The Heart of the Struggle

The standoff between Cedric, Lyra, and Malthor was tense, the air thick with magic, each Fae on edge, waiting for the other to make a move. Cedric could feel his power rising within him, the raw magic of the forest, of the Fae realm, buzzing at his fingertips. He could sense Lyra's energy as well—focused, sharp, ready.

But Malthor wasn't like the others. He had no intention of playing fair.

With a flick of his wrist, the shadows around them swirled, coiling like serpents, and Cedric felt himself pulled into a whirlpool of magic—dark, twisting, and suffocating. It gripped his chest, tightening his breath, as if his very soul was being weighed down by the force of Malthor's power.

"You think you can escape who you were," Malthor hissed, his voice like poison. "But the Fae do not forget. You will never be free of your bloodline. Never."

But Cedric, heart pounding, refused to back down. Lyra had shown him how to wield his own power

—his own magic—and it was time to use it. With a shout, he pushed back against the darkness, calling on the wild magic of the Fae realm itself.

The forest around them responded, the trees bending and the wind howling, swirling into a storm of light and shadow. And in that moment, Cedric knew—he was not the frightened boy who had fled Ashlorn.

He was Cedric of the Forest.

And he would not let anyone control him again.