Page 102 of The Starlight Savior

“Conor,” she shouted, hoping he could hear her, “you better hurry the fuck up right no—”

“Move!” Conor shouted behind her, “out of the way!”

She scrambled to the right just as she saw Conor barreling towards her. The room spun as he looked as if he was going to jump through the portal without her.

“Wait!” she yelled, reaching for his hand, but he slid quickly to the left just as the creature of the mist jumped towards where Conor once was. Towards the portal.

As it leapt in midair, Conor swung a lightning encased sword through the air. It slid across the middle of the creature’s body neatly, quicker and more precise than anything Saige could have ever done. Before it was swept into the magic of the portal, the body was split into two. Black blood oozed from the wound of its midriff, spraying onto Conor’s face.

“Now!” he shouted, whirling towards Saige with an open palm. His other hand was outstretched, lightning flowing into the mirror, enhancing the images of the capital.

She didn’t hesitate as she leapt up onto the stage, gripping Conor’s slick hand. He slid an arm around her back, his bright eyes the last thing she saw before the magic and darkness overtook them.

Chapter 39

“What have you done ?” someone snarled into her ear. Saige tried to open her eyes, but they felt sewn shut. Her body ached all over. When she took a breath, her chest burned. But the hand around her waist, thumb drifting back and forth, overpowered the pain and discomfort.

“I can explain,” Conor cried, choking on his words.

“And what is this!” roared another voice. She recognized it as the general. They were back in Etrane, in the capital.

But something was very wrong.

“It came from the mist,” Conor said. His hand slid away from Saige’s body. Her back hit wet stone as he laid her on the ground. She wanted to move, to try and explain how brave Conor was. But her tongue felt heavy. No muscle in her body complied.

“The mist?” said the other voice, the snarl lingering. King Vospella, Saige thought. “Wielders can’t live in the mist!”

“They can!” Conor shouted. His words lost the choked exhausted tone, the warlock returning to them at last. “That is what lives in the mist. That used to be Barney. And it wasn’t the only one. S-Sybil was transformed too. The mist doesn’t just kill wielders, but alters them. We need to know this.”

Ah, that’s why he brought it back.

If he had gone to his father and King Vospella with such news, they might not have believed him. Or they would have sent a patrol to prove it, to see what was really out there.

Now they saw. They could dissect and learn.

“What were you thinking going back there?” the general demanded.

His voice seemed so far away.

“Saige,” Conor said slowly.

Her back was melting into the ground, taking her away, away, away…

“Her training—”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Chop. Chop. Chop. The knife slid over the wooden block smoothly. Diced onions and carrots waited to be thrown in the simmering pot. Saige, barely six-years-old, tiptoed across the floor. Tiny hands reached up, her toes straining as she stood as tall as she could. She swiped at the pile of onions, shoving them in her mouth. The taste was bitter.

“Oh you!” Her mother laughed from above. She set the knife down, smacking Saige’s hand away. “There will be none left for your supper if you’re shamelessly stealing all of it!”

Her mother lowered to her knees, taking both of Saige’s cheeks in her hands and kissing them. She giggled, soaking in the smell of sweet summer herbs and flowers. It was the smell of home. Of her and her mother kneeling in their garden.

With a final kiss, Saige was shooed away. This was always the most boring of times for Saige. It was when the day came to an end, the sun slowly dipping below the horizon. Her father wasn’t home yet, and her mother’s attention was elsewhere. Saige always had to entertain herself, leaving her longing for a companion.

She strolled around the simple cottage, searching for something to get into. Plants strung across the ceiling and bookshelves. She reached up, trailing her fingers along the dried leaves and flowers. In the corner, where her bed was laid out, she could reach for the paints her mother had made her. But she had painted yesterday. Instead she grasped the yarn dolls Azila had made her. Playing by herself bored her though. She missed the sound of her father’s silly voice, dipping low and flowing high, holding the doll in midair as if it were flying.

Hands reached under the small bed, hitting the leather boots. Perfect. Pulling them out, she tugged them on her feet, leapt up, and quickly slid out the door before her mother could utter a word. Technically, she wasn’t not allowed outside, but her mother and father preferred her indoors by the time the stars lit up the sky. But inside was so boring. The world beyond the cottage was vast and wide, waiting for her to explore.