Page 172 of Rose and Shadows
“Animated Fleshwork,” I breathed.
Re-animated corpses.
The way that black magic users raised the dead and then had them do their bidding, because their return to the land of the living in this form came without their minds intact, and had their will compromised and beholden to their raiser.
As they passed by some of the magical lighting orbs in the grass, they cut out as the black magic in play that was both controlling them and keeping them here on this plane poisoned what they touched.
“Usually this is only used on beings who have been long dead, right?” I asked Sylas who was a few feet away, sweeping his glowing crimson palms back and forth—taking readings?
“Fueled by black magic, they have the means to pass through this pocket dimension and out into the wider world,” Dad warned. “They cannot be allowed to move beyond us.”
“That won’t be happening,” Sylas seethed. “Especially when they are, in fact, Morien’s acolytes.”
“Excuse me?” Dad questioned.
“Sylas?”
He growled low in his throat, then bellowed out into the forest where he’d been staring into the distance just off to the left of us, “Motherfucker! You think you can use death to fool the Master of Death Magic?” he sneered. “Those days are long past!”
In the next moment, Sylas thrust his hands forward and I was staring in fucking awe as his crimson power surged over the river, racing along the ground and rising in a towering wave ten feet high, rolling forward until it engulfed every single one of the five hundred Animated Fleshwork staggering over to us.
His power surged in vibrancy, then he jerked his wrists to the sides and a gray film with black flecks—the mark of Morien’s corrupted power—came into view a moment before it wavered violently then shattered into fractured pieces like glass that rained down everywhere as it happened all over where Sylas had his red power enveloping.
As it all fell down, the Animated Fleshwork began dissipating, then fading away in smoke and whisps on the wind. Not ripped apart, not peeling away—because they hadn’t been real.
It had all been an illusion.
Sylas growled and pushed harder, speeding up the process, the shattering and collapsing of the illusion revealing what was beneath, bit by bit.
Groans, cries, and whimpering filled my ears.
Blood from so many wounds infused my senses.
As more and more Animated Fleshwork dissipated, more of what was real came into being.
And then we were looking upon them as the smoke, sparks, and Sylas’ magic cleared as he pulled it back.
Five hundred hybrids gathered just feet from the mansion on the grass, many bloodied and beaten, all of them bound—either byInhibitor cuffsto prevent their magic usage, or with Dark Fae chains that had the power to even restrain most Ancients.
“Shit,” I choked.
They hadn’t been killed.Oh, fuck.They were here, still alive.
But that relief was deeply overshadowed by what they were enduring—the dominance, the pain, the degradation.
WhatPuritaswanted to bring down upon all those like me.
I clenched my fists, hissing, and my fangs dropped as the vehemence of my conviction to end this shitshow burned through me like empowering flame.
Around them, enforcing their torment and captivity stood fifty Dark Fae acolytes of Morien Morgrave, palms flaming with gold and white Celestial power tinged with black flecks that were the marks of black magic usage.
It was why that illusion had been so powerful that even The Shadowed and my dad hadn’t been able to sense the falsity, let alone what was beneath it.
“Stay your hand,” my dad rumbled.
I turned my head, about to protest—until I saw the look in his eyes.
He was as pained as me.
