Lady Drakeslayer: Passage Two of the Divine Godsqueen Coda by Bill Adams

Author:Bill Adams [Adams, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Willow Wraith Press
Published: 2025-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

The Daemon

KEENING.

O Nocturne, he heard nothing but the keening of the dead locked within the Pit. They, the souls, were in pain, just the same as he. O, they hurt. O, he hurt. It was a pyre.

A pyre where it was his soul which blazed.

Dead, that’s what he was. In the never-ending abyss that was the void. He didn’t even know how or when. It mattered not. Pain and suffering were all he knew. All he would ever know. Time meant nothing in the Pit, and eons passed like heartbeats.

The very essence of his being was ripped asunder, tormented until it was ground to a pulp. Life was nowhere to be seen, not to be had. Death was his mistress, his god. His Divine.

Every shred of him was destroyed. A wave of Death. Over and over, never ceasing.

Then, a pressure engulfed him, his soul. A stabbing pressure through the veil that protected the Meadows from Nocturne’s Pit. That thin barrier of elemental essence that warded souls like his, the damned, from those in eternal slumber. O, how he wished for that sleep. But it will never come for him. Never.

The pressure grabbed at his lifeforce, a direct grab, meant for him and him alone. The veil pulsated, pestering his torment like a pebble in a boot, digging ever deeper into flesh. Flesh, he had that once. Right? A memory breaching the hurt.

It pulled at his essence, at his very soul. The veil convexed as he was dragged from his prison, elemental tendrils fraying. From the Pit he was pulled, snapping the veil’s tethers, the wails of the other souls piercing his essence like blades.

His soul didn’t ‘see’ but rather sensed. And from within the Pit was a crystal of obsidian so large, it was the only thing he felt. Crystalline black with facets, a linking between his soul and that of the Crystal of Death. Noctis. A final binding, a prison known all too well, for not only was it his, but his Divine’s.

And then, the Meadows spanned before him, heaving in a non-color, non-light. A heartbeat almost. The wails of the hateful blared, but beyond, he heard a voice. Not his Divine, no, but that of the living. How, he hadn’t a notion, all he knew was he was no longer in pain. It was glorious.

He reached for it, his soul latching on to that voice. The words incoherent as they seeped into his lifeforce. Clawing, he began to regain himself. Thoughts billowed, returning in a drip. But they weren’t clear, weren’t understood. Fractions of knowledge, broken and busted like a clay pot put back together without all the pieces.

He was whole, yet not.

More pain ripped through him, but not like his soul being frayed. This was physical, if such a thing could be done to a soul in the Meadows. Fire burned within, hurt like no other, reminding this wayward thought of a woman with reddish-blonde hair and bee-stung lips. Carved flesh upon a bleeding breast.

A memory of walking the Meadows.

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