Zekia really did think that by telling Wesley who and what he was, she’d endear him to her and make him think that they were cut from the same cloth. But telling Wesley he was a Crafter had only reminded him that nobody, not a single soul in the realms, was made of the same dark thing that he was. He was uniquely Wesley Thornton Walcott and the fact that he had true magic just made him even more of a force to be reckoned with.

It made him think of new ways to bring Dante Ashwood down.

Zekia sighed when Wesley didn’t answer.

She tucked her hair behind her ears and then snapped her fingers with a loud huff, like just talking to him was exhausting.

Wesley watched as her magic snaked around his wrists, until he felt a small jolt and the string that bound him dropped to the floor. Almost immediately he felt his magic stir inside of him, nervous and also eager.

It had been starved for so long and, finally, it could sense the time to strike was near.

“Remember how I said you were crazy?”

Zekia nodded. “You say that a lot. It’s a little mean.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said. “Well, it turns out I might be crazier.”

And then his hand shot out and Zekia flew backward into the shadow demon. The two of them collided with each other and then the wall, the demon’s smoky limbs tangled into Zekia’s like some kind of an awful jigsaw.

Zekia made to stand, but Wesley kept his hand firm, pinning her to the floor. He pushed every wish and hope he had inside of him toward her in a tunnel of gray magic.

Just like the one she had tried to use on Saxony back on Ashwood’s hidden island.

The one Wesley had jumped in front of that nearly cost him his sanity.

Wesley summoned every single thought he could muster and launched them at her in a tirade. All of his wants and desires. And then futures, things he hadn’t even realized he knew. Possibilities of what he could become and what Zekia could become and what the world could become.

They flowed through him like he was an endless tap for the destinies of the realms.

Wesley’s staves grew white-hot on his skin, glowing like beacons in the darkness of the room. He hands shook with the energy of them, but he kept his arm out, bombarding Zekia with visions.

She screamed and clutched at her head and Wesley could see the blood start to trickle from her nose. From her ears.

“Make it stop!” she yelled. “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop! This isn’t what becomes of us. He said it wouldn’t be what becomes of us!”

Wesley didn’t know what she meant by that.