Page 72 of The Divine Shallows
Elyria tried to muster a counterattack, but the serithium coursing through her veins left her too weak to cast. With each passing moment, she felt her control slipping away, her body growing increasingly unresponsive.
Sylas summoned his feat before he could hesitate further and the hand that was coated in Elyria’s blood flared a moonlight ivory. The smeared streaks of red started to dissipate in a delicate plume of pale smoke that trailed to the skies. Elyria felt thousands of magical strings fabricated from Sylas’ spell bind themselves to her while she was too immobilized to resist the effects of it. Elyria rallied any remnants of her magic to combat it, but her attempt was futile.
Sylas remained impassive as he commanded his spell to ensnare her. With a powerful motion, he outstretched his hand toward Elyria, fingers curling methodically. She sensed the invisible cables tighten around her as Sylas secured his hold on her. At his command, Elyria’s posture straightened despite the paralyzing effects of the serithium, her expression becoming vacant.
As Sylas lowered his arm, Elyria’s body mirrored his movements.Her limber legs bent at the knee, lowering her into a kneeled position upon the wooden raft. The unseen threads continued to direct her until she was seated with folded legs, her arms slackening. With a final flick of Sylas’ wrist, Elyria’s head bowed in resignation, her silver gaze dropping to her lap.
Sharp as a blade, humiliation and shame cut through Elyria as she sat in submission before the entire arena. Her body was no longer her own; every movement was controlled by Sylas, her limbs and life’s core at his command. As a Bloodweaver legacy, Sylas possessed the ability to manipulate her body through the blood he had spelled. This unique power was inherited from the first queen of the Iron Hollows, Isadora Bloodweaver. The spell functioned by tethering itself to the victim’s blood, granting the caster increasing control with each drop spilled.
In this instance, Sylas had used only a scant portion of her blood to bind her to the spell. Elyria knew if he had elected to use more, he had the capability to transform her into a vacant marionette at his disposal. At least he had allowed her the clarity of mind while under his control. Through her studies, she had learned of lesser fey having been magically manipulated by this feat, and those fey had performed unspeakable acts beyond their control at the hands of a Bloodweaver legacy.
As a legacy herself, she understood the gravity of another legacy’s power. When it came to House Bloodweaver, their inherited ability was especially sinister.
Elyria’s body remained yielding to the magical spell, obediently kneeling at Sylas’ command while the battle unfolded around her. Though immobilized, Elyria watched as Sylas joined the other five other candidates in their cavalier combat against the blood-eyed eel. From her periphery, she saw the six of them assail the creature with incredible skill and magical deftness. Even in her captive state, she couldn’t deny the extraordinary skill and magical ability displayed by each of them. They were all remarkable—any one of them deserving of the titleprimis.
Then it dawned on her.
So that was their scheme. The serithium. The Bloodweaver feat. Her powerless position as they left her discarded on the wooden raft. They intended for her to be overlooked and dismissed by the fey of Neramyr—they aimed to have the Moon Goddess desert her once again.
All this effort on their behalf was to render her unsuitable as a divine candidate.
And here she was, unwittingly playing her part in their strategy, a chess piece falling into place.
24
A Legacy is Born
If Elyria could muster a chuckle,she would have. She realized that the other divine candidates had succeeded with every maneuver they made since the very beginning of the ritual.
The six other candidates had already showcased an impressive array of their talents, skills, and abilities for the Moon Goddess to witness. Each had demonstrated their prowess to the fey of Neramyr in their respective class of magic. They all had shown courage, persistence, and solidarity not only as a cohort, but also individually as warlocks and sorceresses.
Throughout theVitusthus far, Elyria had been nothing more than a spectator, merely watching along with the audience—her calculating nature gained no victories tonight.
She had done nothing, accomplished nothing.
Right from the start, it was evident she was unaware of the other candidates’ strategy. She had been tossed and flung into the depths of the arena more times than she cared to admit. Sheappeared as a damsel in distress when she took refuge on Sylas’ raft and held onto him for stability. She seemed incapable and helpless as Kerrick dragged her below the waves. Her lone magical counterspell had gone unnoticed, concealed beneath the waters, only for her to emerge as a double-crossed fool who had been poisoned and exploited to the benefit of the Bloodweaver legacy. And now, she found herself kneeling in familiar disgrace, awaiting to be overshadowed once again.
Shame loomed over Elyria like a dark blight waiting to smother her, causing her composure to wither with each passing moment. Had she mistaken kindness for cruelty when Sylas’ spell granted her mind clarity? Elyria’s mind flashed back to seven years ago when her name was announced by the High Priestess as it echoed in the Heart of the Temple. She recalled the crushing silence right before the whispers of bewilderment and denial began, those whispers which then turned into outright rejection and refusal.
The memory of what she endured threatened to shatter her credence in herself.No.She could not do this again—she would not do this again.
There were more fey in Neramyr than stars in the sky that believed she was unfit to be a divine candidate. Why go through the lengths to suppress and contain her like this? Were the others truly so afraid of her potential to be chosen by the Goddess over them?
If so, their fear was poorly placed—it should be directed ather.
Elyria was no longer in control of her movements, but she was still the master of her own mind. Her aura hardened as she drowned out the atmosphere around her. Elyria detached her sense of smell, taste, touch, sound, and sight from the surrounding arena and channeled that focus entirely on herself. She felt the steady rise and fall on her own chest. She heard the calming whir of air filling her lungs and the lulling whoosh as she exhaled. Elyria listened to the steadfast thumping of her heart and committed its beating melody to her memory. She worked to dispel the serithium from herbloodstream, expunging the toxin. She looked inwards and saw the whorls and swirls of her aura, reaching out to its comforting glow. Her aura stirred at the familiarity of her touch. It pained Elyria to see all that she had become, all that she had achieved, now shackled, and bound beneath a spell.
This was not how theVituswould end.
In her lifetime, she had been robbed of so much and settled for far too little—but the title ofprimiswashersto claim.
Reaching out to her aura, her life essence, Elyria called to it. At the request, her aura roused to her command, and something awakened within herself. Her mind swept over her body, scouring, and searching for the foreign magic that bound itself to her, ensuring no stone was left unturned.
Before long, Elyria identified each link in the chain of magical bindings that shackled her. She was Elyria Fangwright, a trueborn princess of Neramyr and the blood of the first king of Eriden flowed through her veins. She refused to exist as a prisoner in her own body.
Elyria’s mind seized the magical binds one by one, rooting them out until the very last one was within her mental grasp. She knew her next action had to be performed with precision, aware that she had only one chance—just one opportunity to make it count. She couldn’t be certain how long it would be before Sylas become aware of her efforts.
In the back of her mind, the rhythmic thump of her heart sounded, and she replayed the beat over and over like an unwavering anthem. Elyria recalled the oath she made to herself seven years ago—a promise she intended to uphold until her dying breath. This reminder spurred her into action.
