Arcanae [Book 1]

Chpt. 27 // Dawn of the New Cycle

I was unable to help it; my thoughts turned void and were replaced only with an encompassing sense of mystique. Glistening droplets continued to pour down from my palm. The arctic blue sigil began to flicker—the intensity of its argent glow was starting to wane, fluctuating in both brightness and reach. The current I felt flow in my veins became less pronounced, rendering itself from an all-consuming river into a subtle trickling - the tinkling of finite energy.

My arm began going numb.

All the remnant energy in my body turned to ash, sapped away through the runic sigil that loomed overhead.

A mad twitch emerged.

The joy and mystical sensations contorted into sheer horror; my jaw dropped as I lost control over my fingers. The strange sensation crossed my body, claiming my whole hand. A moment later, it flared up along my lower arm.

It was an arcane infection that continued to spread rapidly across my limp.

The runic sigil flashed, a volatile display of its waning stability.

A loud crack tore the skies asunder as spouts of water shot up in the air from the surrounding lake. A grey haze moved in, blurring my vision. The skin wherein the Magick was coursing through my veins felt as though it was cut with a thousand scarlet kisses.

Through the blur, I spotted glowing blue runes run down my wrist as the shaking escalated to unparalleled, frantic levels.

My muscles burned, and the fervorous ache was the sole factor that anchored my fleeting consciousness.

I was on the verge of collapse.

Staggering in place, I gasped for air, my breaths now laboured.

A blinding light washed away all I could see, replaced with nought but a pure albeit short-lived radiance. The arcane seal had shattered - a hundred fragments splintering into nothingness.

Devoid of all vigour, my arm plummeted down.

A moment later, my knees gave out.

I tumbled to the floor, scraping my body across the rock surface.

There was a sudden buzz in the back of my mind, partially blocking out the sound of someone crying out my name at the top of their lungs. The voice had a pronounced depth and masculinity to it, though its sharp edges were laced and smoothened out with a profound sense of concern.

"Cynthia!"

I squinted, making out a blurry figure that approached me.

My vision failed there where only my hearing could prevail - I was relieved I had recognised Theos' voice, for had I not been able to, all manner of vile things could have crept up on me.

Then, my thoughts took a step back.

A hint of confusion blossomed from within me as I felt a sticky droplet roll down from my nostrils. A stark scent of metal circulated me. I frowned when I realised it was not just the scent; no, it was also the taste.

"Good graces, child."

Theos' voice faded into the background, becoming no more than a dismissed static swept away amid the wind's clutches.

I brought my remaining healthy hand up to my lips - the very motion giving rise to several layers of discomfort across my exhausted body. My back, legs and arm, which had become a magical conduit of sorts, each wailed a silent cry. I refused to give in. I gently caressed the skin above my lips, recoiling in an instant.

A rudimentary form of vision had returned to me - blurs had started to retake rough shapes.

I grimaced at the sight of my index finger.