The Broken Song

Chapter Twenty-Seven

—Kiverryn—

It was still there, the swirling storm of black and red at the edges of her vision. Ori clamped her eyes shut and tried to swallow the bile rising in the back of her throat. Her breath was growing shallow, the pounding in her skull increasing in tempo. The staff wasn't even in her possession. It stood on the opposite end of the room, leaning against the wall innocuously. But even that distance wasn't enough for Ori to escape its oppressive presence.

She couldn't stand another moment in the room. With a quiet excuse, Ori stood from the grand table in The Voice's private quarters and left the council to finish with their discussion. It wasn't until she had left the Sanctuary and found a deserted alleyway that she allowed her feet to stumble. Her body was flushed with warmth, her head spinning, her gut churning. Her limbs were going weak and the red and black at the edges of her vision was growing. Another few steps were all she could take before she collapsed to her knees.

Ori hit the ground and her stomach rolled. She retched, feeling something slithering up her throat. Her eyes watered as she retched again and out came a thick oozing mess of black sludge that plopped audibly onto the ground. She recoiled, but then more needed expelled and she was powerless to stop it.

The sludge shifted and curled in on itself, reassembling as it tried to crawl back to her. It burned beneath her magic. Once it was gone, she collapsed in a heap, her knees pressed to her chest, flushed face resting against the cool stone. But the moment her eyes closed visions of the Sorceress, her army, and that ominous castle beckoned to her in her mind's eye. With a groan, she pushed herself up and staggered out of the alleyway.

"The burden grows heavy, doesn't it, my child?" The Voice spoke up just as she rounded the corner.

Too weak to hide her condition, Ori turned slowly to face him. His expression was one of concern, but it didn't keep her from being guarded. He had always been kind to her, but whether that was his genuine nature or whether it was because she was considered the Savior of the Path, she could never tell.

He made his way to her side, a gentle hand covered in a golden glove rested on her shoulder. His golden robes sparkled in the morning light, metal adornments reflecting the light into her eyes, forcing her to keep her head down.

The Voice was a man somewhere in his fifties or older. He never spoke much about himself. His skin was a strange mixture of bronze and olive, hinting at magical enhancements to give his mottled complexion some semblance of life to it. No one ever spoke of the glamour, but Ori knew there was no reason for his skin to be that color without it. Pockmarks littered his cheeks and forehead, suggesting a childhood spent in poverty in an area without much healing aid. Ori had a few guesses to his origin, but without a heavy accent, it was anyone's guess. Eyes, a muddied brown, betrayed a keen mind and frivolous demeanor. She had seen him swing from grandfatherly concern to cold-faced judge within seconds. He was a mystery, one that made Ori undeniably wary, but right now he was the only one within reach to offer a modicum of comfort.

"You worry about the coming fight, but you need not fear it, child. You are ready. This staff will aid you to victory."

Ori recoiled when he offered her the staff. In her state, she hadn't even realized he held the thing. As much as she wanted it out of her sight, a part of her didn't rest easy seeing it in his hands. The Voice had no talent toward magic. What he could wield came from The Broken Song itself. This staff would be beyond his capabilities. But, regardless, she couldn't allow such a powerful and dangerous relic to remain in his hands.