Page 2 of The Bound Mage
Her gaze pierced him, pinning him to the spot.
“Wedo not lie,” she said. “We are bound to the truth–even when it breaks us. But you? You smiled at me, at my children. You studied our texts, shared our food, called my sonfriend. But every word you spoke was with a blade hidden behind your back.”
“I tried to work with your people?—”
“No.” The queen shook her head, her voice like steel. “You tried to use us. And when we did not bend, you decided to take what you wanted by force.”
The magic surrounding them stirred with her anger—roots coiling tighter, leaves rustling in a wind that didn’t touch Garrick’s coat. Deep in the grove, stone cracked and groaned, the air coming alive as something vast and ancient roused from its slumber.
“This is your last chance, Lysa.” Garrick took a step closer, pushing forward despite the roots that clawed at his ankles. “Come with me peacefully. Or I’ll break this grove to take you.”
She stared at him, and for a moment Garrick thought she was going to fight–but then the sword fell from her fingers, landing soundlessly at her feet. He held out his hand, relief flooding him as she raised her gaze to his. But instead of taking it, she stepped back, her chin lifting.
“You’ll try,” she said.
Garrick lunged, but vines tangled around his boots, thorns whipping across his neck and shoulders. He staggered, nearly falling into the clearing as she tipped her head back, a low, shuddering moan rolling through the trees.
“Lysa!” Garrick cursed, fighting his way forward. “Stop! There’s still a way?—”
She opened her eyes.
They glowed, bright with power as aether rose around them, pulled directly from the marrow of the land. Light poured from the moss under her feet, threading through the roots and racing up the trunks before bursting from the canopy like a storm of stars spilling into the sky.
“You were never meant to touch this power,” she said.
The ground heaved under his boots, roots tearing free like serpents. The glow illuminating the clearing turned white-hot, searing his vision and filling his nose with the reek of scorched bark and the tang of molten magic. Every hair on his body rose, the breath crushed from his lungs by the terrible certainty that he had made a fatal mistake.
But it wasn’t lightning that struck.
It was magic.
Garrick clawed for his power, smearing his fingers through his own blood to sketch the first strokes of a warding rune. Desperation sharpened the lines, his voice breaking as he tried to give them shape?—
“Thyra,” he rasped, hope surging as the rune flared once, power humming through the bone around his finger. But then the hum became a scream, a hairline fracture splitting the bone an instant before it shattered. Pain lanced through his hand, racing up his arm as his grip on his magic tore loose with a crack that drove him to his knees.
He crashed into the moss, that ancient power grinding him into the ground. Dirt filled his mouth, choking off his voice. His vision swam with black spots, blurring. But he could still hear it—his entire world narrowing to the low, thunderous heartbeat of the Eldergreen surrounding him.
It wasn’t trying to push him out any more. It was consuming him.
Garrick clawed at the earth, scrabbling for purchase as more roots lashed around him, binding him fast. Thorns pierced deep, blood slicking his hands as he dragged himself forward against their hold. But he didn’t stop. If he didn’t move—if he didn’t get out—he would die here.
He tore free, scrambling through twisted roots and thorns?—
But then, the world went still.
And Garrick Shaw knew nothing more.
The first thingGarrick registered was the light—bright and sterile.
The second was pain.
A low, radiating ache throbbed deep in his bones, humming beneath the skin like an old wound newly cracked. He tried to move, but something tugged at his arm. A restraint? No—a bandage. He ripped at the gauze, suddenly desperate to see what remained–
“Easy,” a voice said. “You’ve been under for three days.”
Garrick turned his head. Slowly.
Darian Hale sat beside his bed, as immaculate as ever. His dark uniform was spotless, his hair tied back with not a strand out of place. He held a folio in one gloved hand, his sharp blue eyes raking over Garrick with surgical precision.
