Wanted dead or alive by three warring Goddesses, Oriana must journey into the heart of the Thornwood to seek the aid of a legendary phoenix and right the wrongs of her bloody past.
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The roof of the Gathering hall crumpled as Hunter lunged, beams dropping one end after the other with cataclysmic force. Dirt sprayed up as deadly splinters rained down. People shrieked and dove for cover, dragging squealing little ones after them. Rogan's followers scuffled quietly on the sidelines with the people who were desperate enough to rise up in mutiny, their claws sinking into flesh with the soft sigh of pins piercing cushions.
Hunter had a perfect opening — Rogan was lost in the channeling of his spell, ecstasy suffusing his features as he tapped on Nya's power — but he could not abide any more needless deaths. So he halted, braced his knees and raised both hands. A grunt escaped him as he flexed his silver power like an extra limb.
He might as well have shouldered the world; his back threatened to cave under the strain as he fought gravity itself, stopping all the debris mid-air. A wide-eyed child touched a wooden shard and sent it tumbling through the air, floating as it would in the void that bound the stars.
"Get them to safety!" Hunter roared, sweat already trumping the fierce guard of his brows, trickling through the coarse hairs and into his eyes. It stung like soot and he blinked it away, loathe to impair his vision at such a crucial moment.
Gordon leapt into action, swooping up the stray child. "This way," he barked, ushering civilians out of the wreckage. More members of the resistance were waiting outside, ready to direct everyone through the ashwood gates and into the Wylds. It would be a dangerous trek to the Witch of the West's forge, but those who survived would be able to slip through the portal there to safety.
Hunter could only hope that Edith wouldn't mind parting the clouds long enough to let everyone through the Moon Gate. He'd seen the way her frail arms shook as she held them back for him alone, and she was less then hospitable in the aftermath, snapping like a wounded fox backed into a corner. Not that the Witch of the West was known for her benevolence, but still — that rundown cottage made something twinge in his breast, and he felt guilty asking her for more after all she'd already done.
She will come through, he told himself. There was an unexpected stubbornness to the old woman, despite her failings. But her services will come at a cost.
Hunter hoped she'd let him pay on the people's behalf. Because these were his, now. His to lead and to provide for, and in a strange way, he felt responsible for the witch, too.
Her treatment was yet another thing to avenge. And Hunter would do it gladly, and then he would take charge, because removing a leader always resulted in a vacuum of power, and his father was wearing several.
"Foolish boy," Rogan spat, reaching out and grabbing at thin air. He drew it back to his hips like he was hauling in a loaded fishing net.
Black crept in from Hunter's peripherals, followed by a wrenching pain as his bones popped from their sockets. He should have known his father would Nya's Grace to maintain a healthy distance. Wooden fragments ground themselves to nothing between the two opposing forces of their Grace, like grit between molars. Hunter squinted, but it wasn't enough to keep out the drifting sawdust, and gravity plucked the water from his eyes before it had a chance to clear them.
"On your knees, boy."
His right leg buckled. Panic and outrage flared. Where the hell was Gordon? He should have been back by now, but then again, what else could he expect of a turn coat? Gordon had already confided in him the allegiance he swore to Red, long before they crossed paths in the healing hut and realised their mutual ambitions. But now that an opportunity had presented itself to get Mysandra to safety...
I'm on my own, Hunter realised the moment his second knee ground into the packed dirt. Not only was he crying in front of his father, he was kneeling, all but offering the back of his neck. Bah!
"Lower," the old man hissed.
There were still stragglers clearing the hall; he couldn't let go yet, but he also wasn't strong enough to stay upright at the same time. A cold, prickling force shoved his head down, smashing his nose against the floor with a crunch that made his organs wince into his spine. Blood filled his nostrils, tangy and unpleasant as it ran down the back of his throat, but still Hunter strained his mind and continued to hold up the roof.
Rogan's boot came down on the back of his head, pushing it to the side. Rubbing his face in the ground. He's toying with me, Hunter realised, gasping for air through the mouth like a beached fish. He tried to clear his nose, but the blood had thickened with dirt and the sludge was not conducive to breathing.
The hem of Rogan's cloak scraped through said mud, all snarling faces and dead eyes. One stiff muzzle caught his eye in particular: its grey fur was matted and tangled, but Hunter could still make out the patch of white across the muzzle, like Nya had spilled paint in the process of making her.
Mother.
"Why did you kill her?" Hunter rasped. Something was building his body, a low flame that burned hotter with every breath. The scar on his cheek twinged, and he felt Oriana's cruel, soul-razing kiss all over again. How could anyone give that up willingly? "I don't understand. She was your mate."
It was a sacred bond, but Rogan's tone was anything but reverent. "Caryn was a consolation prize. Her purpose was to warm my furs on the nights my true mate could not join me, but your mother was greedy. She wanted me all to herself. She spoiled you at the expense of my real son in an attempt to secure her own standing. Her attempt to kill Sebastian was simply the last straw."
Right. The mauling, followed by long, agonising months of sickness that rotted her bones from the inside out. "You cannot truly believe yourself mate to a Goddess," Hunter croaked.
"I am the Moon King," he hissed, grinding his boot down. "I'm going to be a God."
A shadow passed over them both. "Gordon, now!"
Hunter dropped the last of his Grace and took up the bundle Gordon thrust his way. The cloth dragged like a sail full of air as the full force of Rogan's gravity returned. He grinned, so confident in his victory that he didn't think to retreat; by the time he processed what was happening, the iron collar had already snapped shut.
