Page 107 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

A laugh erupted as Kordelia tipped her head back. She slid off the bed, sauntering over to Raiden with more grace than she’d ever previously possessed in her right finger. Raiden tensed, summoning his power as he mentally reached out.

“Huntress? Are you there?”

Kordelia’s lip curled with a snarl. “She’s gone. She was a false inhabitant. She was never meant to be. But don’t worry, baby, I’m back now.”

“No!” Raiden retreated until his back hit the wall. “I saw in her mind. Barron’s magic has warped what he tried to sever into something dark. You’re not you. You just think you’re real.”

“She’s too weak for this body. I embraced my immortality and my gift. She’s nothing more than a weak, pathetic, human.” Spittle flew from Kordelia’s lips as she spat the final words.

“You once stood for humans and mages alike, seeking a paradise for all like the rest of us.”

Kordelia blinked, the red streaks fading in and out. “There is no paradise. Only darkness.”

“Kordelia never believed that,” Raiden cautioned.

“No—you never believed it. The gods showed me my fate before Barron took me. I know my destiny. The answer is in the rifts.”

Kordelia’s voice warped, taking on an edge that caused a ringing in Raiden’s ears. Darkness leaked down the bond, weakening it, and his heart hammered.

“Huntress, if you can hear me, you need to break free. Follow my voice.”

“Stop it!” Kordelia hissed, her hands shaping into claws, shadows wrapping around her wrists like chains. “You only saw what you wanted in me. You saw a leader, but I knew what I truly wanted. I wanted to replace Barron, to rule a world fit for the gods. To bring back Devania, before the humans invaded.”

“This is Barron’s magic talking,” Raiden swallowed. “I know this isn’t you . . . baby.”

The affectionate nickname caused Kordelia to pause, her anger subsiding. Raiden tentatively reached out, brushing strands of silken white hair behind her ear. Kordelia leaned into his touch, breathing deeply. As her eyes closed, Raiden cupped her icy face. For a moment, he was thrown violently into the past.

His old love stood before him, her hands wrapping around his wrist, her eyelashes fluttering as she purred at his touch. Briefly, Kordelia was real. The female that’d appeared on their doorstep, an enviable pillar of raw power, of potential and drive to win the Galenite War.

But that drive had propelled her to darkness. It’d consumed her with wrath.

Kordelia nuzzled his hands, and Raiden exhaled slowly in response.

It was time. He had to let go.

And he unleashed his power.

47

Samuel

Samuel followed his mistress from the lavish black tent, his jaw aching from pleasing her. He blinked as the sun dipped behind the cloud of an incoming storm from the south. A foul odour wafted from beneath his armour, causing the same repeated bile to rise in his throat, just for the magic to force him to swallow it back down.

He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t worn it.

“Ah! There he is.” A shadow smiled at him, his white teeth and stormy eyes the only discernible features amidst the darkness. “Is he a good present for you, darling?”

Vivian—her name like a constant whip through his mind—hummed. “Most delectable. He’s been well trained.” Her slender finger ran down the side of his face but he could no longer feel it.

Waves of black stone filed out across the plain of the barren wasteland. The ocean raged to the west, splashing up against the cliff face, threatening to submerge hundreds of soldiers identical to Samuel within its outrage.

The stormy ocean reminded him of a strong presence, the white ocean spray mixed with the depths of the dark comforting him. But then he saw the individual black blobs again. The endless tirade of those just like him. Faceless. Nameless.

Yet, he refused to forget his name. No matter how painful it became, Samuel Rommier would be the last thing he would remember. Unlike the soldiers. They had no idea what was real anymore.

Shades, master had called them. Their revered one, with eyes like thunder. Admiral Barron.

He glanced away, peering down at his hands in confusion. What were those markings around his wrists? Intersecting lines disappearing beneath his armour, encasing him in a permanently cold and hard blanket. He scratched at the metal, noticing individual marred lines that matched the groove of his bloodied fingernail.