The Heirs of Death

20. A Game of Threads

I flashed my teeth in a wicked sort of grin, sending the image straight to her mind along a whisper of darkness that kissed her consciousness, leaving her shivering in her place, legs trembling so badly they jutted from their place. Her shoulders shook and I felt how taut her muscles were beneath the hand I placed on her nape to keep her still.

"This is merely a lick of the darkness I made off," I whispered, delighting in the way she shuddered. I sensed the terror slowly building within her, painting her aura, and grinned even more.

I turned around her, one hand cupping one side of her face, the other holding the knife that slid through her cheek, tearing her skin and flesh deep enough blood seeped from it like a small cascade. Thankfully, she didn't jolt or shift at the action, and I wondered if she actually could feel the pain growing under her skin or if the curse deprived her of it. I cut the other cheek, slicing it obliquely to her chin where both wounds met. No longer needing the knife, I threw it, the metal hitting the wooden door separating the living room from the rest of the house and remained there, half of it buried. Blood pooled in the cupped hands under her chin, the sticky substance going rapidly cold against my skin.

"I warn you," I said, crouching and dripping with my magic one single drop above each candle. "This will be temporary; a few minutes for you to actually realize this is not a lie. Your curse will be lifted the moment we receive the Arowcinders bottles."
Silence greeted me back, answering me enough. What I didn't add was Téors's plan: to lift one curse and damn her with another, silent one. One that would end her the moment she would merely decide to turn us over, be it to the White Troopers despite all the hatred she had for them, or to any of Lysithea and Blake's dogs, and for whatever reason it was. But the curse I was planting in her, that small flame that would reduce her to ashes, was deadly and painful and everything wicked. It would wreck her, destroy everything she ever was and would ever be. It would possess her, control her, leave her locked in a shell that she would no longer control nor feel. And then, her soul would melt bit by bit like a candle under gentle warmth: slowly. Agonizingly. So much she would beg the mercy of death.

I covered every single candle, refilling with cleaner blood for every circle until I was done, leaving a heavy scent of iron in the air. I took once again my place behind the witch, both hands falling a breath away from her temples. The spell wasn’t dark, not at core, at least. It was one of my many gifts, to break curses and cast new ones, just like the gift of killing and bringing back a bounder to life. Only the words were evil and poisonous and would have burned my tongue if they weren't allowed to me by Aether so I could go to Eziara undercover.

"Vyór," I let out in a broken whisper, my voice so low yet filling every bit of space. It was the oldest word in the Fallens' tongue, the one they believed was the heart of the beginning and ending. That one word that was the endless point, the loop from which everything came to existence and returned to after destruction.

The candles erupted, the wax flying all around in small, thin shards like broken glass would. Wherever those shards fell, they melted with such intensity even the remaining substance was as fluid as water. The liquid didn't move nor solidify, remaining idle and waiting for my orders. The threads placed inside the candles remained where they were, each one strained and unwavering as it floated in place, fire--a dance of crimson and ebony all at once--swallowing their thinness fully.

Shadows seeped from me, going out of every pore as they danced their way out, cocooning and isolating me from the world outside their darkness. Every sound turned mute, every heartbeat vanished, every trickle of time stopped.
It was like the world had stopped turning, like life stopped existing outside those walls, sealing us away of everything. Then, it rained, black water falling in long drops from the ceiling and meeting the flames.