If he still held the power that generations of Tranavians had passed down, he might be more pleased at how freely the gash on his arm was flowing, a constant source of magic. But the familiar weight of his codex in battle was absent at his hip. His fingers itched for something more, but all that was there was the unpredictability of the white-hot stars, the delicate moths, the aftereffects of death.
He wondered what type of power he could unleash with Velyos free in his mind again, but he banished that thought quickly. His mind was solid, his mental state grounded, usurping that for a taste of something more was what Malachiasz did and Serefin was most certainly nothing like his half-brother.
But as he stared down two Vultures, their blood a black sludge against their dark feathered forms and his own blood dripping from their razor-sharp claws as one licked a talon clean, Serefin was uncertain how much longer he might last against them without more. A dagger—a single dagger—and his fists were his only defense. He could practically hear Diego complaining about the amount of knives on his person or, in this case, his lack thereof. He definitely could hear Ostyia irritation on splitting off into the forest, knowing what was lurking. He could feel Jacob's building concern the longer they were apart.
It was not his fault the forest decided to play tricks and move around on a whim without discrimination, effectively separating their search party. It felt pointed or perhaps poignant. Serefin was still trying to decide what it meant to be alone.
High King, the one to his left screeched out, circling around. They were human once, Serefin had to remind himself. But there was nothing human anymore, nothing to reason with, nothing underneath but raw, unhinged instincts. They had looked upon the source of their magic and was swallowed up in how overwhelming it could be. No one could be a god, but they would sacrifice themselves to get close, buy into Malachiasz's beliefs. A waste of good blood mages, if Serefin had any say.
The other to his right fluttered in the opposite direction, pinning him in, closing around him like he was prey. Serefin was tired of being underestimated, feeling weak.
"You must have me mistaken for my father," Serefin said, not taking his eyes off the one who spoke. All the blindfold training with Jacob had given Serefin an advantage, sensing the other at his back, hovering just outside of his peripheral. "... who is also dead. That title means nothing here—"
High King, it spat out again, sounding like acid sizzling inside its large maw. Serefin may have been without his blood magic, but the energy of another mage was like a tell before the chaos erupted. Serefin could sense the call of magic from the other Vulture, right before it made his feet drop out under him.
It happened like this: Serefin spinning, fist colliding with the Vulture at his back, his knuckles scraping against teeth; the world lighting up in supernova brilliance as unexpected stars fled from the impact; the gargling scream of agony from his attacker tearing at their face; Serefin being slammed face down onto the ground, as the other crashed into his back, claws digging in; his hand reaching for the dagger that had flown from his grip; a talon sinking sharply into wrist to stop him; the deafening sound of a page being ripped from the destroyed codex; and Serefin's whole body revolting against the impending pain, the inevitable torturous death.
No. That was the one fleeting, aggressive thought that coursed through his mind. No, he was not going to give up. No, he was stronger than this. No, this was not how it was going to end. Serefin Meleski was the more he was desperate for. He always had been, more than what everyone else had believed him to be. More than a vessel for something greater than himself.
More than he could possibly comprehend.
Serefin was flipped roughly to his back, staring up at the soulless fathomless eyes of the Vulture, corruption leaking out of every pore. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh had invaded his senses, and distant awareness prickled at the back of his mind. There was no more movement from the other Vulture, but he had done something. He had harnessed something.
The Vulture leaned in, its hot sulfuric breath washing over him, its nails piercing a crumpled piece of parchment. Death to the High King were the last words it uttered, blood souring the page. A large moth landed on its cheek, a warning. A sign. Coincidences, right before death, were rare and Serefin wasn't going to pass up the chance.
His free arm snapped around to grab its face, fingers digging into its jaw, enough that it should have broken. The Vulture started to laugh, an awful sound, that morphed into something terrifying. Serefin's hand started to glow, gentle at first, then bright as a brand out of the forge. The laugher became screams as the stars were sinking into skin, into mouths, into eyes, burning through everything at a quick clip.
The paper was dropped as the Vulture scrambled away, trying to pull the stars free. Serefin could hear as it singed and burned the skin, hiss-crackle-pop. Moths came in droves, wrapping around its face, over the hands, hiding the horror in the cloud of beating wings. The sound slowly faded, barely human, into a wet gargling then sputtering into nothingness.
Serefin pushed himself up onto his hands, in time to see the moths disperse: beneath them, the head was gone, and the rest of the degraded Vulture body collapsed to the ground. Serefin glanced behind him, and the same grisly fate met the other Vulture; a charred hole where its face and neck should have been, its skull crackling with the last dregs of smoking horror.
Laying back down, the ache of his wounds started to settle in. But when Serefin glanced up to the canopy of gloomy trees, the stars danced above him, ready, willing, waiting for his command.
The word finally came to him, an explanation that had always been there—god-touched. The stars, the moths, his subsequent deaths and resurrections, all of it was a taste of divinity. And Serefin was hurtling toward it, powerless to stop.
Oh, blood and bone, this was a mess. He needed a drink.