Starlight of a Moonbeam

Freedom of Flight, Nine - Age 17 (Elena POV)

~ Flashback ~

"And what did she look like Uncle Fenrys?"

"Like the glorious drop of ink that shatters the truth in a clear pool of water."

~ End of Flashback ~

Far down below, in a vast cavern such as this one, there lies a well of impossible depth and description. Though the cave is deep and cold, the well hosts a flame so great that the walls are red hot and melting to the touch. The fire within is more than just flames and heat, but embers, sparks, and all else in between, ranging from all sorts of colors and shapes, and there it rages and battles against the dark cold leash that cuts it off at the throat.

Though it bites at my skin and makes my head swim with nausea, I clutch at one of the wyrdstone steps to the pedestal and gasp down needy gulps of air, but it's no use: the air in here is too dark, too deep, too black.

"Tell me," The spider sings out eerily, but I can barely hear her over the roar in my ears. "What do you think your beloved parents will do when they learn you're dead? When they hear you've been sacrificed at the feet of Maeve, alone, defenseless, and scared? Will they weep for you? Their only child? Do you think they'll come for me, dearest? Do you think they'll all come running here in hopes that you're still alive? Only to find your dead, torn, mangled body in the center of the gate."

~ Flashback ~

"I still don't understand why."

"Listen to me, Elena. There may come a time when your life depends on your capability to fight without magic. There may be a moment when you're defenseless and weak, and you need to be just as strong and safe as you are with magic."

"Is that how you survived?"

"I survived because I learned not to be thrown by your mother's outrageous plans!"

~ End of Flashback ~

And then, I feel it. Though my blood runs cold, my throat is shattered, and my head feels as if it's about to crumble at any given second, a warmth ignites in my chest, so bright and hot, that it feels as if my shirt has caught fire.

My power is caged, my vision is blurry, and my lungs are a blade's tip away from giving out, but all of a sudden I can stand, I can walk, I can think. Like a window thrown open, fresh air pours out around me, and I blink, the silent screams of the wyrdstone beginning to disappear.

Looking over the right shoulder of the Kharanhui, I see it. The thinnest, tiniest, barely visible beam of snow-white light, raining down from a crack near the ceiling. Unlike the tunnel entrance, which is also wyrdstone, this small shred of light is from another, higher, and clearer space above, a place where fire can fly.

And just behind that beam, perched up impressively high up on a stalactite, one arm clinging to the hanging rock, the other grasping a spear that's wedged into the crack, pushing it open, is Almuru.

He's a good sixty to seventy feet in the air, and forty or so away, but I can just make out the nod of his head, and the flick of his wrist, angling the spear so the end tip catches the light and flashes at me, warning me.

Looking back down, I pretend to fall to one knee and clutch my throat as if suffocating, and the spider grins wider, taking a step forward. Closer and closer, until she's only seven feet away, and just as she's about to thrust with one of her legs to run me through, a flaming arrow shoots from behind, spears over our heads, and straight into a hanging drape of spidersilk and the tapestry ignites within a flash,