CHAPTER 353: DARIUS IV

SAGE

Darius was not happy with my joke, with my nickname for him.

He growled like the animal he was—a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the ground—and lunged.

We clashed.

Fire burst from my hands; his claws met them with strength and speed that shouldn’t belong to any normal shifter. But then, he wasn’t a shifter.

Sparks rained as if we were forging war itself. He shifted mid-air, turning half-mist, my flames sliding through him harmlessly.

"Cheap trick!" I shouted, leaping back, and then I, too, dissolved—my body turning translucent, half-light, half-air. It wasn’t something I’d mastered; it was instinct, or perhaps El.

You’re getting sloppy, El teased.

"Shut up," I hissed aloud, the memory of how it has always been between us wrapping me up again. The sound was drowned by the crash of our next collision.

We reappeared almost at once, blades in hand, though neither of us had drawn them. The swords had only manifested from pure will, shimmering white and black—opposites born of the same flame.

Our weapons clanged, sending rings of light outward. The audience, the royals, the guards—all frozen.

He was fast, even though he was back to his human physique. Too fast. But I was faster.

Our feet moved in perfect rhythm, two forces of power locked in dance. My laughter echoed as our blades sparked again and again. His eyes, sharp and dark, mirrored mine—focused, fierce, unrelenting.

He was frustrated at my laughter. But that was the goal.

"You are not a mere witch..." He spat as we sparred like dancers with no regard to time or strength.

I merely flashed my teeth in response.

Then I saw it.

A glint. A small band of metal on his left hand.

For a moment, the world stilled. The fight, the roaring crowd, the blazing sun—it all faded. My gaze fixed on that ring.

No. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

I should have made the connection eons ago, when he had shifted to that dragon, and then I wouldn’t have needed El... but I didn’t.

Until now.

An ancient was like a vampire; they couldn’t walk under the sun. Unless...

A memory clawed up from the depths of my mind, old parchment, ink sketches, the scent of dust and another bout of secrets from the forbidden library. I had read about that ring once, years ago.

Rings forged for royal ancients, to help them walk beneath the sun.

My breath hitched. The Abstenum ring.

The bastard was wearing an Abstenum ring.

My laugh came unbidden—sharp, loud, reckless. It sliced through the tension, rippling across the field like thunder.

Everyone stared. Darius blinked, thrown off by the sound.

"What’s so funny?" he demanded, his voice deep, distorted slightly by the echo of his other form.

"Oh, nothing," I said sweetly, bending slightly, eyes locked on his hand. "Just wondering how long you’ve been hiding behind borrowed light."

He froze, instinctively pulling his hand close.

Suspicion flickered in his eyes, his stance shifting defensively. I could tell he sensed something was wrong, that I had seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

Don’t, El warned suddenly, her voice cutting sharp and cold through my head. Leave it, Sage.

Why? I shot back silently.

Because if you remove that ring, he’ll burn. You’ll expose him before the people. They’ll think he’s a vampire. His life, his reputation—gone. And you’ll have blood on your hands again. You both need to talk too.

I stared at the man before me. He tried to kill me, El.

And yet you pity him.

"I don’t," I whispered under my breath.

I did.

A little. Maybe.

Still, my lips curled into a smirk as I straightened. "You look nervous," I taunted, stepping closer.

"Sage..." he began, but I didn’t let him finish.

With a flick of my wrist, I summoned the magic coiling within me. Power flared from my palm, invisible but immense, slamming into him like a tidal wave. He stumbled back, struggling, caught in a net of light and force he couldn’t break.

He fell. Hard.

I stood over him, breathing slow and steady now, the energy around me thrumming. His eyes widened when I crouched beside him, pinning him effortlessly to the ground.

"Now," I murmured, voice low, almost tender, "let’s see what you’re hiding, shall we?"

His eyes darted to his hand, panic flaring. I reached for the ring, my fingers brushing his. He gasped, trying to pull away, but my magic held him still.

"Please," he said hoarsely. "Don’t."

I hesitated, only for a moment. Then I leaned closer, smiling—wide, wild, reckless. "Begging doesn’t suit you, ancient."

His eyes widened, then he struggled again, harder this time. The scent of burnt magic filled the air as his resistance met mine. Our powers clashed invisibly, sending ripples through the ground.

My fingers curled around his hand, slowly sliding toward the ring. The metal was cool. Too cool.

Then I saw it.

A tear. One single drop of crimson falling from his right eye. Not red. Deeper. Richer. Like blood itself.

The sight stopped me cold.

My breath hitched, my laughter dying in my throat. My hand trembled where it held his. El was shouting in my mind now, her voice sharp and desperate, but I couldn’t hear the words.

Because in that moment, something broke open inside me.

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t mercy. It was something raw, ancient, familiar. Like recognizing a reflection you didn’t know existed.

The air between us shimmered.

And then I felt it—a strange, electric pulse deep in my chest, pulling me toward him. Not power. Not anger. Something older, darker.

Kinship.

My heart stumbled, then beat too fast. My mind went blank. For a second, I wasn’t Sage, the witch hiding in plain sight. I wasn’t Dora, the ghost of another life. I was something else—something that bled and burned the same way he did.

I staggered back, releasing him, my hands shaking. My strange dreams of my insane need for blood burning like memories in my head.

The crowd erupted again, voices rising, shouting my name, his name, curses, cheers—but they were distant echoes. The world was spinning, my thoughts tangled, and there was El trying to say something.

However, Darius remained on the ground, staring at me with a certain look—of fear, of recognition, of something I didn’t want to name.

My throat went dry.

"What the hell," I whispered.