Chapter 158 Into the bleek

Chapter 158 Into the bleek
"Aris, hold the damn tether!" Morrigan screamed.

She slammed into the hard floor, rolling over rough sand and bone dust. The air down here was a joke. It wasn't like the burning palace she just left. It was a freezing, dead chill that stuck to the back of her throat and tasted like old pennies and dirt.

Morrigan groaned, pushing herself up. She shook her right arm, opening and closing her fingers. The hand she had magically grown back felt stiff, and the new nerves were buzzing with static, but it worked. She had her grip back.

She wiped the grit off her face, stood up on shaky legs, and looked through the dark. The place was massive, like a giant, hollow cave.

Then she heard the hitting and ripping. She turned her head and her jaw dropped.

Draven and Ronan were fighting side by side.

It made no sense. The two of them were actually moving together, blocking hits and covering each other's backs against the deity. Morrigan just stood there, her brain stalling. What the hell happened to make them act like brothers?

Then she looked toward the center of the room, and the confusion turned into pure panic.

Elara was standing by the dark iron altar. But she didn't look like Elara anymore. The warm, normal feeling she usually had was completely gone. The air around her was literally shaking with a heavy, scary power.

Morrigan’s chest tightened. The way Elara's arms were locked and the light pulsing under her skin felt totally wrong. She knew it was a bad sign, but with everything going crazy, she couldn't pinpoint the exact spell.

A loud crunch snapped her out of it.

The Pale Mother laughed, a low, nasty sound that echoed off the stone walls. She swung her arm out and caught Draven mid-air. He was in his huge wolf form, but she tossed him like a ragdoll straight into the floor. Dust exploded everywhere.

Draven let out a pathetic whimper, his wolf form fading away until he was just a bruised human trying to breathe in the dirt.

Ronan went wild. With a roar that shook the whole cave, he pounced on the goddess in his huge Lycan form. His claws ripped through the cold air, aiming right for her face. But he was running on empty. His chest was covered in deep cuts, his fur was messy with dark blood, and he was getting slower.

“We can't keep this up, Ronan,” Fenrir growled weakly in Ronan’s head, sounding completely spent. “We're too beat up, and this thing is just getting stronger.”

“I don't care,” Ronan snapped back. He threw another heavy punch, looking over his shoulder at the center of the room. “I have to buy her time. Just hold on.”

That split second was all the goddess needed. The Pale Mother smirked as Ronan looked away. She thrust her ice-cold hands forward and buried her claws straight into Ronan's chest.

Ronan’s eyes rolled back as a sharp, painful howl ripped out of his throat.

"No!" Elara screamed in her mind. The shock of his pain hit everyone connected to her. The magic under her hands flared up, burning hot. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to stay still. She couldn't lose her focus now, or the magic would backfire and tear her apart.

Morrigan saw the claws go into Ronan and felt her stomach drop. "Your majesty!" she screamed.

She whipped her right arm forward, drawing a quick, angry sign in the air. A sharp blade of magic appeared out of the dark, whistling through the cold air and slicing right through the Pale Mother’s wrists.

The grip broke, and Ronan staggered back into the sand, clutching his bleeding chest and gasping for air.

The Pale Mother drifted back, her hands instantly snapping back onto her wrists with a wet sound. She let out a high, amused laugh. "Well, look what crawled out of the dirt. A little witch was watching us. Did you come here to die with your weak king?"

Morrigan didn't even look at her. She ran straight to Ronan, her boots sliding in the dirt. "Your majesty, hold on," she panted, her hands glowing with a soft healing light.

Ronan leaned against a broken pillar, coughing up a bunch of dark blood. He pushed her hands away, his arms shaking. "No... don't waste it on me. Buy more time for Elara. Keep that bitch away from her."

Morrigan turned to look at the girl, her brow furrowing as she watched the bright runes pulsing under Elara's hands. "Your majesty, what is she doing?"

Before Ronan could answer, Elara choked. She gasped for air and coughed up a splatter of red blood right onto the iron altar.

The second the blood hit the stone, the runes made sense to Morrigan. Her face went completely white. She stumbled back, her voice shaking.

"She... she isn't fighting back," Morrigan whispered, horrified. "Your majesty... Elara is doing the severance ritual!"

Ronan’s head snapped around, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "What?!" he roared, forgetting all about his injuries.

Even the Pale Mother froze. The smug look vanished from her face, replaced by pure panic.

"You little bitch!" the goddess hissed, her voice dropping into a deep, scary rumble that made the ground shake.

The Pale Mother turned into a cloud of frost and vanished. She reappeared right in front of the altar, raising her claws to crush Elara before the spell could finish.

But Draven was already moving. He forced his bruised body forward, blurring with speed. He threw his weight directly into the Pale Mother right as she swung, tackling her away from the altar.

The hit was loud, and it knocked the deity completely off course. She stumbled back and splashed straight into a deep pool of stagnant, black blood that had been hidden in the shadows. She sank under the surface.

Ronan didn't care about the goddess. The moment he heard severance ritual, nothing else mattered. He forced his broken legs to move, running toward the altar. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, breathing hard, looking up at her in total agony.

"Elara!" he screamed. "What the hell are you doing?! Stop the ritual!"

Elara couldn't talk. The pressure of the magic had her jaw locked tight. But she looked down at him and gave him a small, sad smile. Her voice echoed right in his head.

“It's the only way, Ronan. It's the only way to save the pack. It's fine.”

"No!" Ronan yelled, his fists clenching until his skin split. "The risk is too much! You know what happens if you break a primordial line! You have to stop it, Elara! Stop it right now!"

Morrigan stood there, completely numb. "How... how does she even know that spell? That was hidden away."

Draven dragged himself up the steps, spitting blood into the dirt. He glared at them, his chest heaving. "Are you guys stupid?! Look at her! Elara is putting her life on the line so we can kill this thing for good, and instead of helping her, you're standing here arguing?!"

Elara’s voice hit Ronan's mind again, softer and full of static. “There's no risk, Ronan. I promise. I have the ancestors' power. I'm almost done. Just give me a few seconds.”

Ronan gritted his teeth, refusing to believe her. He tried to run up the steps to pull her away, but he slammed straight into a hard, invisible wall. A clear bubble of pure force had completely covered Elara and the altar.

Ronan banged his claws against the smooth barrier, leaving bloody streaks. "No risk?! Don't fucking lie to me, Elara! I know exactly what this costs! I know what it does to your soul!"

Elara didn't reply. She couldn't. She blocked him out and put everything she had left into the main rune. The white light became blinding, filling the whole dark cave.

Ronan started throwing his weight against the clear bubble, the loud thuds echoing like a countdown. Suddenly, a terrible memory flashed in his head—the exact same feeling of watching someone he loved sacrifice themselves behind a barrier while he stood on the outside, completely useless.

"I am ordering you as the Lycan King!" Ronan screamed, his voice cracking as tears ran through the dirt on his face. "Stop the ritual right now! Elara, that's an order!"

Morrigan walked up behind him, her voice completely flat and dead. "Your majesty... stop. Once a severance starts, it can't be stopped. The magic already took the path. If she breaks it now, she dies on the spot."

Ronan froze, his hand pressed against the cold barrier. His heart stopped beating.

Draven looked at Morrigan, then at Ronan, the real horror finally sinking in. He took a step back, his face turning gray. "You mean... even if she wins..."

Before he could finish, the pool of black blood rippled.

A pale, bloody hand broke through the surface, its long fingers gripping the stone edge. The dark fluid bubbled and hissed in the cold air.

The Pale Mother slowly climbed out, completely soaked in the old blood. She wasn't a shadow or a mist anymore; she was completely physical. Her skin was a ghostly white, covered in glowing runes, and her pale hair was streaked with bright red.

She let out a wet, creepy laugh that made the whole room freeze. "Finally," she whispered, staring right at the altar. "The vessel is ready."

Elara felt the shift in the room, her heart pounding against her ribs as the main rune started to crack under the power. She looked at Ronan through the barrier one last time, her mindlink opening up. “I need a few more seconds, Ronan... just hold the—”

Before she could finish, a flash of red steel cut through the white light.

A long, jagged red blade punched straight through the back of the clear bubble, tearing the magic apart like paper, and drove right through Elara’s chest from behind. The sharp tip came out of her front, dripping with bright blood that splashed all over the burning runes.

Elara's eyes went wide, and the mindlink snapped into total, dead silence.