For a long, horrible moment, Zayra thought he would not unchain her. It wouldn’t have surprised her. She’d been chained since she had first come to the Templars. It was a miracle that the Knight Corporal unbound her hands, tossing the heavy steel aside as though it were weightless. Feeling rushed back into numb fingers, pins and needles stinging every inch of her hands. She rubbed them together vigorously, relishing the bite of air on her skin once more.
She very nearly missed that Knight Corporal’s sympathies—her mind had already turned to the library. Zayra almost thought she had imagined it. She studied the man warily, uncertain what to make of his prayers. Perhaps his prayers would reach the Maker. Maybe the Maker listened to humans, to Templars. Maybe they were worthy of His grace. Zayra had been so sure, once, that the Maker and His Bride loved her. That truth no longer seemed so certain.
Zayra was all too aware of the Templars and their blades. She kept her footsteps light, taking stairs two at a time. Unburdened by armor, she was able to slip ahead, bare toes picking her way across the stone floors. The second floor was still for but a moment – a massive thud filled the air, rattling her teeth. It was not an explosion, but something solid and heavy—such as a shelf, loaded with thousands of ancient tomes—and screams reached her sensitive ears.
She ran. She had never run so fast in all her life, black hair and robes whipping behind her. All that mattered was reaching the library, was finding her children and keeping them safe. Little Atlen, who had begged her not to go to the Templars, who had distrusted them, who had known they would not let her go… Zayra’s heart bucked like a herd of unbroken horses. Maker, let her little Atty be safe. Joslyn would keep him safe, she would—
The instant Zayra could touch her magic again, a broken sob spilled out of her throat. It was like she was alive again, like the world could make sense. She needed to get to the library—but the cries of battle met her ears. She had slipped past other mages, had not drawn their ire in the face of Templars—she could keep going, could leave them to their fate—her children needed her now—But she could not fight a horde of demons and abominations on her own. Not without her staff to focus her spells, not without lyrium. She needed their swords. Zayra grit her teeth.
Turning away from the library was the single most excruciating experience of her life. Maker, let Uriah and Joslyn and the others hold out just a little longer. She prayed, even as she doubted that those prayers would be answered, and set back towards the Templars she had abandoned.
The sight was troubling. Three mages—one twisted into an abomination, one an apprentice (Westley, she remembered), and Enchanter Haryk, who had come from her old Alienage—and demons. Two rage, one of despair, and a handful of wraiths. She at least had an edge of surprise, silent at their backs.
It had been many years since she had cast without her faithful staff, but there was something wondrous in channeling her magic through her hands. Something primal and raw about grasping the threads of the Fade with her hands, shaping reality to her whims. Zayra raised her arms, a grim smile touching her lips before she slammed her fists down.
The effect was immediate. Even distanced from her spell, she could feel how heavy the world had gotten, miring the demons and mages under their own weight. The wraiths fluttered freely—but they would be easy enough to pick off—she stepped backwards, tossing her hair out of her face, breathing hard. It hurt to cast when she was this depleted, without a staff to better channel her power. Her blood felt like it was molten, burning her out from the inside.
Haryk slowly turned his head towards her, burdened by her gravitic ring, his teeth clenched against the exhertion. His eyes were wide with madness, crimson staining his arms. Blood magic, then. Zayra’s lip curled, her temper flared, and her hands began the dance again. Magic surged through her, an exquisite agony that threatened to consume her before it caved to her will. Haryk had barely turned his body around when she pulled the world into her grasp once more. Haryk’s mouth formed a little ‘O’ of surprise when his body was lifted into the air. For one instant, their eyes met, and Zayra almost pitied her fellow elf.
And then she slammed his body into the stone floor, his head exploding in a spray of flesh and bone.
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