Vaaro stopped at the edge of a rocky ledge; beneath his feet stretched a valley overgrown with dense fern and vines. The sun declined towards the horizon, painting the sky in crimson and orange hues. Wind drove salty scents from the ocean, tugged at the braid on the caster's back.

  He crouched, retrieved from the pouch at his belt a leather bundle. He unwrapped it slowly, carefully. Inside lay objects of power: a blood crystal the size of a fingernail, dried herbs whose bitterness made even trolls wince, and a thin obsidian needle.

  The caster ran his finger along the needle, checking its sharpness. The edge bit into his skin, forced out a drop of dark blood. It rolled down his finger, dripped onto the stone at his feet.

  Vaaro extended his arm before him, palm upward. The needle slid across the skin of his forearm, traced a thin line from wrist to elbow. Blood emerged slowly, in thick droplets. He didn't wince, didn't flinch. Pain was an old acquaintance, almost a friend.

  Blood flowed onto the stones, spread in dark patches. The caster raised the crystal, clamped it between the fingers of his other hand. He began whispering words in a language even trolls had forgotten. Ancient syllables caught in his throat, scraped his vocal cords, emerged as hoarse growls.

  The air around him thickened. His sphere of perception expanded, stretched in all directions, encompassing ever more space. Blood on the stones boiled, smoked with red vapour. Steam rose upward, spiralling, gathering into a cloud.

  Vaaro squeezed the crystal harder. It cracked, shattered, transformed into dust. Red powder trickled through his fingers, mixed with blood, with vapour, with air.

  Magic responded. Greedily, hungrily, like a beast that had scented prey. It stretched from his body in all directions, probing, testing, seeking. Seeking that single thread that bound Nemira to this world, to her blood, to her ancient heritage.

  The caster closed his eyes. He didn't need eyes for what he was doing now. Vision would only hinder, distract from the main thing. He saw with different sight—inner, magical, that which opens only to those who dared touch the forbidden.

  The world flared red. Thousands of threads stretched into the darkness—the blood of all living creatures within a radius of many kilometres. Deer, boar, birds, snakes, insects. Each creature pulsed with its own rhythm, its own song.

  But none of these threads was the one he sought.

  Vaaro delved deeper, widened his search. His sphere of perception stretched to its limit, crackled at the edges. Sweat appeared on his brow, trickled down his temples. His breathing quickened.

  And then he felt her.

  Far to the east, beyond several ridges of hills, beyond the river that divided the jungle in two. Weak, barely distinguishable, but unmistakably recognisable—the seal of the Ancients. Nemira's blood burnt in the darkness like a solitary star in the night sky.

  The caster's lips trembled, stretched in a snarl. Fangs bared.

  "Found you."

  Vaaro tore from his position, not managing to roll up the bundle with ritual objects. The needle and herbs scattered across the stones, but the caster paid them no mind. His long legs vaulted over boulders, leapt across crevices, carried his body forward with such speed that trees at the edges of his vision transformed into blurred patches.

  His heart pounded, resonated with dull beats in his temples. Not from exhaustion—from fear. Cold, viscous fear that he'd be too late.

  Ver'nala. The cursed village. A place where no living foot had trodden for two hundred years. Where every stone was saturated with pain, where earth was poisoned by ancient magic, where the dead walked amongst ruins and whispered words that drove one mad.

  And there, in the very heart of the curse, rested the Crown.

  An artefact capable of awakening what should sleep eternally. The root cause of the misfortune that had befallen the peaceful village.

  Vaaro leapt over a fallen tree, landed on all fours, pushed off, raced on. Branches lashed his face, his arms, left thin cuts on his skin. He didn't notice them.

  In his head spun the words of a prayer. An old, forgotten prayer his mother used to repeat when he was still very small, barely reaching her waist.

  "Great Ones, who created this world. Elder Ones, who gave life to the first. Prevent disaster. Let not the worst come to pass."

  The thread of Nemira's blood grew ever brighter, ever clearer. It pulsed somewhere ahead, beckoned, called. And the direction of this call chilled his blood more powerfully than any spell.

  It led straight to Ver'nala. Led straight there.

  "Don't take the Crown. Don't touch it. Please, foolish girl, don't touch it." Vaaro pleaded mentally.

  The caster knew what would happen if Nemira took the artefact in her hands. He'd seen records in ancient books, read prophecies, deciphered runes on the walls of forgotten temples. The Thirteenth Heir of the dynasty. Bearer of the Ancients' blood. The one capable of awakening the Lich King.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  And if this happened, if the prophecy came true, Vaaro would have to kill her.

  With his own hands. Here and now. Before dark forces saturated her body, remade her from within, transformed her into a vessel for alien will.

  He clenched his fists, and blood on his hands flared crimson. The spell hung at his fingertips, awaited only the word to burst forth and tear flesh to pieces.

  "Don't make me do this. Don't make me kill you."

  A stream flashed below, a narrow ribbon of water between cliffs. Vaaro didn't seek a ford. He took a running start, leapt. Flew above the water, managed to see his own reflection—distorted, wild, with burning eyes. He landed on the opposite bank, rolled in a tumble, sprang to his feet.

  The air tore.

  Not metaphorically, not figuratively—tore in reality. An invisible wave rolled across the jungle, bent trees, tore leaves from branches, raised a cloud of dust from the earth.

  Vaaro froze mid-step, instinctively thrusting his arms forward. Magic crashed down on him in an avalanche. Red, dense, pulsing. It filled all the space around, choked other streams of mana, suppressed them with its pure, primordial might.

  The caster swayed, braced his palm against the nearest tree. Bark cracked beneath his fingers, showered down in tiny chips.

  "What the..."

  Power beat in waves. Surged and retreated, surged and retreated, following an uneven, chaotic rhythm. Like the beating of a heart that had suddenly begun pounding ten times faster than normal. Like the pulse of a being balancing on the brink of life and death.

  Vaaro knew this magic. Would have recognised it amongst thousands of others, even if he were blind, deaf and stripped of reason. The magic of the Ancients' blood.

  But he had never—never—felt it so distinctly.

  The distance between him and Nemira was still measured in kilometres. A good three hours' journey, perhaps more. At such a distance even the most sensitive blood casters caught only faint echoes of foreign emanations. Pale shadows, vague hints.

  But this...

  This was like standing beneath a waterfall. Like drowning in an ocean of alien power.

  Vaaro pushed away from the tree, tore forward. His legs slipped on the damp earth, kicked up clumps of mud. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, ready to burst free.

  Another wave of magic struck him, knocked him off his feet. The caster tumbled down the slope, crashed back-first into a boulder, froze, gasping for air. Blood in his veins boiled, responded to the call. His own magic tore outward, wanted to merge with the torrent that poured across the vicinity.

  He clenched his teeth, suppressed the instinctive urge by sheer willpower. Sweat poured down his face in streams, flooded his eyes. Vaaro wiped it away with the back of his palm, leaving dirty streaks on his skin.

  "Hold on, girl. Just hold on."

  He rose to his feet, continued running. Muscles burnt, lungs demanded respite. He gave them none. Drove his body forward, forced it to move when every cell screamed with exhaustion.

  The magic didn't weaken. On the contrary—it grew, swelled, became denser with each second. The air became so saturated with it that it turned viscous, thick. Vaaro forced his way through it, as though through swamp mire.

  And then he understood.

  Nemira's blood had awakened on its own.

  Not under the influence of external forces, not from touching the artefact. Something had forced the power slumbering in her veins to awaken of its own accord. Something had pushed her to this, torn all the primordial force out at once.

  Only two things could awaken the blood of the Ancients in such a manner.

  Either the bearer stood a hair's breadth from death—and then magic engaged instinctively, protecting the one in whom it dwelt.

  Or...

  Vaaro closed his eyes for an instant, drove the thought away.

  Or the bearer had summoned this power themselves. Consciously or not—it didn't matter. Had opened the door behind which lurked the abyss, and let it inside.

  The third wave of emanations swept him off his feet, hurled him aside. Vaaro flew about a third of a mile, crashed into the trunk of an enormous tree. Ribs crunched, pain pierced his chest. He slid to the ground, began coughing. Blood sprayed onto his lips, ran down his chin.

  The caster wiped it with his hand, looked at the scarlet stains on his palm. His own blood seemed dull, pale compared to the magic that raged in the air.

  "Too late."

  The word hung in the jungle's silence, dissolved amongst the rustling of foliage. Vaaro rose, swaying, braced himself against the tree. Each breath resonated with pain in his ribs.

  But he wasn't going to stop.

  The fourth surge struck several minutes later. Vaaro had managed to cover another half-kilometre when magic crashed down on the jungle with such force that the earth beneath his feet trembled. Leaves tore from trees in whole clouds, swirled in the air, showered down onto the ground in a dead rain.

  The caster ducked instinctively, covered his head with his arms. The wave rolled over him, through him, touched every cell of his body. Blood in his veins boiled, tore outward. Vaaro snarled, clenched his teeth till they crunched, suppressed the urge. Fangs sank into his lower lip, tore the skin. Fresh blood ran down his chin, mixed with the old.

  Then came a brief respite. The air remained dense, saturated with alien magic, but at least it stopped choking him. Vaaro straightened, spat bloody saliva onto the grass, continued running.

  The fifth wave caught him at the foot of a hill. A red flash lit the sky, transformed the twilight into the semblance of a bloody dawn. Magic lashed at the jungle, bent tree trunks, tore young shoots out by the roots.

  Vaaro fell to his knees, dug his fingers into the earth. His nails plunged into the soil, left deep furrows. His own power tore outward, wanted to merge with the storm that raged around. The caster snarled, fought instinct, drove magic back into his meridians.

  The wave ebbed as suddenly as it had struck. Left behind only a ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth.

  Then everything fell silent.

  All at once. Suddenly. As though someone had closed an invisible door, cut off the source of magic.

  Vaaro rose, swayed, grabbed the nearest tree. Bark cracked beneath his palm. He pushed off, forced his legs to move.

  The jungle plunged into silence. Complete, absolute, oppressive silence.

  Foliage didn't rustle. Birds didn't sing. Insects didn't buzz. Snakes didn't slither through the grass. Even the wind froze, as though fearing to disturb the silence that had descended.

  Vaaro slowly turned his head, surveyed his surroundings. Not a single sound. Not a single movement. Beasts had hidden in their burrows, birds had squeezed into hollows, insects had burrowed into the earth. Everything living within a radius of many kilometres had sensed danger and hidden.

  The caster swallowed. His throat had dried; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He took a step forward. A twig crunched beneath his foot—the sound thundered in the silence like a cannon shot.

  Vaaro froze, listened. Nothing. Only the beating of his own heart in his ears.

  He continued on his way. More slowly now, more cautiously. His long legs stepped over fallen trunks, skirted cracks in the earth. His eyes raked the surroundings, seeking any movement at all.

  Empty. Dead. As though the jungle had perished in a matter of minutes.

  Vaaro quickened his pace. The silence pressed on his eardrums, made him nervous. He heard his every breath, every step, every beat of his heart. Too loud. Too distinct.

  The world around had frozen in waiting. Hidden itself. Watched.

  And Vaaro ran through this unnatural silence, knowing he was too late. Knowing that when he reached Ver'nala, he'd find there either a corpse or something worse.