I kneel beside him, the very essence of him slipping away from my grasp. Desperation gnaws at me, the weight of my grief threatening to drown me. “Please, Regan,” my voice breaks, quivering with sorrow. “Stay with me.”
Gnash, though weak, still holds onto life while his bond to me suddenly solidifies. With each passing second, I feel Gnash bond to me more. It makes my heart ache, knowing it is only because he lost his master. Gnash nudges Regan’s chest with a mournful whine.
The world seems to tilt on its axis, every sound muffled, every color surrounding me dims as if the world is losing its color without him. The chilling wind blows, but the cold is nothing compared to the icy dread seeping into my heart. As if in tandem with his fading heartbeat, the storm intensifies.
Gnash whines pitifully, pressing into Regan’s lifeless form.
“Litha, don’t you let him pay for my sins,” comes a choked cry. My eyes move to Theron, where he is deathly pale. James clutches him as blood bubbles out his lips.
His face is full of pain, his chest heaving, eyes wild as he glares at the storm raging above. Yet, there’s a glint of something else—something I can’t decipher.
His head turns in my direction. “He won’t die for me,” Theron coughs. Blood spurts out his mouth like his insides are liquefying. “Take it,” he coughs. “Take it, Zirah.” His hoarse voice is laden with urgency. “No parent should witness the death of their child, let alone be the cause of it.” He lurches forward, spewing up blood, his skin graying before my eyes. “Take it,” he rasps. The raw emotion in his tone sends shivers down my spine.
Though knocking on death’s door, Theron possesses an intensity in his eyes that I have never seen in him before.
“Zirah,” he rasps, the effort visible in the tendons of his neck, “Take it. Take my life.” Theron’s voice wavers, saturated with regret. “This curse . . . It was mine. I won’t let it claim my son. I’ve wronged so many, but please, not him. Not because of me.”
James, whose arms support Theron’s crumbling form, looks away with tears in his eyes. He’s trying to keep it together, but I see the anguish on his face at what his brother is asking.
Theron’s once fierce eyes now look weary, resigned. “Too many mistakes,” he croaks. “Let my boy live, Litha. You know he’s worthy of life, yet you condemned him along with me,” Theron stammers to the skies.
The conflict inside me is suffocating. Could I really trade one life for another? Play god in such a way? Yet, my hand is already reaching toward him like my subconscious has chosen before my mind came to terms with it.
The pain that engulfs me with my choice is breathtaking. Each lick of the pain pierces deeper than the last. Every cell in my body screams in agony, but even as the pain threatens to tear me apart, there’s a persistent echo from the depths of my soul—a lifeline.
With the malevolence of the storm, my hand falls onto Theron’s chest, my magic tickling my fingertips when Theron gasps.
I lay my hand over Theron’s chest, feeling the vibrations of his life force. Taking a deep breath, I draw upon the storm’s energy and the ancient power coursing through the veins of every member of our coven.
“From life to death, from death to life, on scales of fate, we balance the strife . . .”
Above, the storm echoes my anguish, its ferocity tearing through the heavens. But amid the chaos, there’s a haunting melody when I hear a voice join me. My eyes open to see Kelly stepping forward, then one by one, they all do. Even Leila, who sits leaning against her grandmother, joins the chant. Her lips quiver as she stares at Theron.
“It’s okay, dear,” Theron tells her, and she clenches her eyes shut, tears spilling down her cheeks as she chants. Their voices, rich with power, lace and weave through the air.
As each witch of the coven lends me their essence, a corresponding rune flares to life.
“Bound by blood, by love’s fierce cry, we summon forth the soul that lies . . .”
The magic swells within, a tidal wave of pure force. It’s terrifying, the sensation of dancing at the precipice of life and death, of being both the puppet and the puppeteer.
With every word the coven utters, the weight of my decision grows heavier. Trading one life for another is no simple act. It’s a challenge to the very fabric of the universe.
Regan’s form, cold and unmoving, is the epicenter of my world. The desperate hope that I can reclaim him drives me forward, even as doubt and fear claw at the edges of my resolve.
The storm reaches its peak, the skies torn asunder by lightning and thunder. The very ground seems to shake with anticipation, echoing the turmoil within me.
A surge of magic roils within, a sensation that’s both exhilarating and harrowing. “Theron’s blood, a father’s due, for the son’s breath, life renewed . . .”
Each uttered word feels like a chain, binding me to a decision that challenges the cosmos itself. Lightning lashes the earth, its fingers of electricity forcing everyone to leap away from Regan and Theron, but my voice doesn’t waiver.
The spell’s force crashes down in a blinding explosion. The energy, volatile and wild, seeks its target—Theron. And as the finality of the chant engulfs the night, the balance shifts.
“With love’s sacrifice, destiny’s might, we tip the scales and force life’s spite!”
Another bolt—this one even more potent—seeks Regan. The night becomes as bright as day, forcing us to shield our eyes against the intensity. A moment later, an enveloping darkness returns.
Two bodies lay on the scorched earth, Theron and Regan. A hush blankets the surroundings as if the very world holds its breath. Seconds feel like an eternity until, against all odds, Regan gasps. The feeble sound is the sweetest I’ve ever heard.
