GATHERING STORM

CHAPTER 12

The boy's fingers were colder than winter bedrock.

Catriona tried to pull away, but his grip tightened like iron shackles. Behind them, Mandalee's screams cut off abruptly with a wet crunch. The smell of copper flooded the cavern.

"Don't look back, mother," the boy chirped, dragging her toward the yawning tower door. "Uncle gets cranky when people stare."

Something massive shifted in the darkness behind them. The cave walls trembled, shedding chunks of glowing fungus that died before they hit the ground.

The tower interior smelled of burnt sugar and rotting parchment. The boy's bare feet left bloody prints on the crystalline floor that faded after three steps, as if the tower itself was drinking them in.

"See what I made?" He pointed upward with his free hand.

Catriona's breath caught.

The ceiling wasn't stone—it was a vast web of silver threads, each strand holding a pulsing light. Some were bright as stars, others guttering like dying candles. As she watched, one winked out entirely, the thread dissolving into ash.

"The last Wardens," the boy explained, swinging their clasped hands like this was some pleasant stroll. "Uncle likes the taste of brave ones best."

A choked sob escaped Catriona's throat. One of the captured lights flickered familiar blue—the exact hue of Mandalee's dagger glow.

The boy followed her gaze and giggled. "She kicked at first too!"

They reached a spiral staircase that corkscrewed upward at impossible angles. Each step was carved with names—hundreds, thousands of them, some so old the letters had worn smooth.

"Your turn soon," the boy said cheerfully, pointing at an empty space on the bottom step. "Right between 'Elara' and 'Daelen.'" His fingernail scratched against the crystal as he spelled it out: "C-A-T—"

A thunderous crash shook the tower. The silver web trembled, threads snapping as something enormous slammed against the outer walls. The boy's head whipped around with that unnatural fluidity, his smile vanishing.

"Naughty uncle," he hissed. "Not your turn yet."

The tower doors exploded inward.

Daelen stood framed in the wreckage, his sword blazing blue fire. His armor was gone, his bare chest crisscrossed with glowing scars that mirrored Elara's. But his eyes—

Catriona recoiled. His eyes were pure black, the same void-dark as the Devourer's touch.

The boy sighed. "Father always ruins playtime."

Daelen's voice came out wrong—three voices layered together, two screaming while the third spoke: "You promised. Her light wasn't part of the bargain."

The boy pouted. "But I'm hungry!" He held up the still-beating heart. "You didn't even finish your last present!"

Catriona's staff suddenly flared to life in her free hand. The boy shrieked as green light erupted between them, breaking his grip. She stumbled back, crashing into the silver web.

A thousand captured lights pulsed in unison.

The nearest thread brushed her cheek—and Elara's voice whispered directly into her mind:

*The staff is the key. Break the circle under—*

The boy lunged. Catriona rolled sideways, his nails raking her shoulder where she'd been kneeling. Her hand landed on the carved step bearing Daelen's name.

The stone was warm. And wet.

She looked up just as Daelen brought his flaming sword down on the boy's outstretched arm.

The scream that followed wasn't human. Wasn't even mortal. It vibrated in Catriona's teeth, in her bones, in the chambers of her still-beating heart.

The severed arm hit the floor and kept moving, fingers scrambling like a spider toward Catriona. The boy howled, his mouth stretching impossibly wide as black smoke poured from the wound.

Daelen grabbed Catriona's wrist—his touch burned like dry ice—and yanked her toward the broken doorway. "Run!" the voices commanded. "Before he reforms!"

Behind them, the tower began to fold in on itself, crystal walls bending like paper in a furnace. The boy's wails shifted back to childish sobs:

"Mother! Don't leave me again! MOTHER!"

Then the silver web ignited, and the world turned white.