THE SILVER LINING CHAPTER 4

The pyre roared to life, the flames licking higher as they consumed the wood piled beneath Krishna. The searing heat clawed at her skin, but the fire in her eyes burned brighter still. Her voice, though hoarse, carried a raw power that silenced the jeering crowd for a moment.

"Miyal Rhax," she called, her voice a fractured melody of despair and defiance. Her emerald eyes locked onto him, unyielding even as tears streamed down her face. "By the gods, by the ancestors of this pack, you will pay for this betrayal."

Miyal flinched, a shiver running through his frame. But his back remained turned to her, his hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled. He could feel the weight of her gaze, piercing through the iron of his resolve, but still, he did not look back. He couldn't.

Krishna's voice rose, a haunting chant blending with the crackle of the flames. "You rejected the truth for the lies whispered into your ears. You turned your back on love, on loyalty. You have doomed not only me but yourself and this pack.

Emboldened by Miyal's silence, the crowd continued the chant. "Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" It was drowned into the crackling flames and shrieking winds that howled within the cacophony of hate and fear.

But Krishna would not let this be. For all that strength she could manage, she bellowed her voice into the night air; it held promises that resound deep in hearts that listened.

Mark my words, Miyal! The curse you fear is nothing compared to what you have unleashed this night. The gods will see your treachery. The ancestors will not forgive. Your heart will know no peace, your dreams no solace, and your soul no rest. This fire will not end me. It will birth something you cannot fathom.

Emerald brightness bloomed in the surge of her magic, one last desperate flicker sending shockwaves through the crowd. For a moment, the flames became green and sent eerie shadows across the frightened faces of the pack. The pack gasped and cried in terror, their hatred faltering at the face of the unknown.

Miyal turned, his amber eyes wide with disbelief and something darker—regret, perhaps, or fear. But it was too late. The flames had consumed her, and Krishna was gone.

The crowd fell silent, the fire crackling in the oppressive stillness. The moon hung heavy in the sky, bearing silent witness to the tragedy below. Miyal stood rooted to the spot, his mind a storm of guilt and rage. Having done what he believed was right, what he thought was necessary, he now sat at the dying pyre with a great hollowness inside him.

Perfera stepped beside him, her hand lightly touching his arm. "It had to be done," she whispered, her voice laced with feigned sympathy. "For the good of the pack."

Miyal didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the charred remains of the pyre, his mind replaying Krishna's final words. They echoed in his soul, an unshakable curse that chilled him to the bone.

Somewhere in the heart of the forest, far beyond the hunting grounds of the Crescent Silver Moon pack, a glimmer of green light dined in secret, unseen by all. Night held its breath as the wind bore Krishna's final promise into the trees.

She was not lost. Not quite. And she would return.

The forest of Brunschiere lay oddly silent, as if Nature herself held her breath to mourn. Among the towering trees of Brunschiere, a land steeped in ancient magic, a faint green light flickered—a fragile heartbeat in the void. The air shimmered, as if the forest itself recognized the significance of the moment. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting pale streaks onto the forest floor, where Ignatious West carried Krishna's lifeless body in his arms. Her charred form, once radiant and full of life, was barely recognizable. The acrid smell of burned flesh lingered, and his heart clenched with every laborious step he took. He walked her carefully into the heart of Brunschiere, where trees grew so tall their tops vanished into clouds and their roots pulsed with arcane power, and the air buzzed with life and magic older than time itself. Ignatious stopped at the edge of a shimmering pool whose waters glowed faintly silver under the light of the crescent moon above.

He went down on his knees before the pool and laid Krishna's broken form down on a bed of moss. His hands flexed above her, shaking with the weight of what he had to do now. The runes tattooed along his arms began to glow; their intricate patterns burst across his skin like a wildfire. His voice, deep and resonant, broke the silence as he began to chant.

"I failed you once," he whispered, his voice trembling a little as he brushed sootstreaked hair from her face. "I won't fail you again."

Tears pricked his eyes, blurring his vision, but he pressed on, his steps guided by instinct and the faint glow of the sacred pool ahead. Brunschiere's magic hummed all around him, its ancient power palpable, as if the forest itself recognized the weight of his burden. Ignatious knelt at the water's edge, the soft moss cushioning his knees, and laid Krishna down with trembling hands.

Her face, though reduced to ashes and smoke, held within it reminders of the woman he once loved. The sharp curve of her jaw, the proud line of her brow, were signs of the fierily unyielding spirit which had captivated him years before. Now she was a shadow of herself: broken body and soul on the edge of the void.

Ignatious clasped his hands, and his fingers shuddered, as runes branded into the flesh began glowing in the skin. "You deserve better," he whispered. He spoke barely audible because his voice cracked in emotion. "You gave all to them, Krishna. All. And that is the repayment they send back? With flames? With murder?" His head shook once again, with rage now surging in for his grief. "I'll get you back," he said on a pledge.

As he starts the incantation, the runes brighten. His voice rises and falls to the throbbing beat of the magic that pulsed through the air. His words wash the waters of the pool. They start stirring, waves of light rippling outward. Silver tendrils snake from the water's surface, curling around Krishna's form as if embracing her in soft-glow.

By the crescent moon, Ignatious intoned, his voice steady despite the storm in his heart. By the ancient magic that binds this land, he called upon the forces that governed life and death. Restore her. Heal her. Bring her back to me.

The spell culminated in its crescendo when the forest held its breath. Silver light cloaked Krishna and pulsed, taking on a faint green glow that flickered from deep within her chest. Her body arched, curving her back like a lightning jolt. Then she screamed.