Claimed by Callista

Chapter ✺ 21

The infection from the wound in my arm spread and the fever was so bad even Nyaor or the King's best doctors could not save me that night.

"You've been cursed by black magic, Yehseeka," Nyaor had murmured it with finality, his hand on my head, his black eyes, looking down into my blood shot ones – his words were loaded with truth and grim acceptance that I was dead to him now. He had complete faith in the magic worked on me – knowing no one could survive such a hex.

The reason? He told me. He recognised his own spell, which only a Death Shaman would know, but it wasn't he who laid it on me.

"Who?" I had asked Nyaor, in a delirious daze.

Nyaor had lifted my bandage and found the item of interest. Biankar's older sister's pendant, which I gave to her. It had been shoved in my wound, laced with malice and menace. And I knew, from that moment, every single thing I had was going to die.

Because I had underestimated an enemy disguised as a friend.

Biankar had cursed me.

My best friend. Of course it is because I had murdered her sister, and she had never forgiven me. And her curse wasn't just on me. Biankar has cursed Sovrex.

Why? She had lost everything dear to her. Including Orsunr, to me.

Saving her life was not enough to secure her loyalty or friendship.

I wasn't even angry. Even though I was numb, I was still impressed by her ruthlessness and ability to trick me into a friendship, knowing I was so lonely and damaged psychologically from my own abandonment by my father. For my forced position as Morgan. She became what she needed, to exact her revenge.

And oh how perfect it was.

Deep into the night and into the next morning, my fever had been so extreme, I had blacked out multiple times.

The fever was left to run and everyone thought I'd die.

At one point I felt Callista's cool loving hands, slide under me, lifting me up, to carry me home.

But I remember being snatched away violently, rushed to another place.

I have a memory of my Magus snarling for me as he was fighting, as his brothers fought with him, and a chilling memory of laughter... cool, light laughter.

I have another fevered memory. The last memory of that night to dawn.

The Shadow Witch, the mother to Nyaor, Callista and Orsunr. Orciax. She ran in through the fighting, screaming, trying to kill the king, to save her sons, but a sword cut her through.

That's the last memory I have of that night and early morning.

Her guts, spilling out of her.

And my Shamans, surrendering and crying.

Crying. The best warriors that walked this Earth.

In a way, the entire debacle was so consumed by my own delirium and fever that it felt like a dream and not reality at all. Every time I remember witnessing the horror outside a tent opening, flapping violently in a stormy wind, as my wound was cleaned deeply and burned shut.

It's one hell of a curse, I got to give her that.

I think of it all now and still, every day I think of that night, and it's now weeks later, while sitting in a tower I'm not allowed to leave unescorted, looking over a land I do not recognise.

And yep, I had healed. No one could believe it. I was meant to die, but by the time I woke from a fortnight in a coma – instead of waking to family and friends, I had been displaced, removed and spirited away from everything I knew.