Crown of Frost & shadows

Chapter 11 - Zārok

The fire crackled with Elven magic, its flames shifting from orange-yellow to white, then to green as the Elves chanted, their voices rising and falling in rhythm as they walked in a circle around the fire. Zārok sat on one of the benches just outside the Elven circle, where those not actively participating in the ceremony watched in respectful silence. The sun was beginning its final descent of the day, casting bright orange and pink hues across the sky.

Zārok's gaze drifted across the gathering, eventually settling on the fae woman. She was breathtaking, in an unconventional way. Her mismatched eyes—one golden, the other clouded grey—stood out against her smooth skin, and her full lips contrasted with the sharp angles of her features. Her hair, darker than even the shadows he commanded, cascaded down her back, catching the faint glow of the fire.

A long pink scar ran down the left side of her face, from her forehead to her cheek, its uneven healing likely the reason for her grey eye. Zārok found himself wondering who or what had caused that scar. And whether he would ever learn the story behind it.

As his little brother, Melrek, said something to her, the fae woman's face lit up with a soft, genuine smile. That smile caused a warmth to stir in Zārok's chest, a sensation that caught him off guard. It was unsettling, how something so small could affect him so deeply, and he didn't like it.

The first time their eyes met, Zārok felt the world freeze. Her eyes, a mixture of blues and golds then,, seemed to trap him in their depths, holding him captive in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. Irritated, even. In his long eight hundred years, he had never met a woman who could elicit such a reaction from him, and he couldn't understand what it was about her that affected him so profoundly.

He was determined to figure out what she was and what kind of power she wielded that drew him to her so irresistibly. It made him feel weak, and he hated her for it. But then, he heard her scream—a piercing cry ripped from her throat as Magra's whip lashed against her skin.

In that moment, it felt as though ice shot through Zārok's veins. An unfamiliar, savage rage swelled within him, and for a brief second, the urge to rip Magra's throat out consumed him. Ever since that scream, every glance at Magra set his blood boiling, the mere thought of her igniting an anger Zārok couldn't fully understand.

Frustration gnawed at him now as he tore his eyes away from the fae woman. His emotions felt out of his control, and he despised that feeling of weakness. What was it about her—this scarred, enchanting woman—that had such an effect on him? He couldn't allow himself to linger on the thought, yet she seemed to haunt every corner of his mind.

"What is it?" Ralkov's voice interrupted Zārok's turbulent thoughts.

"Nothing," Zārok grumbled, not wanting to admit the truth.

"It's about Alarielle, isn't it? The look on your face says everything," Ralkov continued, undeterred. Zārok stayed silent, his jaw tightening as Ralkov added, "Rav told me you refused to let Magra sit with you, claiming you needed to talk to me."

Zārok sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know. Something about Alarielle just… Just…" He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Ralkov smiled knowingly and gave Zārok's shoulder a light clap. "I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough."

"How can a fae wield shadow fire?" Zārok asked, his frustration evident, the mystery gnawing at him.

Ralkov's eyes drifted toward Alarielle, watching her for a moment before replying. "I have a theory. But I need some time to be sure," he said, his tone contemplative.

Zārok considered his words before giving a nod. They had agreed to uncover the truth about Alarielle, especially after the events of last night. Master Mavrick and Edna had practically thrown them out of the room to tend to her, the girl looking half-dead when they left. The memory of her frail, unconscious body had sparked a restless rage within him, a fury that only subsided once he'd heard she was awake.

From the shadows, he had watched as his brother, Melrek, and his closest friend, Ravareth, spoke to her. Zārok had listened in on their conversations, observing how quickly both of them had taken a liking to the girl. It was strange, the way she seemed to draw people in. First his brother and Ravareth, and now… him.

But that only made him more determined to understand her, to figure out what exactly she was. The shadow fire she wielded was a rare and dangerous power—something no ordinary fae should have control over. It unsettled him deeply.

Zārok's attention drifted back to the ceremony as the Elves' chanting grew louder, their voices merging with the soft crackling of the fire. He watched as the flames rose higher, flickering from their original orange and yellow into brilliant shades of white, then shifting to green. The colors of the fire mirrored the sunset, blending seamlessly with the bright pinks and deep oranges that filled the sky. It was as if the magic of the Elves was in tune with the world itself.

Zārok's attention drifted back to the ceremony as the Elves' chanting grew louder, their voices merging with the soft crackling of the fire. He watched as the flames rose higher, flickering from their original orange and yellow into brilliant shades of white, then shifting to green. The colors of the fire mirrored the sunset, blending seamlessly with the bright pinks and deep oranges that filled the sky. It was as if the magic of the Elves was in tune with the world itself.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the fire reached its peak, burning in a radiant blaze that matched the fading light. Then, in a sudden burst, the flames exploded upward, scattering into countless tiny lights. The glowing embers fell from the sky like snow, soft and slow, drifting down onto the gathered crowd. Each ember vanished just before it touched the earth, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air.

Zārok watched, mesmerized, as the last of the embers faded into the darkening twilight. The magic felt alive, surrounding him in a way that made his skin tingle. The ceremony, the fire, the sunset—it was all intertwined, and for a moment, he allowed himself to get lost in the beauty of it, even if the unease still lingered beneath the surface..

Then the dancing and singing began, filling the air with joyous, rhythmic energy. But Zārok's attention was pulled away when he noticed Master Mavrick walking toward them, only to be stopped by Edna, who looked frantic. Her hurried words made Mavrick's face drain of color, and he started looking around as if searching for something—or someone.

Ralkov and Zārok both stood up immediately, noticing the unusual panic in Mavrick's movements. It was rare to see him so unsettled, and that sent a ripple of alarm through Zārok.

They hurried over and caught part of Edna's frantic explanation. "...she...she ran out... I don't know where... The door is hanging from the hinges..."

"Who?" Ralkov asked, a hint of fear creeping into his voice, as if he already suspected.

"Jeraldine," Edna replied, her voice tight with anxiety.

"Who is Jeraldine?" Alarielle's soft voice came from beside Zārok. He hadn't noticed her approach, but now, the heat from her body brushed against him as their arms touched. A dancing elf bumped into her, causing her to stumble slightly, and she instinctively reached out, gripping his arm for balance.

Zārok stiffened, the unexpected contact sending a rush of warmth through him, but before he could respond, it was Ravareth who answered.

Zārok stiffened, the unexpected contact sending a rush of warmth through him, but before he could respond, it was Ravareth who answered.

"My grandmother," Ravareth said, his tone unusually solemn.

The weight of the words hung heavy in the air. Jeraldine wasn't just any elder; she was a force to be reckoned with, feared as much as she was respected. For her to have escaped—or run out—was no small matter. Zārok exchanged a glance with Ralkov, whose face reflected the same fear that now churned in Zārok's gut.

Blood hunger. Jeraldine suffered from it—a disease that eroded the mind, leaving its victims in a mindless frenzy of thirst for blood. When it took over, she was as dangerous as a hellhound, a force of destruction. And now, she was loose.

Zārok felt a cold knot of dread form in his chest. This village was protected, but not in the way they needed right now. Magic was limited here, and although Zārok could wield a bit of shadow magic, it came at a cost. The toll it took on him meant he could only use cloaking magic for brief periods—no more than five minutes at a time.

They couldn't harm her physically, either. Ralkov would never allow it—Jeraldine was his mate's mother. Mavrick, too, would forbid it. No matter how dangerous she was, they would protect her, even at their own peril.

Zārok had never seen her unleashed before. Mavrick used half his magic just to keep her bound at all times. How could she have escaped?

As these thoughts spun through his mind, a sudden shout pierced the night, cutting through the music and laughter. Instantly, the dancing stopped, and silence fell over the gathering. The elves froze, all eyes turning toward the source of the cry.

As Zārok's mind raced, a sudden, horrifying scene unfolded before him. A frail, bony woman with dark, matted hair streaked with grey had latched her mouth onto the neck of a female elf. The elf's eyes were wide, her mouth frozen in a soundless scream, her body already going limp in the woman's grasp.

Jeraldine.

She looked more dead than alive, her skeletal frame hunched over as she fed, her skin pale and gaunt. The blood hunger had fully consumed her. Shouts erupted as elves nearby, realizing what was happening, scrambled in every direction, panic spreading like wildfire.

Zārok's heart pounded as he gripped the hilt of his sword on his back, knowing full well that using force wasn't an option. His eyes darted to Ralkov, who stood frozen for a moment, the weight of seeing his mate's mother like this clearly overwhelming him. Mavrick, too, looked stunned, his face pale as he realized how dire the situation had become.

There was no time to think—only to act. Zārok's mind raced as he tried to calculate how they could stop her without killing her. The blood hunger had taken over, and she was beyond reasoning.