold me fast.
“Can’t,” Bram gasps, his magick now completely out of control. “It won’t let me. It wants... it needs...” His voice breaks off in a grunt of pain as the silver threads turn black.
The clearing has become a maelstrom of wild power. Reality tears and mends itself around us in violent surges. I see glimpses of other places, other times - the void itself maybe, reaching through the weakened barriers.
“Bram!” Torin roars as our friend falls to his knees, still caught in the grip of whatever power he’s channelling. “Fight it!”
But I realise what’s happening. “It’s not fighting him,” I shout. “It’s changing him. Like it changed Ivy. Like it’s changing everything!”
The crystal roots crawl higher, turning our bodies into anchors for something far beyond our understanding. Through the fated mark, I feel Ivy’s consciousness brush against mine - no longer just my Ivy, but something infinite, eternal, and for the first time, I truly understand what she’s becoming.
23
BRAM
The magick tearsthrough me like a tempest. It’s ancient, primal, a power that existed before the gods themselves. My Dark Fae magick, which still lurks underneath it, responds to it like a tributary being pulled into a vast ocean.
I try to maintain control of the ritual, but it’s like trying to direct a hurricane. The words pouring from my mouth are from the grimoire, which is nowhere in sight. It’s just in my head, and I know exactly what I’m supposed to do and say. It’s the magick. It’s Morrigan’s influence.
Through the haze of power, I see Tate and Torin trapped like I am, crystalline roots climbing their bodies. The clearing has become a nexus point where all times, all realities, all possibilities converge. And I’m the conduit.
The silver threads of magick have turned black, not with corruption, but with something more profound. More fundamental. Like the space between stars.
Images flash through my mind faster than I can process them: Ivy in the void, her form shifting between human and something vast and incomprehensible. The Fae emerge from the spaces between realities. The first gods are born from thechaos of creation. Life and Death are not entities but concepts, patterns woven into the fabric of existence itself.
The magick shows me what I truly am, what I’ve always been without knowing it. Not just a vessel for this magick, but a catalyst. A turning point. Like Ivy, I was made for this moment. It is fate.Ourfate.
The pain intensifies as I fight against my own resistance. The crystal roots reach my chest, and I feel my heart syncing to a different rhythm. Not the pulse of life and death, but the space between them. Where true power lies.
For the first time, I’m seeing who I really am. What I was meant to be.
I stop fighting.
The black magick swells through me like a flood breaking through a dam. My consciousness expands, connects, and becomes part of something larger.
The revelation hits me with the force of a cosmic truth. I’m not just channelling this power, I’m becoming a fundamental part of it. Like Ivy’s transformation into something beyond Death, I’m changing into something else. Something necessary for what’s coming.
“I see it,” I rasp. “I see everything.”
The black magick spreads outward from me in waves, touching everything in the clearing. Where it passes, reality shivers and realigns. The crystal roots aren’t just anchoring us, they’re rewriting us into the very fabric of existence.
Through my expanded awareness, I feel Tate’s fated bond beating, a direct line to Ivy and what she’s becoming. I feel Torin’s vampiric nature is no longer just a state of undeath, but something more fluid and adaptable. And I feel myself, transforming into a being of pure magick, a bridge between what was and what will be.
“Bram,” Tate calls out again, but this time I hear the recognition in his voice. He sees it, too. “You’re becoming like her, aren’t you?”
“Not like her,” I manage to say, even as the transformation continues. “Something different. Something complementary.”
The ritual reaches its crescendo. The black magick coalesces around us, no longer chaotic but purposeful. I understand now why it had to be us three - vampire, fated mate, and one of the original creatures. We’re not just stabilising an anchor point. We’rebecomingthe anchor point. Her anchor point.
