Page 48 of A Sunwoven Ascent

“At its heart, dark magic does not take without permission,” she said at last. “It tempts those who feel uncertain. Powerless. But it does not choose for you.”

Kaldrek frowned. “You are certain?”

“I am,” she said without hesitation. “You are good. Grounded. You seek balance, not control.” Her words came with more care. “Do not mistake awareness for corruption.”

Relief loosened something deep inside Evelyne. She had known those things already, yet hearing them from Selene steadied her in a way her own certainty could not.

“You will not desire it of your own will,” Selene continued. “Not unless you choose that path. And I do not believe you ever would.”

Chapter 22

Alaric needed to see her face again. The golden warmth of her skin. The freckles scattered across her nose. That bright smile, all white teeth, and those eyes the color of deep summer leaves. And her hair—gods, her hair. Long, sun-kissed waves spilling past her shoulders in careless rebellion, nothing like the pinned and polished styles of the women back home. Hers was always loosening, strands slipping free of braids to brush her cheeks and fall into her eyes.

It was that face he clung to through the long, hollow reaches of sleep.

A refuge from the screaming.

The demon was bound, at least in flesh, drugged into stillness. Inside him, though, it never rested.

Need to escape. Need to escape.

The words hammered at his thoughts without cease.

Take him to the source. To the power. Do not fail. No. No. Cannot fail.

The voice turned frantic, folding in on itself as though terrified. Alaric could feel that fear, even if he still could not understand its purpose.

The alpha, it whispered. Stay with the alpha. Guide him.

Then, colder, crueler:

Kill all who stand in the way. Kill her.

Alaric survived by fixing his mind on Heidara. Her voice. Her touch. The way she looked at him as though he were still worth saving. And slowly, so slowly, the voice began to weaken. It no longer screamed. It cried instead. Whimpered at the thought of being cast out.

Something heavy began to lift from his chest, from the dark edges of his mind. Whatever had rooted itself inside him was being torn apart, though he could not yet name the force doing it. He knew only this: when he woke, he would fight. His body was too spent now, dragged under by a sleep he could not resist, but he was gathering what little strength remained. He would not let it win.

He could hear her sitting beside him, and he fought to drag his eyes open. His body ached with exhaustion, but the need to reach for her burned stronger. He wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and let her know he was still here. It had been far too long since he had spoken to her as the man she once cared for, rather than the ruin he had become.

Yet she stayed. He did not know why someone so gentle would remain beside someone so broken, but she did.

And Evelyne stayed too. Every day he heard her reading from some outlandish novel filled with lovers and witches and wolves. If he had possessed the strength, he might have laughed. It sounded exactly like something she would love.

Just a little more time, he told himself.

***

Alaric’s chest convulsed as he dragged in breath after ragged breath, each one snagging on the thick, ink-dark residue clinging to his throat. It felt alive inside him, as though unseen claws had hooked themselves through his chest and windpipe and were tearing savagely to remain where they had lodged. The darkness did not want to be driven out. Somewhere close, a voice urged him onward, but he could not place it. Everything around him blurred beneath the violent struggle for air, and for one sickening moment he could not tell whether he was waking or dying.

Then warmth bloomed deep in his body and spread with startling force, pouring through his stomach and rushing outward until it filled his limbs and reached the very ends of his fingers and toes. It swept against the cold that had lived inside him for so long, and where the two met, something shrieked. The sound tore furiously through his mind, like a living thing in agony, raging as it was dragged from the places it had rooted itself. It fought to hold on, its voice warping into something panicked, but the warmth only rose stronger, driving it back until the scream thinned and began to come apart.

Sensation returned to him in jagged bursts. His fingers twitched, then curled, and beneath his palms he felt not linen or mattress but something damp, uneven, and cold. Grass slick with moisture. He was on the ground. The realization struck him just as the last of the blackness scraped up the back of his throat, clotted with the taste of rot, and his body revolted so violently he nearly retched.

Around him, voices broke out in alarm and wonder, but they reached him from a great distance, muffled beneath the roaring in his ears. The warmth still moved through him, filling his chest, forcing life back into places that had gone hollow, while his hands dug hard into the wet grass as though the land itself were the only thing keeping him from slipping away again.

“Holy shit,” someone breathed. “It’s actually working.”

“Heidara—no,” a male’s voice commanded. “Do not touch him.”