We cannot kill him. We cannot send him back from whence he came. The gods have abandoned us to this horror that they unleashed.
—Fragment from the personal journals of Lev Milekhin
There was an awakened one nearby. It was a song he couldn’t resist. The taste of copper flooded his mouth as he worked at his chains, pulling on Chyrnog’s power. His hand burned, the chains falling away. He rolled his shoulders, glancing down. He was missing the tip of the little finger on his left hand. He stared, some far away, distressed piece of him going silent.
He had to go. He was hungry.
No one in the camp seemed to notice. Ostyia was on watch but facing the other direction. Something made him pause, hesitate, claws sliding out, teeth sharpening in his mouth.
No. He wasn’t going to hurt them, not if he didn’t have to.
He slipped into the night, veering east. He didn’t know how far he’d gone when he was ripped from the sky and went crashing to the ground. He was on his feet in an instant, whirling and pulling the threads that made his order listen because how dare she—
Something hit him hard in the head and he went down.
“Oh, that does work,” Żaneta said. “Where are you going, Malachiasz?”
Shit. He lay in the snow, feeling it bleed into his skin, the cold, the ice, as all those distant emotions slammed him at once.
His hand hurt a lot.
He hadn’t even realized Chyrnog was controlling him. The god had grown insidiously quiet, his threads wrapped so tight around Malachiasz that soon they’d choke him completely. There would be nothing left of him to fight.
He swore softly, choking back tears, sitting up and holding his head in his hands. He lifted one hand when Żaneta hefted the branch. “Don’t, please, blood and bone, you have an arm on you.”
Żaneta lifted an eyebrow. “Surprised because I’m only a slavhka? A mistake?”
Malachiasz winced. “You know what, have another go, I deserve it.”
Żaneta snorted softly. “You sure do.” She sat down in front of him.
They were in an empty field. Where had she even gotten that branch? There was nothing around except blinding white snow.
“Where were you going?” she asked again.
“I’m so hungry,” he whispered.
He sat there, letting it abide, just a little, when it returned full force, threatening to swallow him whole. He hunched over, covering his head as the pain tried to flay him to pieces.
“Stop fighting,” Chyrnog hissed. “Do what you’re meant to. You’re not strong enough to fight me, haven’t you learned? How many times do I have to teach you this lesson?” Something shifted, a reconsidering, and suddenly Żaneta looked very different to him in the dim light.
Alarm crossed her face. “Malachiasz?”
Malachiasz.
Taszni nem Malachiasz Czechowicz.
He let out a long, shuddering breath. No one with magic was safe around him. He was too far gone. Chyrnog was too close. His stomach churned, chaos starting to tear through his body.
Żaneta reared back. “Oh,” she whispered.
He knew what she was seeing. The shifts, the changes. Eyes and teeth and limbs and horror.
Malachiasz thought of Parijahan’s magic. The numbers.
It wasn’t enough, but it was something. He grasped the spell and molded it into a mantra. He struggled to his feet. He didn’t speak, afraid he would break the spell. Chyrnog battered against him, turmoil and rage and darkness darkness darkness and it was so much and his heart raced with fear.
Chyrnog had never been denied before.
Chyrnog was going to destroy him for his disobedience.
There was so little of Malachiasz left.
They walked. If Malachiasz did anything more, he was going to shatter. The awakened one passed into the distance, a faint memory. A poor soul who would be hunted by Kalyazin’s Church for something they had not asked for and likely had not wanted.
How much of the world would change because of the way magic had fractured?
A part of him was thrilled there would be so much to learn. So many avenues of magic that he had never known before, ready to be discovered. How did Nadya’s power work? That vast ocean of dark water was as terrifying as it was thrilling. The taste she had given him was not enough.
And Parijahan? The numbers were new. He’d used calculations in spells before but unrelated to the actual application of his magic. For her that was all it was, and it resided entirely in her head. No outward manifestation. It was fascinating.
Chyrnog raged within him. He kept his mind trained solely on contemplations of magic, a distraction. He didn’t know how long he had before—
It came as a sudden grip. He choked, blood filling his mouth. It felt like his rib cage was being wrenched open, something clawing up his throat. He tripped, landing hard and jarring his bones, immediately throwing up blood. Żaneta’s hand touched his shoulder. He tried to shy away but his body was no longer listening.
No no no. He had to keep it together. He was so close and had fought for so long.
“You’re much too weak for that,” Chyrnog said. “With each day that passes you become more like me. There’s no getting free. I have you completely and there will be no more fighting. All will be quiet. Don’t you want peace?”
Malachiasz spat out another stream of blood. Żaneta made a soft, disgusted sound, which was rather silly, Malachiasz considered, because she was a damn Vulture, because of him, because all he did was corrupt and destroy and make good things terrible. Chyrnog was right, there wasn’t much left of Malachiasz that wasn’t entropy and destruction and darkness, but there had never been much of him that wasn’t that to begin with. He had been created for chaos. He had been made of pain, for pain, by pain. He couldn’t fight it because there was nothing to fight. It was his true nature and always had been. All that was left was to allow the inevitable.
Malachiasz collapsed, and everything shuttered dark around him.