Guardian of Calandria | ✔️

Chapter Seventeen

          Bodies lay dyed red in the pools of their blood, scattered across the destruction and buried within the rubble. What few Wilders remained dropped to their knees, surrendering to the harpies' wrath. They stood to the side of their prisoners, screeches filled the air, and clawed hands rose to the skies. To Kira it appeared to be their cheer of victory. She fisted her hands, digging her nails into her palms. Blood seeped along the tips of her fingernails. Her eyes moved from the faces of the beaten Wilders, their long faces stained with dirt and blood, mixing with their tears. Many hugged their children or prayed to their Gods. She looked to Rodyn, his sneer twisted wider on his lips. His eyes were locked on her, never moving or showing the slightest interest in Zarich.

Zarich's form flickered, white energy imploding and exploding in a single line, hovering above the crystal resting in Rodyn's outstretched hand. Sounds dulled when Kira's eyes met with Zarich's. Her eyes were colorless waves sparkling deep within her sockets. Cries from the Wilders vanished into nothing. Kira didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do. It took her cutting her palm to keep from unleashing the magic boiling within her. Memories of Astrid's tribe, the ones Kira slaughtered because she wanted to stop the guards, played in her head. It wouldn't happen again. She wouldn't let it.

"It's impossible. Kira cannot be related to ye, Zarich." Myra stepped beside her, a wrinkled hand cupped Kira's shoulder. She didn't know if the old seer was using her as support, or trying to help calm her anger. It didn't matter. Kira sighed and calmed. "Ye have been locked away in Calandria since before I was born, let alone the lass."

Zarich laughed. "Though it is true my body has been imprisoned within Calandria, my offspring escaped."

"Again, lies." Myra's voice remained firm and carried a certainty Kira would've believed had she not sensed the flinch of Myra's hand against her shoulder. "Blood magic renders the user baron."

"Stories, lies, fables told to children to help them sleep at night. I can assure you, blood magic does nothing of the sort. It remains within me and transferred to the fetus in my womb, a happy and beneficial act. Blood magic boils through your veins by birth, Kira. I bore a child who was set free unto this world and in time the generations created you. We're the same, you and I. I can sense the darkness yearning to be freed."

Kira trembled. She dug her nails deeper into her palms, the blood slid from the wounds in a steady stream. The drops fell to the earth, banging like rain on tin. Zarich raised a hand toward Kira, one finger curling inward, beckoning Kira forward. Her body wanted to follow, a voice in her mind urged her to proceed.

"Aren't you tired of living a lie? Tired of hiding the magic brewing inside you? Release your anger, Kira. You look at me with such hatred and yet fear holds you back. Come to me and that fear will vanish, replaced with your true self. My kin, my blood."

Voices screamed louder in her mind to follow Zarich's command. She was tired of holding back her magic. Zarich spoke the truth and it was a truth which frightened Kira more than Rodyn or the army of harpies surrounding them. Her legs quivered, one foot stepped forward without her consent. She closed her eyes, tight enough to see stars. One hand rose to her heart, gripping her shirt with a clenched fist.

Kira opened her eyes and looked at Ry, wanting a familiar face to stare at. A face connected with her past, reminding her of Emma and life in the Glades. Ry never questioned supporting her regardless of her having magic. His was one of two voices of reason to call her back from the edge. He knelt, one arm covered his stomach. Ry grimaced, pushing on his knees to stand. The sight of his blood soaked through the thin material of his tunic made Kira wince. Rodyn and Zarich they had done that to him.

At his full height, Kira's head came to Ry's chest. She smiled, thinking back to when he was smaller than her. He hated she'd been taller. It wasn't until they were sixteen he had a growth spurt that made him taller. Ry used his right hand to pull her fist free from her shirt. His fingers locked between hers. Over the years she'd question their friendship. On the surface they were polar opposites, a friendship that seemed destined to fail. Right then, she needed that friendship—the bond between them was thicker than love or blood.