Sweet Innocence and Gentle Sin || 𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐑

Chapter 25: For What I've Done

No masters or kings when the ritual begins

Content Warning for gore

~)(~

I don't know if I was breathing—if I was even thinking—or just existing. This kind of feeling, this power, it wasn't normal, wasn't familiar. I wanted it gone, wanted to burn it from my system like acid. It coursed through my bloodstream too fast, too hot.

As soon as I realized where I was, it all just hit me like a million bolts of lightning. I did this. I caused this disaster.

With magic I had no control over, spilling out of a well so full it burst like a cracked dam. Magic so raw and broken it was nothing but fire, spilling across all I touched and turning it to ashes. Like thunder bellowing and echoing in my mind, a band tightly wound around my eyes. Blind to the horror of my rage, my pain.

I had killed people. I had held necks in my grasp and burned skin from muscle, muscle from bone. Watched as that light left the eyes of so many now unrecognizable on the battlefield. All for the path to this place—this deserted camp.

I killed heartlessly, ruthlessly. With no sense of compassion, no feeling of guilt. I only wished to flood this power from my bones and kill those who chained me to a cliff-side and let the waves beat and bruise me.

My hands shook as magic pooled beneath my fingertips. Yes, I used this power to destroy everything I could—didn't I? And yet... I couldn't kill the people that I wanted to. I was too slow, too distracted. And now it was done, and I was sitting in the rubble wondering why I even did it if I couldn't kill them.

It felt like dry cracks skidded up my hands, making them shake harder. This stinging pain made it hard to think of anything other than where it could come from, and how to stop it. I lifted my hands and stared at them, searching for anything amiss.

I couldn't immediately see anything, but the closer I looked, the more I could make out these tiny sparks beneath the skin. As if they could see me, they shined brighter. Marks were left behind, riddling my skin with twisting lines akin to lightning strikes.

My heart dropped. There was so much magic beneath the surface of my skin that it was burning me. My skin was burning from the inside.

I could feel every ripple of burning through my veins. From the inside out, a raging fire threatened to destroy me. At first, it was only light, a dim light like the roots of trees deep within the muscles, within the nerves traveling all through my arms. Then it was fire—actual fire.

I lifted my hands and watched as my nails caught fire. Ten tiny candle flames lit, and the smell of cooking flesh followed the smoke. As they burned, my palms turned red and bubbled from blisters that tore with an almost audible feeling of paper ripping. Blood oozed and evaporated, steaming and filling my nose with that unforgettable metallic oxidization.

Bubbling flesh ripped and pulsed dark red. The sound of sizzling blood, of boiling fat, the steam and smoke of it all. Within it, that light. That painful, bright light belonging to the grey clouds of a thunderstorm. It spilled from my arms, from my palms. Released itself and dissipated as soon as the air touched it.

Where there should've been a pulsing ache and pain, there was instead a relief. The magic left my system, tired and used to the last drop, wishing to rest and recover before starting the process all over again.

A twig snapped from behind me, making me turn around. Just as fast as my heart started racing, it calmed again. Azriel stood there, his face painted with soot and blood that darkened his leathers further. Crimson slowly dripped from the tip of the sword he held a tight grip on.