𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 (𝟏) | 𝟏𝟖+

liii. the acropolis.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There was always a lingering presence of his wolf in her mind, one she slowly began to crave. It became a form of comfort, one she never realised she relied on. Those low toe-curling growls. His deep hum of a voice. The prowl of his wolf against her aura in her psyche. Now, there's no one to calm her ever-perilous creature inside of her. Her heart begins to hammer, but how can she slow it down when she's locked in a world without him?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow! she cries down her bond. She just needs to hear his voice, even if it's only a few words.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her eyes flicker open. The last she recalls is the hellhounds ripping their claws into her wings—

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her wings.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Pain ripples from one of her shoulder blades, and she reaches a hand back to the base of her wings, only to find it wrapped in a poor bandage. She gives them a good flap, only to feel one in response.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No," she whimpers, clawing at the bandage. One of her wings is missing, and if one is gone, she won't ever be able to fly again. Tears sting her eyes. "No!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The hellhounds couldn't have taken her ability to fly. She needs her wings, just like she needs the sky.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen topples out of a bed. A bed? Where is she? Where is Thorn? Her silver hues scan the room. The air remains stale and dank, but her vision catches the outlines of the ornate furnishing. She needs her light magic to oppose the darkness, a hum that disappeared when she needed it most. Only now, her magic answers her call. The hum beneath her skin awakens and allows her fingers to forge a spark.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎To her surprise, beside her bed is an old candelabra made of gold. She snatches it, lighting each of the half-melted candles with her ancient fire. The room lights up enough so she can see every wall and corner.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She stares ahead of her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎All she sees are pairs of blight eyes stare back.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She screams, falling backward and knocking over the bedside table. She lands on her ass with a thud, the gaping wing wound on her back spasming with the impact.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen swings the candelabra in front of her, gritting her teeth to swallow the pain. "Stand back! I know you hate the light!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎One of the blight figures approaches her slowly, their feet never making a sound on the rickety wooden floorboards. She swings the candelabra again, ancient fire blazing between her silver hues and those blackened soulless dead eyes lacking any white around the rims. With every step, Elowen notices a little more about them, or rather, her. Her long velvet black hair is wiry against her dark skin, tucked behind her pointed ears. Ancient. She must be. Aside from her eyes, she's not scorched from the blight. Her clothes are a ratty gown, no shoes; the only accessory she has is a black pendant around her neck like a collar.