The Poisoned Crown (SyndiSparklez)

18: Rise of the Reaper

1 (or 2) Chapter(s) Remaining -- (And then a final book, for my...*squints at reader count* 15 or so readers that'll still be around).

(And wow has it been (checks date) 3 months too many--I'll try to do better on Sacrifice and work on a new chapter for it tomorrow).

Rise of The Reaper

Jeriah pulled himself up from the woods, shook dirt out of his graying hair, and stared at the red-variant sunrise breeching the trees. He paused, breathing in; sulfur on the tip of his tongue, and a burning pain flowing up his nose, into his head. The blood magic running under his veins was calling to him; its siren song echoing into a ringing scream. He pulled the sacrificial blood knife from his belt at his waist and turned it over in his calloused hand before writing Spark's name on his arm—which was already filled with far too many white lines. No rush of cold. No blood spilled, Spark's name just slowly faded, mixing into the other lines.

Spark was dead.

Jeriah rolled his shoulders back, gazing out at the woods and the oxidized rocks framing the border of the town.

He had known Spark's death was near, but that means there was another issue on his plate. Yet even as he said that, his heart hit his chest.

He'd miss the bastard—cruel manipulator he was—he'd never got the chance to kill him himself, only had a mimicry of the experience with what he did to Jordan. Thoughtfully, he held to those moments, tongue warm in his mouth. Jeriah dragged the knife down his arm and let the blood drip onto the ground.

It formed a tracking symbol: the blood warping on the surface of the dirt until it formed a clawed hand reaching out for something—twisting and gnawing, looking for a target to track. Once amusing, now far too familiar. He bent down and with the bloody knife wrote Tom's name. The claw stretched out and buried itself in Tom's name until it twisted the dirt like an Earthworm to give a distance of 'seven-dragon-wing-spans away.'

As he thought—Tom was alive and well—and a good distance outside of the town...for now. He wondered how it felt. To kill Spark. Jeriah's mouth soured, and he felt something resonate in his stomach.

He'd never know.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled the knife from the Earth and made his way to the library. Botan likely suspected the events—but it would be foolish for him to get on the t—man's bad side. He entered the library's backdoor and knocked on the hidden door. The secrecy was idiotic—half the town was too dense to suspect anything, and the rest lacking the effort or means. The dim lighting disturbed him the shadows pressing into him, stealing his breath, and he squinted in it as the door swung open, the Historian disheveled.

"I bring news of Spark's misbehavior," Jeriah said, leaning away from the doorway as the Historian stepped out.

"Besides the pawning of his Champion powers onto my son," the Historian said wryly, pouring himself tea.

"He's dead—by the Champion of Dianite's hand," Jeriah stated and the Historian paused his movements. A considerate look at Jeriah.

"His own decree?"

"Yes."

The Historian continued—letting the steam soar upwards. He held the tea carefully, the strong scent of apples permeating the air.

"And my son?"

"I cannot track him currently," Jeriah admitted, and the Historian waved it off—or rather, waved his hand over the tea. The steam began to form a shape, but to Jeriah it was indistinguishable. It wasn't clear nor made any logical sense.