Red's Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Six

The vines moved with a mind all their own, as though they were connected to Alera's own mentality, her wishes and desires. As she fought Nicholas back, they slithered across the floor towards him and the remaining dark tentacles that still lingered. It was no battle— the vines engulfed and snuffed out the weakening magic like a dwindling candle flame as Alera's grew with each absorption through the dagger. It was like it was an additional appendage, a part of her, working in tandem and yet having its own autonomy.

"You witch," Nicholas snarled as the vines latched onto his ankles and wrists, wrapping around his legs and arms. "You heathen, you canny bitch."

The vines wrapped around his head, covering his mouth like a living gag, but nothing he could slur at her stopped her approach. There was no fight left in him that could scare her anymore. The dagger had seen to that, absorbing every last bit of her dark energy, now pulsating with its own magical glow. All while the vines pulled the Prince's arms and legs outwards towards the corners of the room. He groaned in what sounded like pain, and Alera actually smiled. With one word she knew she could have him torn in quarters.

She wanted nothing more, after all the pain he had caused, and felt the dagger's thirst for the same. But was it her own magic, or the taint of his darkness that was taking over the clarity of her mind?

This man had tormented her kingdom, her people, her father— innocents that had nothing to do with his disgusting endeavor, all because of his obsession with her and her power. None of which were ever his to begin with, she didn't care about whatever arrangements her father may have made on her behalf. By now, it was moot— Nicholas has overstepped his boundaries and played the wrong cards.

It was the last hand he was ever going to play.

She grit her teeth as the building power threatened to consume her, and she was so ready to allow it to do so. For her father. For her Mother. For Palazia. For—

"Alera."

As if she summoned him, she glanced over her shoulder ever so slightly to see Jere standing in the doorway of her father's room, sweaty and covered in blood. She was unable to discern if it was his or someone else's but there was no time for technicalities. Guards gathered behind him, glancing up and over and around as if to see what was happening in their king's quarters, The wolves whimpered at his legs, but Jere was not allowing any of them to pass. Not as he stood, as still and sturdy as a statue while his gaze met hers.

For Jere, she would do anything.

For Jere, she would end this treachery once and for all.

For Jere—

"Alera, what are you doing?"

Jere's voice was like a whisper on the wind compared to the thrum of the magic within her hand.

"I'm ending this." She barely recognized her own voice.

"Not like this." She could sense it when Jere finally took a step into the magic-concentrated room. Like water in a sponge, it almost seemed to squelch as he stepped on the rug, and the ripples reverberated straight through her. "Not like him."

"He doesn't deserve mercy," she insisted, though she could hear the emotion threatening her tone. Tears began to sting her eyes as she stared at the man who would have so readily destroyed everything she knew and loved for his own selfish purposes. And what right did he have to any of it? None. Which was why Alera could not allow him to breathe for another moment. "He has to be stopped."

"And he can be. He will be." Jere stepped closer even still, so close he was able to put a warm hand on Alera's shoulder. And as always, his touch was like an electric jolt, shocking through her system and returning her to the present. "It just needs to be the right way."