By Patrick M. Fitzgerald Merrick rapped the door’s ornate knocker. “Garrett is one of the most honorable knights of the Order of the Trinity. He retired years ago, and his reputation is impeccable.” The initiate, Derrin, showed him the list of names. Every one but Garrett’s was crossed out. “I hope you’re right, sir. He’s
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No more dead corn.
Thank goodness for that. I’d checked every ear, terrified that whatever pestilence had killed my crop last year would return again. The corn was my pride and joy, by far my best crop. I sighed. My work dress already clung with sweat from the day’s heat.
When fleeing the country, was it normal to feel like a rat stuck on a skinny branch above a pack of snarling wolves?
Even though tonight I would leave forever, I swept dust off the floors, checked for cobwebs in the spick-and-span nooks and corners, and comforted myself that I would no longer face this tangle of shelves, gadgets, and shadows every evening.
Tad’s gut knotted. He’s all I have …Images of his brother’s ashen face flooded his mind. If this doesn’t work, he’ll die by the end of the week. “Dust and specter, shadow and …” Blast it if I get killed from reciting this password wrong to the witch. He sidestepped oily puddles along Gidras’s docks. “Shadow and …shifter?” How did Gratia say it again?
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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.
“Stop messing with your hair, girl. You look acceptable.” Smorloc’s shout echoed from the potions chamber.
I rolled my eyes at my workroom mirror. He’d yet to even see me this morning.
The glass surface rippled and the mirror’s oracle emerged from its murky depths. “Lookin’ good,” he drawled. “Old Smores got summoned to the palace, huh? I can’t believe they keep calling back the one wizard who can’t even do magic.”
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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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.
The king sits on a throne of broken bones and watches the girl cross the desert, carrying his death with her.
The air burns Jana’s throat when she inhales, heat wicking the moisture from her mouth. She has walked for an hour, two hours—impossible to tell exactly—with the sun a white, unmoving eye in the bleached sky. The mountain looms over her now, a black mass blotting out the horizon.
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Eggs are magic.
They seem simple: shell, white, yolk. Cook them scrambled, fried, boiled.
But separate the parts and find complexity. Whites may be whipped into foam light as cloud and stable as glass. Yolks, yellow as sunshine, whipped with oil and lemon juice turn white, or whipped into a bechamel of butter, flour, milk,
Hundreds of intermeshed triangles emanated from Veyja’s hands, then locked with those of her fellow shieldmages to form a glowing wall. The first wave of scalewolves crashed into the barrier. Blood and spittle sprayed into the air. Veyja winced at the impact, but the wall held firm.
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