The distraction costs me deeply as another guard comes up. The blade rips as I try to twist and take out the guard, cutting me open more. That’s when I see Gnash, Hunter, and Shadow leap into the fray. Gnash instantly takes down the man who holds the knife while I twist to grab another. We take down the guards in our path. Our wolves’ ferocity is a sight to behold as they clear the way for our escape.
Leila and my father finally rush into the chaos, their faces etched with determination. My father’s gaze sweeps over the scene before settling on Lyon and Zeke.
“Get them out of here!” I order him.
Without waiting for his response, I make it to Zirah’s side, standing back-to-back with her. The sight of my father, burdened with the weight of my injured brothers, fills me with a strange mix of relief and dread as I watch the lights above his head shake before they disappear.
One by one, the remaining coven members flee, leaving Zirah and me to confront King Slavic and the last of the guards. We are all that stands in their way to her fleeing coven and my brothers and father. I stand by Zirah’s side, our breaths mingling in the silence, both of us bleeding and broken but too angry to concede.
We launch ourselves toward them, fighting with a synchronized rage of claws and blades. We dodge and weave through the guards, claws against flesh, everything becoming a blur of fur and fangs.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The chaos thickens amid screams and clashing bodies, and as the fight wages on and more vampires fall, a weighted silence settles around us. King Slavic stands in the center of the room before the pile of his son’s ashes, and the last guard standing has realized with horror that Zirah’s eyes are set on him.
The guard snarls and backs up as Zirah stalks forward, and Slavic’s face contorts into an evil scowl that only serves to fuel my anger. However, I do not let him flee when I see his eyes dart to the tunnel behind me. Instead, I push forth with all that I have left as Zirah moves like an ancient goddess. She takes down the last guard while my hand penetrates Slavic’s chest. My fingers wrap around his heart while I feel its beats slow, pumping harder yet barely thumping at all.
The taunting laughter of King Slavic echoes ominously around us. “You think you have won, but you haven’t,” he sneers, pulling a device from his pocket with a triumphant grin. “Looks like you’re dying with me,” My blood runs cold as he presses a button just before my hand can seize the device.
The world erupts.
Bombs detonate in a chorus of chaos. The mountain shudders violently beneath our feet, the very ground rebelling against us. Without a second thought, I dive toward Zirah and the wolves, wrapping my body around them as a human shield.
An ear-shattering explosion rips through the cavern, shaking the foundations of the mountain. Rocks rain down, an avalanche threatening to bury us alive. My heart pounds, each beat fighting to break out of my chest.
But then, just as abruptly as it starts, everything stops. The falling debris, the trembling ground, the consuming darkness—it all halts. Confusion winds its way through the terror. Why has it stopped? Are we dead? The chilling silence offers no answers.
And then I realize, we’re trapped. All exits are blocked by massive boulders and rubble. The very walls that were supposed to protect us have become our prison. Panic claws at my insides as the sound of alarms blaring in the distance reaches my ears, the water pipes that ran along the ceiling burst, filling the confined space with rushing, icy water.
Desperation seizes me, and I hurl myself at the rock blockade, scraping and tearing at the stone with my claws. The wolves join me, digging with a frenzy only survival can provoke. But our efforts seem futile against the unforgiving mountain.
Then, I notice Zirah. She’s frozen in place, her palm pressing against the cold, wet ground, the water pooling quickly to her knees. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice rough with panic and exhaustion.
“It’s Leila,” she murmurs. The water ripples and her hand glows beneath it. “she’s holding the mountain,” Zirah whispers. “She can’t hold that much power, no one can without a . . . channel,” she gasps, her eyes going to me. I watch as Gnash wanders over to her, her eyes flicker before turning green and burning brightly.
“Zirah?”
“Shh, I am trying to talk to it,” she whispers.
“You’re what?” I ask, dumbfounded by her words.
“Feeling for the mountain so I can speak with it, merge with it, and ask for its help,” she whispers. The simple words carry a weight I can’t quite grasp. Her eyes change, morphing into a vision of celestial otherworldliness, galaxies swirling in their depths. Her head tilts, and a soft murmur escapes her lips. “It’s angry, we’ve all intruded, and it has had enough,” she whispers. Quietly, she begins to chant in a foreign language, one that is ancient and predates us all.
The cavern is cast in an ethereal glow as she whispers the chant, and the air crackles with raw energy. It’s an exhibition of power that sends shivers down my spine. I can only watch, caught in the throes of awe and fear as Zirah communicates with the heart of the mountain. It’s a sight as haunting as it is beautiful.
A surreal calm descends upon the chaos, its icy touch seizing my heart in an iron grip. Zirah’s smile floats in the dim light, ethereal, untethered. Something’s wrong, something’s off. It has the familiarity of a dream slipping away in the face of dawn, replaced by a sickening realization. Her voice, once soft and comforting, changes, becoming something beyond this realm, godlike, ethereal perhaps.
It sings to the darkness, a siren call woven in an ancient tongue, and I’m drawn to its chilling melody. Her voice bounces off the rocky confines, holding an unnerving familiarity. It’s no longer Zirah speaking alone, she’s not feeling for the mountain anymore.
She’s channeling something—someone. A cascade of voices spills from her lips, layer upon layer of women’s voices I can only put down to being her ancestors. I hear the wisdom of generations, her mother, her grandmother, Goddess Diana.
Her words float around us, a litany of whispers and sighs. “Atiri cedros, feta dione. Veratis nimbus, iota ferein.” The words roll off her tongue like a sacred song. I can’t decipher their meaning, but the power in them is tangible. It coils around us like an ancient serpent awakening from slumber.
Her voice spirals upward, a song echoing in the hollow vastness of the stone fortress we’re entrapped in. It bounces off the rocks, seeping into the cracks, filling the void with its celestial aura.
The cavern is held in a trance, the voices of the past filling every crevice. Zirah stands at the center, her form shimmering in the ghostly luminescence, eyes like two galaxies lost within her own creation.
“Meratos lindor, aeta sione. Karata menidor, vera dine.” The chant builds, reaching a crescendo, an unforgiving storm roaring in the silence. I can feel the mountain quake beneath us, the stone shuddering in response to her call.
