Page 103 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Harder.

I dig deeper, as deep as I dare to go. Every filament I have becomes one more insult I’ve weathered, one more embarrassment I’ve caused. This spell clings to the soil of the kingdom with misplaced determination, threaded through root hair and grain husk and the mineral memory of water. I feel Arden’s blood in it—it feels cold and calculating and haughty, just as I know him to be. I think of Renard, of his strength.

Again, I pull… and something tears. The world around me, around us, convulses. A sound like a thousand screams splitting open fills my head. Orchards collapse with the sharp crack of splintering trees, no longer bowed beneath all that beautiful, inedible fruit. Across the valley and through the distant fields, every stalk of cursed wheat shivers, then disintegrates as the unnatural life drains out of it.

I pull again, and this time, the knot rips free. For one breath, Valehar is silent. Phantom pressure lifts, as though a brewing storm has decided to pass over us, and the earth beneath the kingdom exhales so deeply that I cannot help but weep.

It is done, I think, but the Blight Mother does not loosen her grip.

No, child, she says, her tone firm. It is begun.

Dread gathers in me, and despite the sheer exhaustion of using my powers to such an extent, I clamor toward her—finding her crouched and waiting in the land of gray mist.

“No,” I whisper.

The corruption is rooted out, she says. Now the wound must be cleansed.

The courtyard comes back into focus around me, and all I see is devastation—people are screaming, huddled together in terror, choking and coughing on the falling spores. The mushrooms have grown taller than trees now, their massive poisonous caps blotting out what little morning light had managed to filter down the clouds. Delicate lacework of white mycelium crawls over whatever stones haven’t been cracked and crumbled into gravel.

Arden is nowhere to be found—of course the coward has turned tail and fled. I should’ve known the wretch wouldn’t stick around to reap what he’d sown.

“No,” I say again, stronger. “The spell is gone.”

The kingdom remains.

“These people are innocent,” I argue. “They should not be held responsible for the cruel actions of one man.”

Penance must be paid. Lessons must be taught today. The humans always forget too quickly.

“I will not stand by and let you destroy a kingdom that deserves a fighting chance. If you destroy it all now, you will be no better than Arden!” I scream.

Silence, she bellows.

She pushes against my will—I push back, but it’s like shoving against a mountain. The goddess doesn’t rage or argue any more, she simply takes control of my body, folding my limbs beneath her will, drawing my sight away from the courtyard and into that gray mist that I’ve already come to know too well.

“No!” I scream, but my mouth doesn’t open. My body stands beneath the mushroom canopy, beautiful and terrible and no longer mine, while the rest of me is thrown into the gray.

The dream world closes around me with the wet, cold embrace of gray mist. Pushing against the Blight Mother is damn near useless, and every time I do so, the mist thickens until I can barely see my hands in front of me. The Blight Mother reigns, and through her eyes, I see Valehar begin to come apart.

The courtyard was merely the starting place for the Blight Mother’s vengeance, and her destruction races through the streets like a stampede. Mushrooms burst from rooftops and pulsing slime molds crawl over every surface that still stands. People flee through choking clouds of spores—some crawling, some carrying children, some too weak to do more than sob with their faces covered beneath threadbare sleeves.

“Stop!” I demand.

The mist swallows my voice.

“Stop,” I whisper, sobbing into the mist, devastated to witness the destructive power my magic is capable of. Her voice answers from far below—and everywhere around me.

The people of Valehar must learn, she repeats.

“No! They suffer because of one cruel man. They need not suffer any further. The balance has been restored—do you really think these poor people would attempt to subvert the natural order again? To forget which goddess has shown them divine retribution and terrifying consequences?”

The Blight Mother turns her attention away from me then, focused intently on her revenge.

I will ensure they remember this time.

The mist thickens, then a sound cuts through it. A chitter—small, and furious, and heartbreakingly familiar. My pulse kicks up.

“Nibblebones?”