Page 46 of The Divine Shallows
The pack of grimwolves had split, the largest one engaging a rotten canine alone, while the remaining four adopted a two-on-one strategy. Snarls of fury and roars of rage filled the forest as the battle waged, each side fiercely vying for victory. The confrontation seemed evenly matched, with neither side gaining a clear advantage.
Suddenly, Elyria heard a soft moan escape Elowyn’s lip, drawing her attention down. She gently brushed her hand along Elowyn’s cheek, searching for any signs of pain. Elowyn’s movements were fleeting, and she slipped back into unconsciousness. Elyria cursed under her breath, offering what little magic she had left to replenish Elowyn’s energy. Her own strength was waning.
Ahead, a merciless presence swept through the forest, causing the ground to tremble beneath them. As Elyria’s mind reeled with fear, she braced herself for what might emerge from the darkness.
In a flash of white, a sinister snarl echoed through the trees, causing both the grimwolves and the canines to pause their attacks. The brindled grimwolves fell back, leaving a wide berth for the approaching figure.
Father.
Elyria’s heart pounded with dread as she recognized him. Even as she whispered his name in her mind, she dared not speak it aloud.
King Eamon bared his fangs, unleashing another deafening snarl that shattered the surrounding forest. The trees splintered, and the ground quaked beneath them. The rotten beasts turned their attention to the king, lunging towards him with vicious howls.
King Eamon seized the first rotten canine by the throat, his eyes brimming with venom. He swiftly slammed the decaying creature into the forest floor with lethal force, the impact vibrating with a thunderous crack. A guttural yelp escaped the canine’s jaws as King Eamon crushed its windpipe with a sickening squelch, reducing its neck to a mangled mess.
As the second rotten canine lunged towards the king, another fierce figure intercepted it in a flash of snow. Elyria’s face registered Finnor grappling with the creature. Finnor’s demeanor was transformed, his usual timidity replaced by a murderous rage as he pummeled the festering creature with relentless fury. His barrage of strikes continued until the creature lay beneath him, reduced to an unrecognizable heap of fur and flesh.
The third canine rushed towards the king, but King Eamon was expectant. Again, with a bloodthirsty aura, he seized the creature by the throat, his grip unyielding. With a ferocious bellow, he tore the creature’s head from its body, rotting tendons snapping as he ripped them apart. Despite the canine’s desperate attempts to inflictdamage, King Eamon’s fury knew no bounds. The creature’s head was gruesomely torn from its body, leaving behind a trail of inky, black, rancid blood. He dropped the torso with a thud, the skull tumbling to the ground beside its dismembered body.
As the shield around Elyria began to fade, she watched in horror as the exchange between her father, Finnor, and the rotten beasts ended in mere seconds. With Elowyn in her arms, her sister’s eyes fluttered with weariness, glazing her surroundings before she succumbing to senselessness once again.
King Eamon’s furious aura mollified slightly as he turned his attention to his daughters. His gaze swept over them, unreadable yet discerning, before shifting to Finnor. With a clipped tone, he issued his orders.
“Commander, escort Elowyn back to Eriden and ensure she is seen by the royal mender,” he commanded, his hands busy with cleaning themselves with a rag from his pocket.
“Elyria, you appear unharmed,” he stated flatly, devoid of emotion. “Prince Caswin, you will accompany my daughter to the Shrine of Oswin to witness the Lore ofLunaris. However, I must speak with both of you momentarily.”
From the group of grimwolves, the largest one emerged from the shadows, its form shrouded in mist before a snap echoed through the forest. Caswin Mirthwood materialized from the mist, a grimace of discomfort crossing his features while he adjusted his battered surcoat. He bowed respectfully to King Eamon before turning to acknowledge the other grimwolves.
“As you command, Your Majesty,” Caswin responded, nodding to the other grimwolves.
The four remaining grimwolves stepped forward, enveloped in mist before another snap filled the air. Four young warlocks emerged from the mist, causing Elyria to look on in astonishment. Each warlock transformed into the males she had seen in the courtyard with Caswin earlier. They were not only warlocks but shapeshifters as well. The rumors ofLochwald’s formidable warriors were proven true—skilled in both magical and physical combat.
The warlocks under Caswin’s command were battered and bruised. Some tended to their wounds, applying pressure to stop bleeding, or holding fractured ribs. With a nod from Caswin, they dispersed toward Mirthwood castle to seek further mending.
Finnor approached Elyria with a kind expression and offered her a look of sympathy. He leaned down and gently scooped Elowyn up within his arms. The moon-white scales inked on his skin began to glow as a moongate appeared and he stepped through, Elowyn in tow. Elyria reached out to Elowyn instinctively, but her arm felt numb, falling limply to her side.
Caswin, wearing a soft expression, approached Elyria and extended an arm. Gratefully, she accepted, uncertain if she could stand on her own.
The Fangwright king finished cleaning his hands, his expression grim as he turned to face Elyria and Caswin, “Tell me everything.”
16
Soul of a Stranger
In the darkness,Elowyn struggled to open her heavy eyelids, feeling as though iron chains weighed them down. Blinking against the blur, she gradually took in her surroundings. A familiar scent enveloped her, soothing and comforting. Beneath her, a soft mattress cradled her body, and layers of warm blankets cocooned her form.
A faint smile touched her lips as she recognized the setting of her four-poster bed, draped with a linen canopy. Her attention sharpened when she noticed movement near the entryway of her chamber. Two indistinct figures stood by the cracked door, engaged in conversation. One figure, slender, listened intently while the other, larger, and more robust, received a small, stoppered vial from the first.
As the slender figure slipped out the door, leaving it to swing softly shut, the larger one approached her bed with careful steps. Elowyn recognized his snowy hair, partially bound, and moon-inked scales—Finnor. Her eyes followed his movements as he placed the vial on herbedside table, seemingly unaware of her awakening. Silently, he settled into a chair beside her bed, rubbing his temples in an agitated manner.
Attempting to speak, Elowyn’s voice emerged as a weak rasp. At the sound, Finnor’s silver eyes snapped towards her, and he swiftly rose from his seat. With two long strides, he reached her side, guiding her back into a reclining position on the bed. Once she was stable, Finnor retrieved an empty goblet from the bedside table and filled it with water from a nearby pitcher.
“Water,” he murmured softly, offering her the full goblet.
Elowyn’s throat remained dry while attempting to thank him. Each word felt like sandpaper against her vocal cords, causing her to wince in discomfort. Frustrated by her inability to speak properly, she seized the goblet with trembling hands and drained it in one go. Finnor promptly refilled it and handed it back to her, repeating the process until she had consumed several cups. Gradually, she began to feel slightly better.
Handing her the glass vial he had placed on her bedside earlier, Finnor explained, “It’s a healing potion from the royal mender. She instructed me to ensure you drank it.”
