It was impossible to tell how much time had passed in the suffocating darkness that swallowed everything in its path. The shadowy tendrils sometimes brushed against Havren, delivering an excruciating pain. They stripped away her ability to feel hope, sapped her life force, and mercilessly tore at the threads of her own magic as it struggled to shield her. Eventually, Havren could no longer see; all she could do was scream in terror. The monster she had once held at bay with Yestin’s help now prowled near the edge of its cage, desperate to break free—a creature of darkness with a massive head and a misty, smoke-like body. Its boundless energy, if unleashed, would bring nothing but devastation. Her body convulsed whenever the darkness drew near. So this was the end of what had seemed like a beautiful life. To die in the basement of some decrepit old house, sprawled on a cold stone floor amidst filth… She had never dreamed of such a fate, though it had haunted her nightmares, keeping her awake at night.
Now, the herbalist pleaded with the heavens for even a moment’s respite from the pain, for the darkness to be driven back. Hope of rescue flickered out like a dying candle, her thoughts tangled in despair.
She bit her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood, and squeezed her eyes shut. The merciful oblivion she craved refused to come; all she wanted was to fall asleep and die quietly. Havren Der Narat foresaw a torturous end, cursing Rival with every fiber of her being.
Did the Lanverian king even realize the fate he had condemned her to? He had fallen into a trap, the fool. Maybe that girl was his sister, but after enduring this, no one could emerge looking full of strength. The trap had snapped shut. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to become the true wife of Lenard Der Klaif, even to share his bed.
The darkness thickened before her eyes, and soon Havren, groaning and gasping for breath, could no longer see the threads of her magic. They had vanished, dissolved into nothing. So be it… The countess was left alone with the dark magic. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before she heard footsteps and the rustle of fabric. Barely able to move, she squinted against a sudden light. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. It wasn’t Rival, come to show mercy and return for her. But even if it had been, she wouldn’t hesitate now—she would unleash her hatred. She’d kill him with her own hands, doing the world a favor by ridding it of one more crowned scoundrel. How could she have been so wrong? Whose bed had she shared, to whom had she given her passionate love? A thief? A puppet in someone else’s game?
The vibrant, joyful world she once knew had ceased to exist. In its place came a gray, lifeless dullness, stripped of color. She shivered as a magical flame flickered faintly in the air, its light blinding her.
Inhuman thirst, hunger, exhaustion… Was this the fate deserved by a daughter of the Sharnian kings, one who could command the edge?
When her eyes stopped watering and adjusted to the light, Havren saw a beautiful face. A young stranger with eyes as blue as cornflowers smiled at her, gently stroking her forehead. He wore a black cloak with no insignia, thin leather gloves, and when he pushed back his hood, platinum braids carelessly spilled over his shoulders. She couldn’t place his lineage. If Der Narat had felt better, she might have guessed Ilirian blood, a mix of ancestries.
“I’ve been waiting so long,” he whispered evenly, a manic smile playing on his lips.
His hand traced over her tormented face, not hiding the impression he gave—sickly, obsessive, dangerous. The darkness retreated before this stranger, unable to harm him. His hands trembled slightly as he removed his gloves. For her, a few moments of relief followed. A dull ache throbbed in her temples and the crown of her head, where Rival had struck her with the hilt of his sword. Havren feared she was wounded, bleeding out. Say what you will, but the Creator had abandoned her prayers—this man was unlikely to be her salvation.
“That harlot Yestin finally showed some semblance of brains,” he said flatteringly, almost clapping his hands in delight. “A marvelous gift. Long-awaited.”
“Damn the Lanverian dynasty to hell,” the herbalist thought bitterly. “And you didn’t even spend a single night by his side when he was burning with fever.”
Her thoughts sliced through her soul, cutting it into tiny strips, leaving behind an aching emptiness. Oh, how she longed to conduct a few experiments on that loathsome sister of the king! And Rival himself—she’d give him a son… Yes!
The white-haired stranger lifted a court physician’s brooch, frowning.
“You won’t need this anymore,” he said, tossing it into the darkness. “A useless trinket, just like those you served…”
He grasped Havren by the shoulders, lifting her like a rag doll. He laid her head on his lap. She gasped from the painful sensation as fever spread through her body, making her feel hot and suffocated. Relief came in the form of cool water from a flask.
“Drink!” he commanded. “I need you alive!”
He brought her back to consciousness just when it seemed the merciful darkness of oblivion—and death—would finally claim her. As the inquisitors loved to prattle, the grim reaper always stalked life mages. This was perhaps the only time Der Narat wished the dark angel would come at last, severing the threads of her life with his scythe, repaying her for all those she had saved from his ghostly grasp.
The stranger forced water down her throat, pulling the flask away just in time as the herbalist nearly choked and coughed violently.
“Master,” a voice called from behind him.
“Did you carry out my orders?” His commanding tone sent chills down her spine.
“Not yet.”
“Then why is a worm like you interrupting me?” he hissed.
“The ritual, Master. You can’t leave your domain for too long.”
“I know! Did you create the illusion? Running low on power? Then draw from the spheres! Do I have to teach an old fool like you the finer points of your job?” the white-haired man exploded with venomous rage.
Submission was the only response. Havren could sense it, even without lifting her eyes or seeking out the figure standing behind him.
“Afterward, guarding this house is on you,” he said, calming slightly. “The prisoner’s condition, too. Make one tiny mistake, and I’ll arrange an immortality for you that even the damned will envy.”
“Understood, Master!”
Havren coughed. Strong hands held her to keep her from sliding completely to the floor. Never before had the girl felt such revulsion. A necromancer was touching her. The realization of whose claws she had fallen into made her react apathetically as the stranger’s fingers slid along her leg, pushing aside the skirts of her dress. He reached her knee, then moved higher.
“You’ll survive,” he stated, looking into her eyes. “You’ll become my queen…”
The latest promise nearly made her sick. Rival had already promised her mountains of gold and a glorious future. All she could think about now was a way to escape, to muster some strength, to crawl away from the darkness.
“A descendant of ancient kings,” he said, now stroking her tangled, dirty hair. “It took a long time to find you,” he clicked his tongue. “You’ll help me complete the ritual, won’t you? You don’t want this world to die like the last one, do you?”
Words stuck in her throat. Havren could only stare helplessly at the necromancer, whose beauty was otherworldly, almost angelic. Once, Volkan had told her, “There are flowers in our world so breathtaking you can’t look away. But if you ever come across them, never touch them. Their poison will kill you instantly. They’re not ordinary roses with thorns that leave mere scratches.”
“Three days,” he whispered. “That’s how long you’ll be here. And then… then a completely different life awaits you.”
Her eyes, filled with horror, fixed on him as she silently cursed him.
“It’s a shame my experiments don’t leave me enough time to stay with you,” he sighed. “But now, no one will take you from me.” A wide smile spread across his face. “We have eternity ahead of us.”
Chills ran through her body as he bellowed in an inhuman, magical voice.
“Where the hell are you, you old dog?”
Soon, a servant appeared, and Havren saw an elderly man, hunched and grotesque. Bald, he wore a brown robe instead of proper clothes, and on the back of his hands were red symbols carved with some unknown weapon.
“Creator, please… Save me!”
The necromancer carefully lowered Havren to the stone floor, not forgetting the chain as he tightened a collar around her neck. He shackled her hands as if she were guilty of a dozen murders. The darkness returned, lingering near an invisible barrier, blooming into bizarre shapes, shifting from one form to another.
“Keep an eye on her,” he ordered the servant sternly. “Bring some furniture so our guest doesn’t catch a cold. Water, food… You’ve been around long enough to know the drill. No one else is to set foot in here—make sure the guards understand that.”
The necromancer clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the herbalist.
“Princess,” he sneered, searching for the right word, “no, queen… Yes, that’s better! Don’t let her draw on foreign energy. If she refuses care,” he smirked, “call me. I’ll feed her myself.”
Der Narat clenched her teeth. If not for the darkness immobilizing her, draining her life essence, she would have forced this ignorant fool to taste the dirt on the stone floor.
“She’s not Yestin, who even brought her lovers down here,” he said, tapping the servant on the shoulder. “Get that through your head, carve it into your mind. For her,” his gaze fixed on Havren, “I’ll lock you in a dungeon with an archon.”
The familiar darkness returned as the footsteps faded. It surged toward Havren with renewed force, making her bite her lips until they bled once more.
“Hold on,” a voice echoed in her mind. “Just hold on a little longer.”
She lost track of time. Not knowing if it was day or night, or if her loved ones were still alive, she felt herself slipping into madness, crying like a child. Everything blurred together in the stifling room, filled with pain. The servant came and went, bringing items with him, but the countess barely reacted, hissing curses at his back. The old man only cackled like a horse, baring his teeth.
The ring on her finger was strange. At times, it tortured her with fire, at others, it offered cool relief, or it squeezed painfully. Nayar’s unfamiliar magic left a sliver of her consciousness untouched. Eventually, the darkness receded, and Der Narat managed to doze off, gathering just a bit of strength and no longer seeing the grotesque silhouettes of dark magic before her eyes.
She awoke to loud, echoing sounds. Someone was walking. Someone was running. Her body trembled with primal fear. The incomprehensible noise felt like a harbinger of trouble—at least, that’s how Havren’s battered mind perceived it.
The door to the room was blasted open by a wave of concussive magic. She winced at the light but mustered the strength to recognize a painfully familiar silhouette. Damn it! It was Nayar… Exhausted, wounded, with cobwebs in his hair. A warmth of joy flooded her soul, bringing euphoria. Then the mage screamed as the darkness lunged at him. Spells flew, some grazing the girl and making her cry out in pain. It felt as though she’d lost a limb to the tendrils spreading across the stone floor.
“I’ve waited,” she whispered.
Some time passed as Nayar battled the dark forces, before collapsing beside her, utterly spent. Breathing heavily, he reached for the chain with trembling fingers. He got to his knees, drops of blood falling onto Havren, her dress, and the floor around them.
“Nayar,” the herbalist croaked.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “Don’t distract me. We’re running out of time.”
She noticed how he manipulated threads of magic toward the lock on her collar, then freed her hands as well. He lifted her into his arms since Der Narat couldn’t walk. Dragging her toward the exit, he cursed like a blind drunkard. Havren inhaled the scent of his sweat and blood, unable to get enough of Nayar’s closeness. He draped a cloak over her shoulders.
The dark corridors were a labyrinth. He even accidentally hit his head on a low ceiling while climbing the stairs, misjudging the height.
“I’m wiped out,” he rasped. “This is it for us. They’ll be here soon. I didn’t finish them all—I’d bet anything reinforcements are already on the way.”
Outside, the first rays of dawn broke through. Havren gasped as the man dropped to his knees, setting her down on the ground first.
“This is it, you get it? I can’t open a portal!”
Despair laced his voice as he slammed his fist into the dirt. Der Narat clung to a tree trunk for support. Her legs buckled, but the fresh air, after the dusty basement, was like ambrosia to her lungs.
“I’m begging you,” she whispered, almost whimpering, “answer me.”
She was calling out to the edge, searching for any shred of strength to open it. The magical formula in her mind tangled with the dark spots left by the darkness. Nayar looked at her like she’d lost her mind, then his jaw dropped as a translucent passage to the edge appeared nearby.
“Hurry,” she hissed, collapsing to the ground, tangled in her skirts.
Tears burst from her eyes as Havren sobbed in helplessness. Nayar barely managed to drag her to the portal, straining with every step.
The darkness faded. The two of them fell onto ash-covered ground. The countess groaned in relief, feeling the familiar magical energy of home.
“I… I,” the man stammered, looking around in disbelief. “Home? You… You… Who the hell are you, woman?”