The earth trembled against the pressure of the Abyssal Rift. Writhing arms of darkness spewed from the gaping hole in the pavement, blackening the sky and blending with the smoke billowing up from the burning town. The Voidborne prowled the desecrated streets, ripping apart buildings and choking the air with fear and visceral hatred.
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Gray studied the coarse texture of rubble under his feet. His elven ears twitched at the distant sound of buildings groaning. An acrid stench wafted in the air smelling of ash and decay.
At his side stood Amelia Slyhart, a tall human with red hair and blue eyes.
I’m cleaning Amethyst’s harness in the tack room when the rogues arrive. I don’t know how many there are—my only warning is the dragons’ shrieking before a horrid stench assails me, sharp pain spikes through my head, and I black out.
When I come to, my hands are tied behind my back.
“You knew this day would come. Why did you insist we stay?”
Wilson pretended to load his gun. He had far more potent weapons at his disposal, but he needed the excuse to avoid Maria’s accusing gaze.
Outside, hideous shadows danced on the window, the first visible evidence of the approaching mob. Glass shattered. Screams.
His mottled hands shook as Viktor Engel etched characters into the damp earthen brow. “The good book says it took a word to create the world, eh?” He shuffled back a few steps, flicking the scrapings from his cracked nailbeds. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” A smile crept across his face, deepening crevices under his grizzled beard.
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The walls crumble more every day. It’s not just something you can fix with workers and stone, either. If it were that easy, we would’ve saved the city long ago.
But these magic-imbued walls are held together by our relationships—by love—and that love is fading.
The stars are my guide.
It isn’t their light that I follow so much as their song. Every night, I wait for them to come out, to paint the ocean waves. Water laps against my boat, and I follow the path laid out by the celestial chorus.
By the time she reached the age of fourteen, the rest of the faefolk knew that she would not get any stronger.
Such a shame, they’d whisper as she drifted through the square. She’ll never find a trade, they’d mutter as she meandered through the market. It must have been her mother, they declared, infrequently caring if she could hear them or not. Was her mother a windfolk? Probably not.
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Wisps of charcoal gray wafted on the wind. The smog gave the illusion of ghosts preceding me to the alley. Perhaps it was ghosts, the three murdered souls beckoning me to their killer. I suspected the victims, each desperate for a miracle, were lured here for their money.
A steam-powered carriage careened around the corner,
It was the fire that called Elvira out that night.
She gazed at the burning watchtower through her binoculars, and as she recognized the arsonist’s handiwork, a familiar sensation rose within her—she was closing in on her target. The sensation swelled, and she spurred her horse down the hillside into the desert valley.
Silver beams of moonlight poured in at the open window. Hushed surf, whistling frogs, and rustling leaves lulled me as I shifted on the bed, still dressed in old combat pants and a red, cropped tank top.
Like a lingering scent, Kavan’s presence filled the room. The back of my hand brushed my lips with a soft, butterfly touch.
I phase into the spirit realm, bottled storm in hand. Ethereal mist presses in on me from every direction. Supposedly, ghosts can find their way through it by instinct. Some stay here for decades, unraveling, their fragmented thoughts contributing to the haze.
My Laura wouldn’t do the same. She’ll be at the station,
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