The room stilled, the oppressive darkness hanging like a shroud as Misery knelt beside Eryon. Her hands trembled as she brushed his sweat-drenched hair from his face. His pale skin was slick with cold, his breaths shallow and erratic. She closed her eyes, steadying herself.
The others watched in frozen silence, the weight of what was about to happen pressing down on them. Misery’s fangs lengthened, glinting in the dim light. For a moment, she hesitated, her crimson eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Misery, no!” Isla cried out, stepping forward, but Seraphine’s hand shot out, stopping her. “Let her finish,” the sorceress commanded, her voice unyielding.
Misery leaned down, her lips brushing against Eryon’s neck. “Come back to me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she sank her fangs into his flesh.
The sound was faint but haunting, the soft puncture followed by a slow, deliberate draw of blood. The room erupted in protest—Draven’s furious growl, Lyra’s choked sob—but Misery remained steadfast, her tears mixing with the blood that seeped from Eryon’s neck.
Eryon’s body jolted violently, his back arching off the ground as the dark energy surged through him. The runes flared again, casting shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls. His hands clenched into fists, claws breaking through his skin, and a guttural sound escaped his lips—a sound that was both human and beast.
Lyra turned away, burying her face in Adrian’s chest. “I can’t watch this,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Adrian held her tightly, his own expression unreadable as he stared at Eryon’s convulsing form. “He’s strong,” Adrian murmured, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. “He’ll make it through.”
Misery’s grip on Eryon tightened as she drew back, her fangs slick with his blood. She pressed her hand to the wound, murmuring another incantation that sealed it with a faint shimmer of magic. “Stay with me, Eryon,” she pleaded, her voice shaking. “Don’t leave me.”
The room grew eerily quiet as the energy in the air dissipated, the sigils fading into faint etchings on the stone floor. All eyes were on Eryon, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
But the silence was unbearable, filled with the unspoken question: Was the ritual enough?
***
Eryon’s eyes snapped open, a vivid crimson glow flooding the dim chamber.
His gasp echoed like a thunderclap, his chest heaving as tremors wracked his body. His muscles spasmed violently, veins darkening as they pulsed with newfound power.
The others froze, their breaths caught in their throats as they watched the transformation take hold.
Misery was the first to move. She knelt by Eryon’s side, cradling his face in her trembling hands.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice soft and unsteady. “You’re safe now.”
But Eryon’s gaze shifted, locking onto her with a piercing intensity. Confusion clouded his crimson eyes, quickly replaced by anger. His voice, hoarse and laced with unfamiliar strength, broke the silence.
“What… did you do to me?”
Misery recoiled slightly, her lips parting to answer, but before she could, Seraphine stepped forward. Her silver eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and a small, knowing smile curved her lips.
“Welcome back, my son,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.
Eryon’s gaze darted to Seraphine, then back to Misery. His hands clenched into fists as he tried to process what had happened, his new strength barely contained. The tension in the room was unbearable, each person teetering on the edge of fear and anticipation.
“Son?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.
Seraphine moved closer, her presence commanding the room.
“You are reborn, Eryon. Stronger. Faster. Free from the chains of mortality.” Her tone was almost reverent, but the air between her and Isla crackled with hostility.
Misery tightened her grip on Eryon’s shoulder. “You’re still you,” she whispered desperately, trying to anchor him. “I did this to save you.”
Eryon’s eyes softened briefly at Misery’s words but hardened again as he looked to Seraphine. “This… power… it feels wrong.”
“It feels like survival,” Seraphine countered, her voice cutting.