Page 117 of The Reaping Rose

Soldiers glance. They whisper. They stare as I lift my hands. Many of them have seen me battle over the centuries. Back when I molded my magic into the shape of lightning so that they wouldn’t know the truth of what I wield.

My fingertips spark now with who I really am—an aether wielder.

Golden flecks slowly flush my forearms. Thick veins of aether weave around my arms. Spreading against the plague of death that covers the beach.

The others don’t hesitate. They follow my lead, lifting their palms at the oncoming shadows while Darvel directs them. As a fire wielder, his magic is purely offensive, so he does not raise his hands for what we’re doing here.

He doesn’t leave us either.

Darvel was my example in battle—in life. He’s the closest thing to a father figure I had when the male who married my mother resented me too much to raise me himself.

Air, storm, and wind wielders step forward. Those with amplification affinities scatter throughout the group to fortify the shell we cast in defense of the oncoming wave.

There are no creatures heading our way. No weapons that can destroy what comes for us now. Battling the Well evolves each time it appears. And at the moment, all we can do is defend.

Aether weaves in and out of the magics on the beach. My fingers dance with the breeze, twining my magic with the others. It glows brighter than any star until shadows crash, and the first surge of the Well strikes us with such intensity that the sea swallows another foot of sand. The beach shrinks.

On the wind, I hear it. Somewhere in the distance, the Well laughs. Or maybe it’s the fates.

Or the gods.

The Well rakes its teeth over my army, and a third of them drop to their knees at the impact.

I fortify my magic, sealing it tighter. Binding it with those around us.

My heart pounds.

Thump. Thump.

I cling harder, and sweat drips down my temple.

Thump. Thump.

Screams echo, and my heartbeat notches up. It thunders. Blood pulsing in my ears. My veins.

Thump. Thump.

My vision swims as another wave crashes, but I don’t let go. Not as aether sparks on my hands, and my fingers shake. My knees weaken, but I don’t fall.

Thump. Thump.

Every beat is endlessly painful. A hundred spears splicing through the center of my chest. I search the threads for the strength, for an answer. For anything.

Until the slightest spark washes through me, down a familiar thread. A ghost of Elorie’s thoughts pierces through the distance.

The breath of her magic swims into my heart, and even though she is not here, it soothes this anger thundering in my chest. I cling to it—to her. I wrap myself around the thought she sent me, even if I can’t understand it.

And I push.

With the full force of my magic. My being. I push back against the Well with aether and all that binds it in this moment.

Darkness pulls back. It yawns in silence as it retreats. At my sides, no one releases until the Well vanishes again on the horizon.

“Good work.” Darvel’s voice is all that has me drawing my magic inward.

I nearly collapse on the beach. But for my people, I don’t. On shaky legs, I turn on my heels to the war tent beside the one filled with the dead. Only once I’m inside do I fall into a chair, catching my breath.

The flaps open as Darvel and Rior step through, directing everyone else to stay outside.