The last scream died, its echo fading on a chilling breeze. Everything was silent but for the heavy, yet controlled, breathing of Shayne. Plumes of grey flared from her nostrils in the cold night air. She was a statue save her heaving chest. It had a steady rhythm, strangely calming after the frenzy that had taken hold.

They were all dead now. The rebels and the royal protectors lay scattered, their wounds still seeping warm, sticky and red.

She was paralysed where she stood, unable to think because then she would have to recognise what she had done. Part of it had been the magic. The power with which she had been bestowed was tied to the royal family. When the King had fallen the magic flared with rage, designed that way to compell the royal protectors to fight without fear or restraint. But there had been more to it than that. Love could so easily be turned to hate, it seemed.

Shayne felt weak. The blades began to slip from her grasp. Reason was slowly returning, like a fog rolling back to reveal the world once more. She had killed them all.

A voice sounded behind her. Shayne tensed and spun.

"You're alive!" the celebration caught in her throat. She had seen him die, she was sure of it. But somehow he had overcome death itself. The betrayal, the blood, the pain were all forgotten in an instance of pure joy. She moved to run to him, but faltered.

He had not responded to her, only continued to chant. A spell, Shayne realised. He was casting a spell. Little blue spheres of light began to appear around her, dancing like fireflies in the darkness. He was casting a spell on her.

"My Lord," she whispered, her voice cracking as she said his name, "Braedon.."



He said nothing but the words of the spell. The magic grew brighter and oscillated around her until its light was blinding white. She was forced to close her eyes against its brilliance, and when she opened them once more, she was no longer in her world. She was here, in ours.

This post has been edited by Shayne Blake on Feb 18 2012, 04:28 PM