|| recap ||

Cygnus, scarred by betrayal, descends into the shadows of Ebonreach in pursuit of revenge and lost power. Navigates a labyrinth of secrets and treachery, it all leads him back to Leda—the architect of his ruin. Consumed by fury, Cygnus claims his vengeance but at the cost of his own destruction, left broken and bound to a city that reflects his shattered soul.

The heavy door groaned as Cygnus pushed it open, the sound cutting through the din of the room beyond. A dozen heads snapped in his direction, conversation dying mid-sentence as the occupants of the Thief Queen’s lair took in the figure silhouetted in the doorway. The faint glow of lanterns illuminated his scarred face, casting deep shadows that hid his eyes.

Lyra rose from her throne-like chair at the far end of the room, her emerald eyes gleaming with amusement. Draped in a cloak of deep green and black, her movements were fluid, almost serpentine, as she approached him. She was radiant and lethal, every step a declaration of her dominion over these parts. The air seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her words.

“The Fallen King,” she purred, her voice a caress that carried both mockery and allure. “You grace us with your presence.”

Cygnus’s grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. “Spare me your games, Lyra,” he said, his tone cold and biting. “I didn’t come to be toyed with.”

Lyra smiled, undeterred, and drew closer. “Games? Is that what you think this is?” She stopped just short of him, tilting her head. “You’ve spent too long running from what you are, Cygnus. And here you are, finally at my doorstep. Isn’t that the irony? A god, fallen so low, scraping for meaning in the dark.”

Her words struck a chord, but Cygnus’s expression remained stony. “I didn’t come here to beg. I came to claim what’s mine.”

Lyra’s laugh was soft, a silken thread that coiled around the room. “What’s yours?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disdain. “You don’t have anything left to claim, Cygnus. Not without me.”

She brushed her hand lightly against his arm, the gesture as fleeting as smoke. “You and I—we’re alike,” she murmured. “Outcasts. Broken creatures forging a place in a world that spat us out. Together, we could rule this city, shape it in our image. You, the Fallen King, and I, the Thief Queen.”

Cygnus studied her, his scarred face unreadable. For a moment, her proposition lingered in the air, tantalizing and treacherous. But then his lips curled into a humorless smile.

“You’re mistaken,” he said, his voice as sharp as shattered glass. “I don’t share power.”

The smile vanished from Lyra’s face, replaced by something colder. “Then why are you here?” she asked, her tone edged with steel, the light in her eyes hard as emeralds.

“To take what I need,” Cygnus replied, stepping closer. “To strip you of everything you hold dear and take it as my own.”

Lyra’s lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk returning. “And you think you can?” she said, her voice low, dangerous. “Go on, then. Take it. Let’s see how far you get.” Her eyes flashed with amusement as she turned her back on him, retreating to her throne with deliberate grace. “But know this, Cygnus—everything you touch here is mine.”

The silence between them was suffocating. Cygnus stood motionless, fists clenched at his sides, his scarred face shadowed by the flickering lantern light. Across from him, Lyra sat tall in her seat, her gaze like a predator’s.

“You don’t see it, do you?” she said, her voice cutting through the tension. “You’re no king. You’re just a man now, Cygnus. Mortal. Weak.”

His jaw tightened, fury simmering beneath his expression. “I’ve lost nothing that I can’t take back,” he growled, though his voice lacked its former thunder.

Lyra leaned forward slightly, her smile thin and sharp. “Take it back?” she echoed. “You’ve burned it all to ash. Your name, your power, your allies—gone. You’re here because I allow it. You’re here because I find you amusing.”

Cygnus’s fists tightened, his pride roaring against the chains she so easily wrapped around him. “I will rule again,” he snarled. “With or without you.”

Lyra laughed, the sound low and cold. “Oh, Cygnus,” she said, her voice softening into something almost pitying. “You don’t even know what you’re fighting for anymore. But that’s fine—I’ll make use of your anger, your ambition. Together, we’ll tear this city apart. And when we’re done, maybe you’ll finally understand who you are.”

She rose from her throne, stepping toward him, her gaze locked with his. Her hand reached out again, this time gripping his chin with startling force. Cygnus flinched, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’re no king here,” Lyra murmured, her voice a silken threat. “But you could be something greater—if you stop pretending to be what you were and accept what you’ve become.”

Her nails dug into his skin, a sharp reminder of his mortality, before she released him and stepped back. Cygnus’s fury boiled just beneath the surface, but he forced himself to remain still. He wasn’t ready to strike—not yet.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice a low growl. “We’ll do it your way—for now.”

Lyra smiled, triumphant and predatory. “That’s all I ask,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “For now.”

As Cygnus turned to leave, the shadows of Ebonreach swallowed him whole. But deep within, his resolve hardened. Lyra thought him broken. She thought him hers.

The Fallen King, however, was not done.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

|| recap ||

Deep within the labyrinth, Cygnus and Shade discover a cage holding Periphas and a glowing pedestal bearing the scepter Cygnus has sought. As Cygnus reaches for it, Leda emerges from the shadows, revealing herself as Shade’s sister and exposing that Shade has led him here with hidden motives. The tension mounts as Cygnus faces the betrayal and the temptation of the power he’s desperately pursued.

Cygnus’s eyes burned with rage as Leda’s mocking challenge hung in the air. The scepter pulsed on its pedestal, calling to him with a power that thrummed in his bones. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his movements driven by a mix of desperation and fury.

Shade darted to block Leda, their blades clashing in a flurry of sparks as Cygnus reached the scepter. The moment his fingers closed around it, a surge of energy coursed through him, electrifying and resolute.

“You think that will save you?” Leda sneered, parrying Shade’s strike and whirling to face Cygnus.

“It’s not about saving,” Cygnus growled, his grip tightening. “It’s about ending this.”

With the scepter in hand, he turned to face her, the air around him crackling with barely restrained power. The flickering light of the glowing runes cast jagged shadows across the walls, their glow intensifying as if responding to Cygnus’s rage.

“It’s been a long time, Zeus,” Leda said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

The name echoed in the chamber, reverberating off the stone walls. Cygnus stiffened, the scars on his face seeming to burn anew. Zeus. The name felt foreign now, a ghost of the god he had been, stripped of his divinity, exiled to this mortal shell.

“You don’t get to call me that,” Cygnus growled, his voice a low rumble of fury. “You destroyed that name when you betrayed me.”

“And yet, here you are, clutching at the scraps of your former glory,” Leda replied smoothly. Her gaze flicked to the scepter. “Tell me, my love—does it make you feel like a god again? Or is it just another reminder of what you’ll never be?”

Shade shifted at Cygnus’s side, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade. His usual stoic demeanor cracked slightly, tension rolling off him in waves. “Leda, don’t do this,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

She turned her gaze to him, her smile faltering. “Oh, brother, must you always ruin the fun? You’ve chosen your side, haven’t you?”

Cygnus glanced at Shade, a fresh wave of distrust surging through him. “You knew?” he spat. “You knew she was here all along?”

Shade’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t bring you here for her. I brought you here to destroy her.”

But Cygnus was no longer listening. His gaze returned to Leda, his grip on the scepter tightening. “You lied to me,” he said, his voice trembling with rage. “You betrayed me, stripped me of everything I was.”

“And you would have done the same,” Leda retorted, her tone sharp as broken glass. “You think I enjoyed watching you fall? No, Cygnus, I did what I had to do. For survival. For power. Something you’ve always understood.”

“Enough,” Cygnus snarled, raising the scepter. Energy rippled along its length, the runes glowing with an unearthly light. “You don’t get to justify this. Not to me.”

Before Leda could respond, Cygnus unleashed a bolt of raw power, the air screaming as it tore through the space between them.

Leda barely managed to deflect it, her own magic flaring in a shield of shimmering energy. The chamber erupted into chaos.

Periphas swooped down from above, his massive wings stirring the air into a storm. The eagle let out a piercing cry, talons slashing toward Leda. She spun, a whip of flame erupting from her hand, and struck Periphas mid-flight.

“NO!” Cygnus roared, his voice a thunderclap that shook the cavern.

The scepter pulsed violently in his grip as his fury boiled over. He unleashed a torrent of energy, the raw force of his anguish and anger cascading outward in a blinding wave that consumed everything in the cavern.

Leda screamed as the magic engulfed her, her shield shattering like glass under the relentless assault. Shade lunged toward her, his sword raised, but the wave consumed him as well, throwing him against the far wall with bone-shattering force.

The chamber fell eerily silent. The glowing runes faded to darkness, leaving only the flickering light of the dying torches. Cygnus looked around, the weight of the devastation settling over him like a suffocating shroud.

Shade lay still, his blade clutched in lifeless fingers. Leda’s body was a broken silhouette against the far wall, her beauty marred by the violent end she’d met.

Cygnus’s gaze fell to Periphas. His loyal friend, the one constant in his life, lay motionless, his feathers singed and broken.

“No,” Cygnus whispered, sinking to his knees beside the eagle’s body. His hands trembled as he reached out, brushing the lifeless feathers. “Not you. Not you too.”

The scepter, its runes now cracked and dim, slipped from his grasp and clattered to the stone floor. It shattered on impact, fragments scattering across the chamber. With its destruction, the last vestiges of Cygnus’s divinity slipped away. The power that had once defined him, that had burned so brightly in his veins, was gone.

Cygnus knelt amidst the carnage, his scarred face etched with grief. “What have I done?” he whispered, his voice breaking, then the cavern was silent once again. The weight of his choices pressed down, heavier than any mortal burden. He’d sought vengeance, sought justice for his betrayal—but he had destroyed everything—his divinity, his loyal companion, even the fragile alliance he had forged with Shade. All gone, consumed by his rage.

He rose slowly, his body aching, and turned toward the cavern’s exit. Winding his way back through the maze, he somehow arrived at the exit. The air outside was cool and sharp, the faint light of Ebonreach visible in the distance.

As he stepped into the twilight, the enormity of his loss settled over him. He was no longer a god. He was no longer Zeus. He was Cygnus—a mortal man, broken and alone.

The city loomed before him, shrouded in mist and shadow. Its dark streets offered no comfort, no promise of redemption. Cygnus walked on, his path uncertain, his soul weighed down by the price of his choices. The fallen king, stripped of his power, was left with nothing but the bitter remnants of what might’ve been.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

|| recap ||

In the twisting tunnels beneath Ebonreach, Cygnus battles a horrific beast, only to realize Shade holds back, forcing him to fight alone. Shade reveals it was a test of Cygnus’s resolve, though the bitter tension between them grows. The alliance shifts once more when Shade utters a name Cygnus cannot ignore: Leda.

The air in the labyrinth seemed alive, a suffocating force that pressed against Cygnus and Shade as they pushed deeper into the caverns. Their footsteps echoed off the damp stone walls, the sound swallowed by an oppressive darkness that thickened with each step. Cygnus’s chest burned with anticipation, his heart hammering a relentless rhythm.

The power pulling him forward was undeniable now, a hum that thrummed just beneath his skin. It promised power, restoration, and retribution. It promised everything he’d lost.

Shade walked a few steps ahead, a shadow in motion, his hand on his blade, his eyes searching the darkness. Cygnus’s gaze lingered on him, suspicion gnawing at the edges of his mind. He needed Shade—his knowledge of these caverns had proven invaluable—but that reliance came with a bitter aftertaste.

Trusting him is a gamble, Cygnus thought, his lips curling into a grim line. But without him, I’ll never reclaim what’s mine.

Shade stopped abruptly, his head tilting toward the tunnel ahead. A low growl rumbled through the darkness, freezing them both in place. Another twin of the earlier creature emerged, its eyeless face a blank, terrifying mask.

Cygnus tightened his grip on his blade, his pulse quickening. Shade was already moving this time, his weapon flashing in the dim light as he lunged at the beast. The creature snarled, claws screeching against steel.

Shade’s movements were precise, almost elegant, as he danced out of the beast’s reach. Cygnus watched with grudging respect before snapping to action. Together, they circled the creature, probing for weaknesses.

“The eyes,” Cygnus hissed.

Shade nodded grimly, his face unreadable.

When it was done, Cygnus stood over the corpse, his chest heaving with exertion. He turned to find Shade watching him.

“Not bad,” Shade said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But I did most of the work.”

Cygnus’s jaw tightened, a retort burning on his tongue, but he swallowed it. For now.

The two pressed on, the air growing colder as they neared the end of the labyrinth. A faint glow began to illuminate the tunnels, but unlike all the others, this one had runes carved into the stone walls that pulsed with a power Cygnus could feel in his bones. They followed the tunnel and entered a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in the shadows above. At the center stood a towering cage of iron and stone, and within it, a figure stirred.

“Periphas,” Cygnus breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

The eagle’s head snapped up, its eyes blazing with feral light. It let out a piercing cry, its wings straining against the bars of its prison. For a moment, Cygnus feared the brutal captivity had broken Periphas. But as he reached out with his mind, he felt the familiar brush of the eagle’s consciousness. Recognition flared, and the creature stilled.

“My old friend,” Cygnus murmured, stepping closer, opening the cage. “My scepter. Where is it?”

Periphas turned its attention toward a pedestal at the far end of the chamber. There stood the slender rod, glowing with an eerie light. The runes around it pulsed in harmony, a heartbeat of untamed power.

Cygnus’s pulse quickened as he approached, his hand outstretched. The scepter called to him, its power thrumming in the air, a promise of divinity restored.

But as his fingers brushed the surface, a voice stopped him cold.

“Cygnus.”

The name dripped from her lips like honey laced with venom. He turned to see Leda emerging from the shadows, her beauty undiminished, her smile sharp and knowing.

“Leda,” Cygnus growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon. “What are you doing here?”

She sauntered closer, every movement deliberate, her figure illuminated by the faint glow of the runes. “Oh, darling, did you think I wouldn’t notice you coming? You’ve always been predictable.”

Shade shifted beside him, his posture tense, as Leda’s gaze shifted to him and her smile widened.

“Brother,” she said, her tone dripping with mock affection.

Cygnus blinked, the word hitting him like a blow. “Brother?” he repeated, his gaze darting between them.

Shade’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t deny it. “Half-brother,” he said flatly.

Leda’s laugh echoed through the chamber. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Cygnus. Did you think I’d let you wander into my domain without a little... guidance?”

Cygnus turned to Shade, fury blazing in his eyes. “You knew,” he spat, his voice raw with anger. “You led me here.”

Shade’s expression was a carefully crafted mask. “I led you here because you needed me. And because I need her gone.”

Leda tilted her head, her smile faltering for the first time. “Careful, brother. You wouldn’t want to betray me now, would you?”

Shade’s blade was in his hand before she finished speaking, but Leda was faster. The runes on the walls flared, and a pulse of energy rippled through the chamber, sending both men stumbling backward.

“Enough of this,” she said, her voice ringing with authority. She turned to Cygnus, her eyes gleaming. “Do you even understand what you’re chasing, Cygnus? That scepter won’t save you. It will destroy you.”

“I’ll take that risk,” he said, his voice low and steady.

The chamber trembled as Leda stepped closer to the pedestal, her gaze locked on the scepter. “Then come and take it,” she said, her smile returning. “If you dare.”

The air crackled with tension as Cygnus stepped forward, his grip tightening on his blade. Shade moved beside him, their fragile alliance shifting once again.

Together, they faced Leda, the echoes of their pasts colliding in the heart of the labyrinth.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

|| recap ||

In the dim confines of a tavern, Cygnus’s brooding is interrupted by Shade, a mysterious cloaked figure claiming to hold the answers Cygnus seeks. Shade proposes an alliance, leading Cygnus toward the labyrinth beneath Ebonreach, where secrets of his past may lie. Though suspicion gnaws at him, Cygnus agrees, driven by a desperate need to reclaim what was lost and exact revenge.

As they stepped into the narrow, mist-shrouded streets of Ebonreach, Cygnus felt a chill creep up his spine. The city’s oppressive air pressed against him, as if the weight of his past mistakes had taken form. Beside him, Shade moved with unsettling grace, his steps soundless on the damp cobblestones.

He moves like a shadow come to life, Cygnus thought, his scarred face hardening. Born of darkness, made of secrets.

Their journey led them deeper into the heart of Ebonreach, the decrepit buildings around them leaning together like drunken sentinels. Each alley they passed seemed narrower, the walls closing in as though the city sought to trap them. The air grew colder and heavier with every step, laden with the scent of damp earth and decay.

Finally, they reached a crumbling archway etched with faded runes. Beyond it yawned a jagged black void, breathing with an unnatural life—a gateway into the subterranean labyrinth beneath the city. Shade paused at the threshold, his dark eyes glinting in the pale torchlight.

“Stay close,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The tunnels are ancient, and the creatures that lurk here are far from forgiving.”

Shade struck a spark, his torch flaring to life. The flickering light threw distorted shadows across the walls, giving the illusion that the tunnel itself twisted and writhed. Cygnus nodded once, his expression grim, and stepped into the dark.

The tunnels were a maze of stone and shadow, their twisting paths designed to disorient and trap. Cygnus moved ahead with purpose, his steps deliberate despite the unease gnawing at the edges of his awareness. The air was thick, heavy with dampness and the faint stench of decay, but he pressed forward, driven by the pull of something deeper within. A faint hum of power called to him, a promise buried in the depths.

Behind him, Shade followed with quiet precision, his torchlight casting long shadows on the walls. His sharp gaze flicked toward every crevice and alcove, his demeanor tense and calculating.

“These tunnels...” Shade murmured, his voice breaking the silence. “Something feels wrong. The shadows are too still.”

Cygnus scoffed. “Afraid of the dark, shadow walker?” he retorted, his tone sharp with derision. But even as he spoke, he felt the prickle of unease at the nape of his neck.

The sound came suddenly—a guttural snarl that reverberated through the passage. Both men froze, the hair on Cygnus’s arms standing on end. From the blackness ahead, a creature emerged. Its flesh was mottled and gray, its body hunched and malformed, and where eyes should have been, there were only voids—black and endless. Its limbs twitched grotesquely, claws clicking against the stone as it skittered toward them.

Cygnus drew his blade in a single fluid motion, the steel gleaming coldly in the torchlight. The creature lunged, its gaping maw revealing jagged rows of teeth, as Cygnus leapt aside, narrowly avoiding its strike.

He turned to call for Shade but saw the man standing back, his torch raised but his hands otherwise idle.

“Shade!” Cygnus roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Do something!”

Shade said nothing, his face impassive. The inaction fueled Cygnus’s fury as he faced the eyeless beast alone.

The creature lunged again, its claws raking at Cygnus. He parried with his blade, sparks flying as steel met talon. The impact sent a jarring vibration through his arm, but he held his ground. With a growl of determination, he lashed out, his blade biting deep into the creature’s flesh. Black ichor oozed from the wound, sizzling as it hit the stone.

The creature shrieked, its cry a sound of pure malice, and it retaliated with a frenzy of strikes. Cygnus ducked and weaved, his movements sharp and precise, honed by years of training. Each swing of his blade was calculated, aimed to cripple and maim, but the beast’s relentless fury kept him on the defensive.

A claw slashed across his chest, the pain sharp and immediate. Cygnus hissed through clenched teeth, his grip tightening on his weapon. He retaliated with a powerful strike, severing one of the creature’s limbs. The dismembered arm hit the ground with a wet thud, but the creature barely faltered, its remaining claw swiping wildly.

Summoning his last reserves of strength, Cygnus thrust his blade forward, piercing the creature’s chest. The beast shuddered, its cries dying into a low, wet gurgle before it slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Panting, Cygnus stood over the fallen creature, his chest heaving with exertion. He wiped his blade on the creature’s mottled hide before sheathing it, then turned to face Shade. His eyes burned with fury.

“You didn’t lift a finger,” Cygnus snarled, his voice rough with rage. “Why?”

Shade stepped forward, his expression calm, his dark eyes unreadable. “I had my reasons,” he said, his tone maddeningly even. “Consider it a test.”

“A test?” Cygnus took a step closer, his scarred face twisting with barely restrained anger. “You dare to test me?”

“I dare,” Shade replied, his voice steady. “Because I needed to know if you could still fight. If you’re still the man who could take on the rebellion and win.”

Cygnus’s fists clenched, his entire body taut with barely suppressed fury. The weight of Shade’s words pressed against him, their truth undeniable even as they stoked his anger.

“Don’t presume to judge me,” Cygnus growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Shade’s expression shifted, a flicker of something close to amusement crossing his face. “Oh, I think I do,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And so does Leda.”

The name hit Cygnus like a physical blow, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he straightened, his rage tempered by a sudden, sharp clarity.

“What did you say?” Cygnus asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Leda,” Shade repeated, his dark eyes glinting. “The one who betrayed you. The one who orchestrated it all. I know where she is.”

Cygnus’s mind raced, the weight of Shade’s words sinking in. He searched Shade’s face for any hint of deceit but found only grim certainty. The name he hadn’t spoken aloud in years now hung heavy in the air between them, a promise of vengeance too tempting to ignore.

Shade extended a hand, his expression calculating. “Join me,” he said. “Together, we can bring her down. Together, we can make them all pay.”

Cygnus hesitated for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his heart pounding with the promise of retribution. Finally, he reached out, clasping Shade’s forearm in a firm grip.

“To the end,” Cygnus said, his voice steely.

Shade’s thin smile returned. “To the end.”

And together, they turned deeper into the labyrinth, the shadows closing in around them like the embrace of an old friend.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

|| recap ||

In the dim light of a crumbling tavern, Cygnus wrestles with the haunting scars left by Leda’s brutal betrayal—a wound that shattered his identity and cast him adrift in a world that feels foreign and cold. Now a shadow of who he once was, bitterness consumes him, yet the path to vengeance remains elusive. The embers of his fury burn low, waiting for the spark to ignite his reckoning.

The tavern door creaked open, admitting a gust of cool night air and drawing Cygnus’s attention from his thoughts. Through the doorway, a cloaked figure entered and deftly made his way toward a secluded table in the corner. The air seemed to shift around him, the weight of his presence cutting through the tavern's low murmur. He moved with deliberate grace, each step measured, every movement controlled.

Trying not to be obvious, Cygnus tracked him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze sharp and assessing. Years of betrayal had sharpened his instincts; strangers in shadows always meant danger. Yet something about this man tugged at the edges of his memory, a familiarity he couldn’t quite place.

Who is this man? Cygnus wondered, his thoughts twisting like smoke.

As Cygnus turned his head to follow, he noticed the bartender was also watching the cloaked man. She cast a nervous glance toward Cygnus before averting her eyes back to the newcomer, then hurried to greet him. Cygnus’s hands wrapped around his glass as he tried to catch a glimpse of the man reflected in the cracked mirror behind the bar. The bartender leaned over the stranger’s table, speaking in hushed tones, her body angled as if to shield their conversation.

Cygnus didn’t need to hear their words; the tension in the room spoke louder than any whisper.

A moment later, she was back at his side, leaning closer to avoid being overheard.

“That man,” she said in hushed tones, her breath warm against his ear. “He’s asking for you.”

Cygnus’s jaw tightened. “So?”

She hesitated, casting another glance toward the shadowed figure. “He claims to have information you need. I know him. His name is Dorian, but everyone calls him Shade.” Her voice dropped, as though saying his name aloud carried some unspoken risk.

Cygnus did not respond or move, his mind turning her words over.

“You can trust him,” she added quickly, her tone almost pleading.

Trust? The word tasted bitter in his mind. She knows nothing of trust. Not after Leda. Still, her words kindled a flicker of curiosity. Information? Could this be the break I’ve been waiting for?

Without a word, he drained his glass, the tavern's low murmur fading into the background as his focus locked onto the stranger.

The name "Shade" lingered in his mind, a name that whispered of secrets and veiled intentions. His curiosity warred with suspicion as he pushed himself to his feet, the stool scraping across the rough wooden floor like a warning.

Cygnus approached the shadowed figure's table, his steps slow and deliberate. The flickering lantern light cast a menacing glow across his scarred visage, the twisted constellation of his betrayal etched into his skin.

“Who are you?” Cygnus asked, his voice low and edged with menace.

The stranger leaned forward, his features obscured beneath the hood of his cloak. “Someone who knows the truth about your fall from grace,” he said, his tone smooth and measured. “And someone who can help you reclaim what is rightfully yours.”

Cygnus’s eyes narrowed. “And why would you want to help me?”

The stranger chuckled softly, the sound grating like gravel. Cygnus’s fingers twitched toward the hilt of his blade, his instincts coiled tightly. The man reached up and pushed back his hood, revealing sharp, angular features and eyes that glittered like obsidian. He rose from his chair, stepping closer until his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Because we both want the same thing,” Shade said, his words deliberate. “To see the rebellion burn for what they’ve done. And with your power and my knowledge, we can make that happen.” He gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit. Let us speak plainly.”

For a moment, Cygnus hesitated, his mind whirling with possibilities. His thirst for vengeance burned within him, but distrust lingered like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts. He had no reason to trust this man—no reason, except desperation.

Finally, Cygnus sat, his gaze piercing. “Speak,” he said, his voice steady. “Tell me what you know and how you plan to help me.”

Shade leaned forward, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “I know of a place, deep beneath the streets of Ebonreach, where secrets are buried and lost things may be found. A labyrinth of tunnels and caverns, twisting and turning like the threads of fate itself.”

Cygnus’s heart pounded, though he worked to keep his expression neutral. “And what is it that you believe I seek in this underground maze?”

Shade’s smile widened, his teeth glinting in the dim light. “Why, the key to your vengeance, of course. The loyal companion who once soared by your side, now imprisoned in the depths of the earth.”

Cygnus’s breath caught, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “You know where he is?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Shade nodded, his tone grave. “Whispers in the shadows speak of a hidden cave, a prison bound by ancient magic. Your companion waits there, and with him, the power you need to reclaim your throne.”

The weight of Shade’s words pressed on Cygnus like a hand on his chest. Memories of his friend surged forward, fierce and unbidden, stirring both grief and hope.

“Take me to him,” Cygnus said, his voice a low growl. “Help me free him, and I will grant you whatever reward you desire.”

Shade’s dark eyes glimmered. “An alliance, then? The Fallen King and the Shadow Walker, united in common cause?”

Cygnus hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yes. But understand this—if you betray me, I will find you, no matter where you hide.”

Shade smirked. “I would expect nothing less.” He rose, his cloak sweeping the floor. “No time to waste. Let us delve into the heart of darkness and claim what is rightfully yours.”

Together, they slipped out of the tavern and into the darkened streets of Ebonreach, their shadows stretching long and menacing beneath the flickering lamplight.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

"Gin. Neat," Cygnus grunted to the bartender, his voice rough with disuse but still carrying a hint of the regal power he once wielded. As he waited for his drink, his eyes scanned the room, taking in a sea of unfamiliar faces. These peasants, with their petty concerns and fleeting lives, could never comprehend the depths of his pain, the immensity of what was stolen from him. Pulling his gaze away from the others, his thoughts turned inward. The weight of his newfound reality pressed down upon him, a punishment no one else could ever comprehend. He’d enjoyed wealth beyond imagination, witnessed beauty beyond compare, and yet here he sat, trapped, condemned to walk among the very creatures he once ruled, his name now forgotten.

The clink of glass on wood pulled him back to the present. Cygnus wrapped his fingers around the tumbler, relishing the burn of the liquor sliding down his throat. In this moment, a drink was his only comfort, a temporary balm for the searing ache of his scars and the gaping void left by all he’d lost. Tracing the rim of his half-empty glass with his finger, the amber liquid within reflected the flickering light. His thoughts drifted to Leda, her ethereal beauty forever seared into his memory along with the twisted constellation of six scars from cigarette burns etched across his face in his namesake pattern—an intentional, yet cruel reminder of her betrayal.

Lifting the glass to his lips, the stale scent of beer mingled with the musty air of the dimly lit tavern. Low murmurs of conversation swirled around him, but Cygnus remained apart, an island adrift in the oceans of their shared oblivion.

"Another," Cygnus said, his voice low and rough as he slid the empty glass toward the bartender, a middle-aged woman with a weathered, leathery face.

Hesitating, perhaps sensing the danger that coiled beneath Cygnus's deceptively calm exterior, she sighed. “You sure? It’s late.”

“I’m sure. Pour,” he said, tapping the glass.

“You’re the boss,” she said, shaking her head and refilling his glass.

“Any luck?” he asked, changing topics.

“Nothing yet,” she answered, placing the bottle under the counter. “But I’ve got all my eyes and ears to the ground. Something will turn up—eventually.”

“Eventually,” Cygnus chuckled, his voice devoid of genuine mirth. “I guess I’ll have to bide my time in the bottom of this glass,” he said, raising it and taking a sip.

The bartender shrugged, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “Patience always bears fruit,” she added as she wiped down the counter.

I used to have all the time in the world, Cygnus mused silently. Now my time is ticking, literally. I need to find him, and soon. A bitter laugh escaped his lips, the irony hitting home. “Patience? Sure, why not? I’ve already lost everything that ever mattered, so what’s a few more days…weeks…months.”

“Patience,” she repeated, the glimmer in her eyes now a glare before she turned, moving down the bar to help another patron.

Cygnus lifted the glass to his lips once more as he caught sight of his reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bar. The jagged lines fractured his image, a twisted kaleidoscope of the man he’d become. Familiar features stared back at him—the strong jawline, the piercing eyes—but they were now etched with lines of weariness, framed by unkempt hair. A stranger.

Again, unbidden memories of Leda flooded his mind, each one a dagger twisting in his gut. He recalled the way her laughter once filled the room, a melody that could make anyone pause. The way her eyes danced with mischief as she whispered secrets in his ear, her breath warm against his skin. And then, the moment her betrayal was laid bare, her true nature revealed in all its cruel glory.

His fingers traced the jagged scars etched into his skin, each one a brutal reminder of his fall from grace. The scars marred his once-perfect visage, now a twisted tapestry of pain and humiliation. He could still feel and smell the burning as Leda pressed the lit cigarettes against his flesh, her eyes glinting with a gleeful satisfaction. It was no ordinary fire that scarred him, but ancient magic, wild and untamed. With each burn, he could feel his mana draining, his power leeching away, binding him to this frail form.

Cygnus slammed his glass down on the bar, the sound sharp and sudden in the murky stillness. He welcomed the pain that shot through his hand, a momentary distraction from the onslaught of memories. But, still, they persisted, relentless in their assault.

He recalled the touch of her hand on his cheek, gentle even as her words dripped with venom. The way she smiled as she watched him fall, stripped of his station and cast down amongst the commoners. A puppet dancing to her tune, he was blind to the strings she had so expertly woven.

Turning away from the mirror, he was unable to bear the sight of his own reflection any longer. The weight of his failure, of his blindness, settled heavy in his bones. But beneath it all, the embers of his rage smoldered. His moment would come. And when it did, Leda and the others in the rebellion would learn the true cost of crossing him.

Cygnus drained the last of his drink, savoring the burn in his throat. He gently set the glass down, a smile widening on his lips. He may be trapped, but he was far from broken. The Fallen King would rise again, and all who stood in his way would be crushed beneath his heel.

It was only a matter of time.

Patience.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Tinik’s hands deftly brushed back a smooth, metallic leaf, its thin edges emitting an eerie blue glow. Reaching deeper, nestled to the stalk of the plant was a tiny gear with fine teeth, similar to one you might find in a mechanical toy. One gear per plant. His hands moved to the next, this time the gear was larger, with coarse teeth. He stowed it in the tote slung at this side, careful not to damage it. As he moved to the next plant, a smile spread on his face as he saw a great bloom atop the highest node of leaves—in it sat a single shimmering ball, a Mother Seed. Taking a soft cloth from his bag, he gently wrapped it around the ball safely setting it in a small metal box and placing it in his tote with the harvested gears. Standing, he looked across the field, the subtle blue glow from the plants hung above the fields like an autumn fog. His fellow Gearborn were all hard at work harvesting, the clink of gears dropping into totes filling the crisp autumn air. 

The village of Nychtfell sat in a remote valley, shrouded in perpetual darkness. The mountains towered above it, ensuring that neither sun nor moon ever appeared. But the plants of the valley thrived in the lack of light, as did the Gearborn who called Nychtfell home. It was a symbiotic relationship—the Gearborn tended to the crop and the crop ensured their survival by providing gears to power them and the curious contraptions they built. Without these gears, the little mechanical people couldn’t repair themselves and their gears would wear down and them along with it.

Not only did the mountains block the light, but they also ensured visitors never found this place as the mountain pass to the valley was unmarked and treacherous. This reality fit the Gearborn well, in fact, they'd sought its seclusion out years ago in the Exodus when they'd fled their enslavement by the Grand Magus and come here. They preferred solitude and had been misunderstood outside the valley. Here they could live free, grow their crop in the valley’s fertile soils, and spend their spare time building their curiosities, experimenting with the magic of the gears—it was the way of the Gearborn. 

In the distance, the trees of the forest gently swayed in the breeze, the points of their needle-like leaves emitting a delicate green spark, highlighting the canopy but leaving the forest floor below shrouded in mystery. Glancing toward Lysa, Tinik waved her over, excited to tell her about the seed. She rose from the field, walking over to join him, the gears she’d harvested clinking in her tote. Just over her shoulder, a small Mechaflygon spread its paper-thin wings, flitting into the air and diving off toward the forest. Tinik was about to speak but paused as something in the forest drew his attention. He swore he'd seen something move, but as he pushed his goggles up and dialed in the focus of his tin-eye, whatever he thought he’d seen was gone. A moment later, several Rustbeaks flew out of the trees across the fields, squawking in their shrill manner.

“What is it?” Lysa asked, turning to where Tinik was looking. 

"It's nothing," Tinik said still looking at the forest not wanting to concern Lysa, especially given the recent talk in the village about concerning happenings. Still, something had unsettled those Rustbeaks. Turning back to Lysa, he took the seed from his tote showing it to her as it was rare to harvest a Mother Seed. "I need to get it back to the village and into the—" He paused as something again caught his attention in the woods beyond the fields.

Lysa again turned looking to the woods. "What is that?" she said taking a step forward for a better look.

"You see it too?" Tinik asked, now growing nervous.

"I see... something, but—" she cut her words off. "Let's just go check it out," she said, clearly the braver of the two as she was a member of the Nychtfell village watch, a group of self-appointed safety guards.

"I don't know," Tinik said not budging.

"Come on," she said smiling, taking his hand, and pulling him forward.

Reluctantly, he fell in step and before he knew it they were at the forest's edge and she pulled him into the veiled darkness below the shimmering green canopy, dancing in the wind before letting go of his hand.

"It was somewhere in here," she said motioning ahead and plunging forward through the glittering underbrush—the metallic leaves of the plants scrapping against her outerskyn.

"Wait for me," Tinik said, not wanting to be alone in the woods. He followed the path she'd made, coming through but there was no sight of her. "Lysa," he called out in a sort of hushed whisper not wanting to disturb anything that might be lurking in the woods.

"Down here," Lysa said from a short ridge that fell off into a small ravine. She sat at the bottom brushing herself off, clearly having tumbled down the hillside. 

"You ok?" Tinik asked.

"Yeah, but you've got to see this." She motioned somewhere deeper into the ravine as she stood checking herself for any broken parts.

Sliding down the hillside, Tinik joined her. Up ahead in the ravine sat a rock outcropping or at least it looked like a rock outcropping, but the surface of it was shimmering, waving like the surface of the lake in a light breeze. Small ripples spread out, settling and then the shimmer was gone—only rock remained. 

"We should go back to the village—tell them about this," he suggested knowing full well that Lysa would reject it, which she immediately did. Before he knew it they were in front of the rock, and then through the rock. The shimmering surface was a portal to a room filled with books and scrolls, rows of gaslamps ensconced along the walls shared a welcoming glow. 

A single desk sat in the middle of the chamber and atop it sat a strange glowing contraption like they'd never seen before. It seemed to be made of a flat glass embedded in the front of a box and on laying flat on the desk was a thin metal sheet etched with letters and numbers. Tinik approached the bookshelves, marveling at the sheer volumes of books, taking a rather large volume from the shelf, and leafing through its pages. Lysa moved toward the desk, intently focused on the strange box.

"Beep!"

"What was that?" Tinik said turning around and seeing Lysa standing sheepishly by the glowing box on the desk, her hands behind her back.

"Did you touch it?" Tinik asked, his eyes wide as he stepped toward the desk still holding the book.

"Maybe?"

"Maybe, or you did?"

"Ok, yes—"

"Beep!"

Tinik looked at the glowing box and words started to materialize out of nowhere on the glass surface, letter by letter.

Thank you for confirming your location.

Processing...

The words on the glass surface shifted and changed before their eyes until an image materialized on the glass showing Nychtfells location on a map of Aetherion, the realm beyond the mountains where they'd lived before. They both stood mesmerized by the map, searching for its meaning.

The map disappeared and slowly, more letters burned into the screen until the meaning was clear.

Thank you. The Grand Magus is coming.

"What does it mean, The Grand Magus is coming?" Tinik shrieked, knowing the history of the Gearborn, recalling the Exodus. A sudden rumble shook the room. The shelves of books began to sway, and the gaslamps flickered erratically.

"What was that," Lysa whispered, her voice now timid and resigned.

"I don't know," Tinik said, "but we need to warn everyone." 

It was Tinik who now took Lysa's hand pulling her from her haze and out of the hidden chamber, crashing through the underbrush. The rumbling thundered again in the distance, the entire horizon ablaze in a copper hue. Coming out of the forest, Lysa crumbled to her knees in tears. 

The fields of crops stood ablaze in an unnatural orange fire, the plants melting in a spectral magefire. Looking past it to the village, a gleaming portal ringed with white fire stood open in the town center, the Grand Magus lording in front of it flanked by the Nine from the Order of Hyuian. Memories flushed back into Tinik's mind as he watched his fellow Gearborn struggle for survival, the anger of the Grand Magus clearly having grown into madness over the years since the Exodus.

"Perhaps he will listen to me," Tinik said lifting Lysa to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. "I have to try."

"Why would he listen to you? You're the one who betrayed him last time—before the Exodus. If there's anyone he's out to destroy, it's you," she said.

"Exactly," Tinik said with a smug grin. "That's what I'm counting on. And while I'm doing that, you collect as many Gearborn as you can and head to our house. Get everyone inside and pull the lever hidden under the loose floorboard next to the stove. I'll join you as soon as I can," he spoke the words even though he knew them to be a lie. The fact that his life with her would end on a lie was devastating, but he also knew that with time she'd forgive him.

But she was not so dense to be fooled by him, not after all these years together. "No, I'll not let you do this alone. I'm going with you," she shot back.

"We do not have time for this, Lysa. Take my tote and go. Now!" He leaned in kissing her, pushing her toward home. For a moment he stood watching her walk away gathering the scattered Gearborn along the way. Then he turned back toward the village, back toward the Grand Magus. Tinik set his shoulders and walked to the village square, positioning himself between the Grand Magus and the Vault where the Mother Seeds were stored. "Leave us be," Tinik said in as strong of a voice as his little body could muster. 

The Grand Magus spun around, his eyes blazing. "Tinik, how wonderful to see you. I only wish the circumstances were different."

"You've already destroyed the crops, you have weakened us. You don't have to sign our death sentence as well," Tinik yelled, tensing up, preparing for what was to come.

"No. You did that years ago. I told you before, and I'm here to tell you again—you cannot keep my magic," the Grand Magus sneered. A flash of light shot out of the Grand Magus' hand slamming into Tinik sending him smashing into the building behind him before tumbling to the ground. 

"Get the seeds," the Grand Magus yelled to the Nine who immediately dispersed heading into the Vault.

Tinik struggled to a knee, trying to summon the power to stop them, but he was too weak. Looking at the distant horizon he saw dim lights of the mighty Zepplin he'd spent the past years since the Exodus meticulously constructing. He knew the Grand Magus would eventually find them, so like before Tinik ensured that his people would not only escape but would survive and thrive—out of the reach of the Grand Magus. Rising to his feet in defiance, his gears dripping oil, Tinik laughed. "You're too late old man."

Lysa looked out the window of the Zepplin. What remained of Nycthfell sat smoldering in the distance. Once she'd pulled the lever, she knew that Tinik was not coming to join them. The great balloons inflated quickly, lifting their house into the sky. The gearing he'd built into it set them on a course over the mountains. Looking into the tote he'd given her, she quickly recalled that it contained the salvation of the Gearborn—a Mother Seed that Tinik had harvested earlier that evening. That at least gave the Gearborn a chance at survival. 

Dropping the tote to the ground, it made a loud thump. Curiously, she looked deeper inside to see the book he'd taken from the mysterious cave with the strange glass cube. A page was dog-eared and she flipped to it studying the words. It seemed that the Grand Magus was not the only magical purveyor in Aetherion. It told of another faction of magus in the realm. A faction that was benevolent and welcomed the outcasts and battered of the Grand Magus. Lysa walked to the panel that controlled the gears of the great airship, holding the book open she made a few adjustments to their course and direction. If this other faction existed, then Tinik had saved the Gearborn, again, and perhaps forever freed them of the Grand Magus' relentless pursuit. 

She smiled, lifting his tote from the ground and resting it on her lap. She already missed him and wished he were by her side, but that was not meant to be.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Regna’s torch sputtered, flickering wildly before it faded to nothing, plunging the stone passage ahead into an inky darkness. 

“Shit,” she cursed. She thought she’d packed enough for the job, but apparently not. This place was deeper and more devious than she’d been told. She dropped her final spent torch to the ground, regripping the soft leather pommel of her blade as her furry companion chirped, burying itself deeper into the pack fastened to her back.

She cleared her mind, focusing on the task ahead. “It’s ok Fret. We’ve got this,” she whispered, but was far from certain that was true.

She stepped forward, her footsteps amplified in the darkness as her other senses made up for the shortfall. She sheathed her sword, spreading her arms out, her fingertips pressing against the walls of the narrow passageway. Her mind was still imprinted with the dim image of the passage, but the torchlight only went so far in this darkness and she soon reached the end of what she’d seen. Her fingertips slid across the cool rough surface of the stones, dragging across the cracks where something or someone had laid these stones and built this abomination long ago. 

When she’d told Durnan she intended to seek it, he’d laughed and suggested she find a hearty group of veterans to join her. But that was not how she worked. She always did her jobs solo, whether it was advisable or not. Still creeping along in the darkness she was starting to think that perhaps Durnan was right and she’d bitten off too much.

Why did she always have to venture out alone? It seemed that perhaps she’d be safer in numbers, but she always feared her place in the world, especially a world where others were decorated veterans—virtually all men. She wanted the same thing and wanted to do it on her own so others would see her skill and bravery. But what good is bravery if you’re dead? Still, the treasure she sought was too much to ignore. If she were to find it, she would finally be recognized as a true adventurer, perhaps the bards would even sing songs of her across the Seven Lands.

She pressed on, the darkness consuming her. “We’ll be ok,” she said reassuring Fret—and herself.

Her fingers slid along until the wall on her right disappeared. She spun, feeling the changing direction of the passage, careful not to lose her orientation.

They say this place is older than the gods themselves, and the thing that lives deep in its bowels can bend the will of any who brave the foolhardy venture into its midst. She mostly didn’t believe that—mostly. Still, the stories were convincing even if slightly unbelievable. Her mind wandered back to her last conversation about it with Durnan. He was warning her that things are not always as they appear, but the joke was on him. She couldn’t see anything, her field of vision plunged into a void of darkness. Her hand slid along the walls, which were getting damper with each step while the muffled whimpers of Fret spilled from her pack. She cracked a smile thinking about telling Durnan about the torch—

“Fu...” she started, unable to complete the curse as her front foot dropped, plunging into nothingness. Struggling, she lunged forward, her foot still finding no purchase. The pommel of her sword clanked against the wall as she spun her body back, trying to save herself from plunging deeper, knowing there was nothing good to come of that. Thinking quickly, she pulled a dagger from her waist, stabbing it deep into the soil behind her as her body was falling away. The blade was sharp, honed each night with care, and at this moment she was grateful for it as it bit deep into the ground. Both of her hands struggled to keep hold of it as the weight of her body finally caught. The blade held and she let out a deep breath.

Fret popped out of her pack bouncing off her shoulder, brushing up against her hands squeaking shrilly before falling into silence. 

“I know,” Regna said, grunting as she struggled to pull herself up. “A little help would be nice.”

There was no response this time from Fret, and Regna couldn't see anything. Her lack of vision almost cost her, that plus letting her mind wander in this place. She needed to focus. Hurling her body over the edge back onto level ground, she dangled her feet into wherever she’d almost fallen. 

“Well, this isn't going to work,” Regna huffed. "I can't see a thing."

Fret humphed from the darkness, and the next thing she knew it jumped onto her leg and up onto her shoulder.

“That’s right, back into your hiding place scaredy cat,” she mocked. But that's not where Fret went. The next thing she knew it leaped on top of her head, spreading its body flat like a stocking cap, extending down her forehead and covering her eyes. And then Fret squeaked happily, almost triumphantly. 

“What are you…” Regna’s voice trailed off as she turned her head looking around, but instead of darkness, she could actually see. “How’d you do that?” she asked in wonder.

Fret squeaked again, the same as before.

“Well shit, you could’ve told me that before we almost fell. What else can you do?”

Fret squeaked again, this time shaking its fur happily.

Looking below her feet, she first saw the spikes, then the skeletons of various sorts languishing on them, impaled, hidden by the darkness of this place. That was almost her fate as well, but she’d prepared for this place and was ready. With a laugh, she stood pulling her knife from the ground and stowing it back in its sheath. Turning her attention back to the pit, it wasn’t that wide and she could easily clear it now that she could see it. Taking a few steps back, she raced toward the pit's edge, leaping across it easily, her eyes now trained on the passage ahead. The easy part was behind her. Pulling her sword out, she spun it in her hand, testing its weight and letting out a deep sigh.

“Ok, Fret. Let’s do this.”

She moved down the passage, following its bends, the floor becoming more damp with each step. Turning a final bend, the narrow passage opened into an immense underground cavern, and even with Fret’s help, she couldn't see its end. Her foot splashed into water sending rings cascading outward, now realizing that the floor of this cavern held a great subterranean lake—just like the stories, which meant it was true. All of it, whether she was ready for it or not. 

She leaned forward glaring into the darkness, her eyes seeking any signs of an island, finding none. But the stories were clear, there was an island—there had to be an island.

"It is there, you just can't see it," a familiar voice said from behind as she spun, her blade at the ready.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she said astonished, if not slightly irritated. "I told you I didn't need any help."

"Well, how was I to go and let you have all the fun?" Durnan said smiling, holding a torch to light his way. "Anyway, another set of hands might come in handy in this place."

"I don't need another set of hands. I've got this."

"You mean like that pit you almost fell into back there?" he said drawing his finger across his throat with a smirk.

She scoffed, lowering her sword, and turning away without a word.

"Yeah, I saw that," he added. "But Fret—like, what the hell is that?" he said stepping to her side and taking a wary look at the creature now adorning her head.

"None of your business," she answered peering out into the darkness. "If there's an island out there, why can't I see it?"

"Trust me, it's there," he said as he leaned forward looking into the distance. "The darkness, it's unnatural. Can't you feel it?"

"Of course, I can," she said lying. "Like I said, I don't need your help."

"Ok princess," he said smugly.

"Fuck you, Durnan."

"Whoa, calm it down, sister. I only followed you because I made a promise to Mother that I'd keep you safe." As he finished, Fret peeled away from Regna's head leaping forward toward the water, but instead of splashing down unceremoniously, it sat suspended just above the surface of the water.

"Quit messing around, Fret. We don't have time for that right now," Regna said, her irritation with Durnan spilling over.

Fret puffed up, shaking out its fur, squeaking calmly.

"It's trying to tell you, but you won't listen—like always," Durnan said.

"Trying to tell me what?" Regna asked impatiently.

"That there's a bridge—a hidden bridge." Durnan stepped forward kneeling at the water's edge pressing his hand upon the surface of the water. A pulse of eerie green light raced down his arm and out of his palm onto what appeared to be a translucent bridge just above the water's surface. He pressed harder, pushing out more of the green light and Regna watched as it spread out, marching fastidiously across the surface of the water revealing a bridge that spanned outward. Durnan stood, taking a step forward next to Fret, pointing into the distance where the spectral green light of the bridge disappeared into the darkness. "If we're gonna cross, let's do it. I'm quite certain my magic will not go unnoticed for long."

"Right then, let's go," she said stepping out ahead of them both. Fret leaped up as she passed by, climbing her back, coming to a rest atop her shoulder. "We need to hoof it across. You know the stories as well as I do."

Durnan nodded, falling in behind her, double-stepping to keep her pace. "You know I don't want any part of this, right?"

"Whatever," Regna said dismissively. "You never were a good liar."

"Honest," he snapped back. "I really don't. You can have it and whatever glory or disdain comes from this folly—if we even make it out of here."

“What is it you seek?” a deep voice asked from somewhere.

Regna stopped, spinning back toward Durnan, her eyes darting from side to side, sword flashing, seeking out the owner of the voice. "Did you hear that?" she asked quietly.

"Hear wha—shit!" he cursed. "We need to go back, now! It's not too late," Durnan said back-pedaling. "We're no match for it."

"No! I'm not going back," Regna said defiantly.

"What is it you seek?" the voice said again, occupying only her mind.

Her shoulders flexed, taut with tension as she worked to steady the blade in her hand, uncertain if it could even injure such a creature. Still, she clung to her blade and the research she and Durnan had undertaken for years to learn of this place and this thing. “I seek the island in the lake,” she answered her voice quivering uncharacteristically, surprising her as scanned from side to side for any sign of the creature.

A chuckle reverberated across her mind. “No games from you. I can see what you ask is actually what you seek. Many try to fool me, lie to me.”

“Show yourself,” Regna said. “Let me see who speaks to me through thoughts.”

"No!" Durnan whispered tersely. "That is precisely what we do not want. We need to go, now. Stop playing games—this thing is ancient." He spun around as something broke the surface of the lake in the distance sending cascading rings of water outward.

“Your brother speaks the truth, I am too ancient for your mind to even comprehend. You can put your blade away. It serves no purpose here—you cannot kill that which is forever reborn." Without pause, Regna found herself sheathing her sword, convinced of its futility in this place. After this brief pause, the voice continued. "It has been many years since someone visited me. Now, why do you seek the island?”

“I seek that which belongs to my people," she answered, her confidence returning. 

“Well that is a conundrum now, isn’t it? You claim it as your own, but I know it as mine. All on the island belongs to me.” As the words finished there was a bubbling of the water in the distance sending more distinct ripples across the surface of the lake, lapping onto the bride and soaking Regna's boots.

"We...need...to...go!" Durnan said tugging his sister's arm.

Regna turned to her brother, a sudden awareness washing over her and she nodded, turning to follow him. Between them and the passage they'd come from, a large shadow broke the surface of the water, shattering the bridge. The stones they'd just come across started to fall into the water, progressively working its way toward them.

"Quick run!" Durnan said letting loose of Regna's arm and turning to run toward the hidden island. Without hesitation, Regna turned following, but their pace could not match the pace of the bridge's failure. The stones splashed into the water behind them and she braced for the cold shock of the water. She stepped forward, but this time her foot found no purchase, and instead of splashing into the water she found herself floating above the lake's surface, shoulder to shoulder with Durnan. Looking up, she saw Fret, but not Fret. Above them was a majestic flying creature with iridescent wings, carrying them over the dark waters below, heading toward the hidden island.

A sudden roar echoed from the depths of the lake, causing rocks to fall from the cavern roof somewhere high above, splashing into the water around them as Fret swerved wildly to avoid them. The water below churned violently, and behind them, an enormous shadow rose to the surface awakened by their presence. 

“There is no escaping this place. Not now that you’ve disturbed my slumber," the voice echoed out in her mind.

Fret furiously flapped its wings, struggling under the weight of carrying them both, but it maintained just enough elevation to skim across the surface of the water. In the distance, the ghostly silhouette of an island finally came into view as the remaining spans of the bridge fell into the lake. Within moments they skidded to a stop on the island, Fret collapsing in exhaustion, once again Regna's furry little companion. Scooping him up, she glanced back to see an ominous shadow gliding through the water getting ever closer with each moment. Turning back to Durnan, he was slowly approaching a glowing pedestal at the center of the island, seemingly unconcerned about their perilous situation.

She sprinted forward, easily overtaking Durnan and grasping his arm, pulling him to a stop as she fished through her backpack with her free hand. "Look around you," she pleaded. "This place is a tomb! We need to go!" He paused heeding her words, glancing around. The island was littered with the skeletons of past adventurers who, like them, had made it this far, but no further. They did not retrieve the relic, they did not leave this place. It is this place they have stayed forever, their souls bound to it and to the shadow creature.

"But it's right there," Durnan pleaded. "We can get it!"

"We're dead if we do," she said tossing a small azure gem on the ground that swirled with an almost electrical light opening a portal to a tavern—Durnan's tavern. With all of her remaining strength, she grappled Durnan pulling him close. "I only allowed you to come along because I too made a promise to Mother that I'd keep you safe, which is a promise I intend to keep." With that, she leaped through the portal, dragging Durnan and Fret with her. Coming to rest on the warm wooden floor of Durnan's tavern, she let out a sigh of relief, collapsing with the release of adrenaline. "There, safe and sound. Just like I'd plann—"

Before she could finish a dark, slimy tendril shot through the portal taking hold of her leg. Durnan took her sword hacking wildly at it, but with little effect. Regna was pulled closer to the portal. She reached out, grasping onto anything that would slow her descent back into the darkness. Through the portal, the dark waters churned as the body of the shadow creature resolved to reveal a cacophony of eyes, all fixated on her with a malevolent gaze, as more tendrils sought out the portal.

"I see you Regna Duersan. You cannot visit my realm without—"

Suddenly the portal snapped closed. The voice quieted in her head and the limb of the creature was severed, splattering dark blood everywhere. 

Fret shook hard, spraying the blood that covered it onto Regna's face as it dropped an azure gem to the ground, squeaking in excitement.

Regna let her head drop to the floor with a hard thud, as she reached out patting Fret gently. "Good work, Fret. Good work." She turned to look at Durnan, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was gone, vanished it seemed. Looking to where the portal had been moments ago, Regna's blade lay on the floor.  It wasn't entirely clear to her what happened to Durnan—did he purposefully go back for the relic or was he captured by the creature?

Either way, she knew it only meant one thing. She'd have to go back down there, but this time she was going to take Durnan's advice. She'd need a hearty group of veterans if she was going to save her brother and reclaim the relic.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Sometimes he babbled, sometimes his thoughts flowed freely, and on rare occasions he was a soothsayer, spouting almost prophetic words of wisdom. It was the latter that Emily was hoping for as she searched the forest checking the map she’d purchased from the old hag in the swamp. And by purchased she really meant bartered, and for quite a considerable price. The scent of burnt flesh still lingered as she paused rubbing the cauterized stump of her recently bartered arm. The old hag had driven a high price, but had convinced her it was a good trade. The hag was good to her words though, taking the fresh arm and reaching under a floorboard to retrieve the map. Lucky for Emily she’d found the hag, and even more lucky she’d found the map to the brook.

No one really recalled the brook’s name, and its location had been long forgotten as well, except to the old hag who was likely as ancient as the brook itself. Lore had it that the brook foretold the return of Arthur, King of the Britons, which was now no more than an ancient fairytale told by people from England trying to relive the glory of centuries past. But for now, she could use a bit of that fairytale magic as she shuffled forward, the sound of water gently flowing over rocks smoothed with time rippling in the background. She approached the edge of the brook, her foot catching on something covered in vines. Brick… and mortar, out here? Of course, this had to be the spot. If not for her misstep, the brook would’ve looked like any other little stream swallowed up in the woods, choked off in the underbrush.

Her heart raced as she turned the map over reading some notes she’d quickly scribbled with her one remaining hand after… well, after paying for the map and leaving the hag’s hut. The hag had told her that if her footing was honest, and her intent was true, then the brook would speak.

“I think this is it,” she mumbled to herself. Lifting her head, she held the map up to match it to the surroundings. “Just as the hag described. Brick bridge and all. It has to be it,” she said smiling.

Now on to her next problem. The idea of a talking body of water was crazy to her just a few days ago, back when everything was normal and ordinary in her life. But much had changed since then. It struck her at how quickly life can turn from good to bad–flick of a switch. But she wanted to know who had flicked the switch, who had taken her daughter from her. She steeled her nerves and stepped to the edge of the brook intending to speak as loudly and clearly as she could even though she felt silly at the idea. Not sure just how to talk to a brook, what tone to take—how formal and the like. She defaulted to how she imagined people in fairytale stories would talk to an omniscient body of water, perhaps how Arthur had spoken to it.

So she began.

“Oh great and mighty water… I mean, the great and honorable brook of this ancient forest,” she paused, clearing her throat and collecting her thoughts. “I haveth come to your pearly banks on a quest, a quest that can only be completed with your wisdom, your guidance, your grace, and your mighty words. I bow to you now in deep and humble respect, in the hope you will find I have the truest of hearts, and the most honorable of intentions. I seek the child of my loins that has been lost to me, stolen from my breast to a yet unknown location.” And then Emily curtsied. In fact, she did one of the finest curtsies that has ever been done in the world to date or anytime after, likely credited to the many hours of ballet as a child. The water in the brook bubbled along, rambling over the rocks, but it did not speak a word or send any signs of sentience. The water merely flowed over the rocks, as it had been doing all along, babbling away. Her hopes faded. Deep inside, she admitted it was a bit of a long shot even though she’d sacrificed her arm for the mere possibility of finding her daughter. It seemed like an imprudent sacrifice now, but the hag, the map—it was all so convincing.

She rubbed the stump of her arm, shaking her head, surrendering to the sheer stupidity of the idea that a brook could be a soothsayer, let alone talk. Stupidity, pure and simple. But as she turned to leave, it struck her that perhaps she was just in the wrong spot—the hag did say something about honest footing or something like that. Maybe she needed to try it from the other side of the bridge. Even though it seemed ridiculous, she’d made the sacrifices, endured the journey to get here, so she might as well try. Stepping onto the bridge, she moved across, pausing midway as she swore she heard the sounds of a man mumbling incoherently. Her head lifted and her eyes perked up.

“Is someone there?” She asked, glancing around the woods.

There was more of the mumbling, and she lowered her head to watch her footing, slowly stepping forward, barely moving a foot or so.

“There, stop! Freeze right there, lady. That’s my sweet spot.” A male’s voice called out, now clear and vibrant. “Anywhere else and I’m just all nonsense… but right there, right where you are. Brilliant! That’s what people come here for.”

Emily literally froze in place, like a child playing freeze tag, afraid to move a muscle out of fear of losing the channel between her and the voice. She stood hunched over, looking down at the bridge, uncertain what to do. Was she talking to the Babbling Brook? Had he really just ordered her to freeze? She was uncertain of anything now and stood, holding her position as ordered.

“Well, you don’t exactly have to totally freeze lady,” the voice said with a chuckle. “You can stand up and look at me.”

Continuing to do as commanded, Emily stood and turned, looking up stream, not certain what to expect. Perhaps just a stream of water, perhaps a mouth formed in the water talking, but what she saw was spectacular and unexpected. There was a man, literally made of water, roughly her height, standing on top of the surface of the little brook. He was transparent, but you could see his image clearly, the forest behind was slightly blurred where he stood. She said nothing, mouth agape, staring.

He lifted his hand, snapping his fingers in front of her face as a splash of water hit her skin, drawing her out of her trance.

“You’re the Babbling Brook?” Emily asked with a deep reverence, still not convinced this was actually happening or whether she’d tripped, hit her head on the brick of the bridge, and was now dreaming.

“Well, yes. But that’s kind of a weird name, don’t ya think? Please, just called me Bob.”

“Ok, Bob?” She repeated, uncertain how to proceed.

“And you are here for…” he said, motioning with his hand for her to continue as if suddenly impatient.

“Oh, right. Did you hear my request from earlier, from over there?” Emily said pointing to side of the brook.

“Oh, that. Yeah, I did, but I thought you were practicing for a part in a Shakespeare play or something. That was real?”

Emily paused as a thought came to her mind, “You know, you don’t really babble. You talk pretty clearly.”

“Well, thank you,” he said smiling.

“Oh, and yes. That was real. That's why I’m here asking for help.”

“Wow! Really, that’s like… a pretty big one,” he said tapping his fingers on his chin. “So you lost your daughter, and you want me to help you find her?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly lose her. She was taken, and, yes, I need your help to find her.”

“Phew,” Bob exhaled, water again spraying Emily’s face, this time dampening her hair as well.

“Do you think you could? You know?” She said, shooing him away as she brushed the water from her face and slicked back her damp hair.

“Sure, sure,” he said, taking a step backwards. “No problem, but listen, lady.”

“Emily. My name is Emily,” she said, interrupting him.

“Ok, ok… listen, Emily, I’d love to help you, but I can’t.”

Taken aback, Emily’s brow furled. She wasn’t certain how to get angry at an incorporeal body of water, but she did it anyway. “Can’t or won’t?” She fired back.

“Can’t. It’s kind of against the…” he paused searching for his words. “The rules. Yes, it’s against the rules.”

“What?” She said flailing her one good arm. “There are no rules. You’re making it up. You just don’t want to help because…”

“What happened to your arm?” Bob asked, interrupting her and pointing to the stump of freshly cauterized meat.

“You’re useless,” Emily vented and turned, about to storm off, but Bob called her back.

“Wait, wait. Maybe we can make a deal, you know a trade. Nothing’s free lady. I mean, Emily,” he said quickly correcting himself, extending his hands in pleading.

“I’m listening,” Emily said through gritted teeth, keeping her back to him, ready to bolt at the sign of any more nonsense.

“How about you commit to clearing the path up to here, sprucing up the bridge, clearing this brush and then, you know, getting some people to come up here and talk to me. Maybe you could even have your daughter help, you know. It could be a new family business. Hell, you could even charge people for it. No water off my banks.” He said, chuckling to himself. “You commit to that, and I’ll tell you where your daughter is.”

“Deal,” Emily said without hesitation.

“Wait, what? No negotiation? Who taught you how to make deals? Did you take the hag’s first offer too?”

Emily blushed, saying nothing.

“Geez, just don’t go buy a horse by yourself, please!”

“Where is she?” Emily interrupted. “We have a deal now, so where is she?”

“Whoa… slow down, Emily. You’ve got some work to do before we get to that. You know, a little prepayment on the deal. I just met you. Not sure that I can trust you to follow through.”

Emily looked at her stump and Bob’s eyes followed. “Really? Plus, I’ve got this.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out a tattered scroll, unrolling it for him to see. It was a Deed to this little acreage in the forest, including title to the little stream and the bridge and Bob. “Seems like I own your ass.”

“Well, ahem… you don’t really own me. That’s just a piece of paper. I existed well before property rights were acknowledged and traded.”

“The King says different,” she said, pointing to the seal on her Deed. “But that’s good news for you, I’ve been looking for something new to do with my life. People would definitely pay good money to see you, and why not? You’re amazing…”

“Thank you, thank you,” Bob said, interrupting her again. “Yes, it’s agreed. I am a bit amazing.” Bob stood looking at the watery reflection of his body as the morning sun lightly glimmered off his rippling surface.

“…amazingly stupid, amazingly self-centered. I can see it now, maybe the Babbling Buffoon or Silly Stream. People will come from all over and wonder how we did it—animatronics, illusions, voice displacement. But, yes, we’re totally in on this new family business, like 100%,” she said as she started clearing brush from the bridge.

“Wait, wait. Can we just stick with the Babbling Brook? You have to admit, it’s kind of kitschy, and it’s kind of my thing, you know, from the fairytales and all.”

“We can talk, and don’t worry we’ll do our end. I’m actually pretty excited about it,” she said with a smile, but then her face hardened. “So, now, tell me where Emma is? Where is my daughter?”

“The hag, in the swamp. The one with your arm,” he said, motioning to her stump. “She’s got Emma. Surprised she didn’t tell you,” he quipped.

“What?” Emily said. “That makes no sense. Why would she give me the map to here if it just led back to her?”

“That’s a great question, and one you’ll have to take up with her.” He said, turning disinterested, looking off into the forest. “Perhaps another arm or other appendage, who knows really, with that hag.” As he finished, he stepped forward looking at the bridge. “Oh my, we’re going to need a mason out here, stat.”

“Nothing more is happening until I get back. With my daughter, and with all my appendages. Wait here,” she announced before turning and storming off through the forest, the coherence of the Babbling Brook fading into the background.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

“The world can breathe freedom again! The Black Witch is dead!” called out a thin, wiry man adorned in a frilly, frocked outfit as he moved slowly through the town square, dodging people as he went. He was a tall man, a good head or two taller than your average person, which allowed him to easily croon out the message across the square with his surprisingly melodic voice. If he weren't’ t the Town Crier, he certainly would’ve been a bard of some renown.

From the table where she sat having breakfast with her a friend, Evelyn turned, glaring at the man, not certain if she’d heard him correctly. But, as he repeatedly shouted out his message, she couldn’t ignore it or the joy he imbued in it each time. Unspoken, but spoken loudly, reinforced by the annoying grin on his face. Each time he belted it out, the message was overwhelmingly met with a euphoric response from the crowd, egging him on even more, which he obliged by breaking into dance as he moved along.

Evelyn watched him proceed across the square, seeing the scene repeated over and over, the mob growing, following him around the corner until they were out of sight. She lowered her head, fighting back the tears. She didn’t think this day would ever come, but it seemed it had. A gentle hand laid on her shoulder.

“Evelyn,” Serta said in a quiet, consoling voice.

“Don’t! Just don’t!” Evelyn said, brushing Serta’s hand from her shoulder. She gathered herself as the tears came, and stood, running her hands down the front of her black dress as if pressing out any wrinkles that may have formed while sitting down. She had never understood why people, many people, had thought her mother evil. Yes, she was a witch, that much was certain, but she used her powers to protect the land. The others, these people, she thought with disdain, just didn’t understand her mother the way that she did. She was is no way evil at all, but thoughtful and loving and kind. Maybe a bit overprotective, but these people, they would soon learn why her mother did the things that she did. They saw her as evil, but in reality she was anything but. However, there had been stories of her mother’s demise in the past that turned out to be false, so she held out hope that this too was just another of those situations.

As the cheers of the Black Witch’s death echoed around her, the townspeople were getting aggressive and jeering at Evelyn, openly mocking her about her mother’s death. Serta tried to shield her friend, but there were just too many, too fast, and Serta was only a small and frail young lady. The tears now openly streamed from Evelyn’s eyes as she was forced to endure some of the most hurtful, horrible and spiteful things that one could ever hear, let alone about a recently passed parent. Evelyn pushed through the crowd, sprinting back to the Obsidian Castle. The guards at the castle, like Evelyn, were not fully certain if the rumors were true. For that reason, they prevented the townspeople from looting and burning it, not wanting to suffer the repercussions if the reports of the Witch’s death were false.

Evelyn retreated to the bowels of the castle, far away from the jeers and pomp of the growing crowd outside. She hoped she’d find her mother in her room, returned from her trip to the west. Before leaving, her mother had told her there was a disturbance from the Outlands she needed to investigate. That was a few days ago. Things like this come up frequently, and Evelyn never gave it a second thought. Now, as she sat on the edge of her mother’s bed, she wondered if that was the last time she would see her mother. A tear came to her eye as she glanced around the room, looking at things, at memories.

She startled as the door opened, and turned smiling, expecting to see her mother. However, it was Serta and a gentleman in black she recognized as one of her mother’s Black Hands, her avowed protectors. Serta’s face was bloodied with cuts, her dress torn in several places, and it struck Evelyn that she’d fled, leaving Serta alone. The smile fell from her face, and she rushed forward to her friend.

“Oh Serta,” she said apologetically, “I’m sorry I left you. What has happened to you?” she asked as she brushed Serta’s golden hair from her face.

“No, Evelyn. I understand,” she said, her eyes growing heavy, “but your mother––” A single tear streamed from her eyes and she sniffed, catching her breath. “They were so mean, vindictive. There’s no telling what they would’ve done to you if you’d stayed any longer. If not for Flynn here, I’d probably be strung up on the gallows as well,” she said, motioning to the man standing next to her.

“Thank you, Flynn,” Evelyn said, turning to him. “You have done me a great service today. The Witch, my mother, shall make sure you are duly rewarded.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Serta raised her motioning for him to remain quiet. Evelyn turned back to Serta, to see her eyes covered in a sheen of glass, softly reflecting the light from the fireplace. Serta reached out, taking Evelyn’s hands in hers. “Evelyn, the rumors,” she whispered, “they’re not rumors this time. It’s really been done. Your mother’s been killed, by some Outlander who wields powers not of this world.”

“But how can you know, how can we be certain that it’s true this time?” Evelyn asked, the reality of it still not taking hold. Serta turned to Flynn, and he simply nodded, taking a small step forward.

“I was there, my lady,” Flynn answered. “We’d heard rumors of an intrusion from the Outlands, some new power that your mother felt. We engaged what looked like a rag tag band of vagabonds, but found their power exceeded ours that day. I’m sorry Evelyn,” he said stepping closer, “I’m sorry I failed you, but I will never let anyone harm you.”

Evelyn stepped closer to Flynn, leaning her forehead against his, whispering, “You saw her perish? You were there?”

“I was there,” he whispered back. “It’s true this time.

She leaned back, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Flynn. Do you have it?” she asked.

“I do, but it took every last man to make it here alive. Only myself and one other Black Hand made it out alive. But he is badly wounded and is in the healing salts now as we speak,” he said, holding out a small chest made from the blackest of wood. “Here it is.”

“You must do it quickly, Evelyn,” Serta said, stepping to her side, “it took far too long for Flynn to fight his way back with it.”

“Right,” Evelyn said as she took the box, racing over to the desk, setting it down and flipping open the lid open. One glimpse inside, and she knew it was true, her mother was dead, the family mantle passing to Evelyn. She had spoken with her mother about this day on numerous occasions and what would be expected of her. They would role-play it over the years, and through that Evelyn had taught herself how to stomach what needed to be done. She reached into the chest, closing her hand around it. It was warm and wet still––that was a good sign, it had not been too long. She grasped onto it as her fingers pressed into its fleshy surface. It still throbbed, as if her mother’s life force were still flowing through it.

“It is time,” Serta said, encouraging Evelyn to do what must be done.

Without any more words, Evelyn nodded to Serta, moving her mother’s heart to her mouth, taking a large bite out of it and drinking all the blood from its chambers. She continued to take bites until none was left, licking her fingers to take all the power into her own. Blood, her mother’s blood, streamed down her face onto her dress. She smiled, thinking of all the times they’d role-played this very moment, and each time her mother was concerned that she wouldn’t be able to do it. Her mother would be so proud of her if she could see her now, but then her stomach violently objected to its new contents as she doubled over. Flynn reached out, catching her before she fell.

“To the bed,” Serta said, motioning to the Witch’s bed, Evelyn’s bed. A minute after they settled her into bed, a swirl of black smoke emitted from Evelyn’s eyes, engulfing her body within a mysterious cloud. Serta and Flynn stepped back as the smoke crackled with electricity and finally resolved, but the person that lay before them was not Evelyn. It was the Black Witch.

“Evelyn?” Serta whispered, her voice uncertain.

Evelyn opened her eyes to see Serta and Flynn standing beside the bed, their eyes open wide. “Of course,” Evelyn said, rolling on her side, “who else would it be?”

“It’s just,” Serta said, glancing at Flynn.

Flynn scratched his chin, leaning in, “You look exactly like your mother. I mean exactly.”

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

John laid awake, wrestling with his pillow. It was late, and the rain was tapping a curious melody on the wood shake roof, drawing his attention away from some needed rest. Just as the slumber found him, he was awoken to a scratching on the kitchen door, most likely his cat wanting a respite from the rain. He heard his dog jump from the bed and scamper down the hall toward the kitchen. She wasn’t a big dog, and wasn’t really a discernible breed either. Unlike his friends who spent thousands on their dogs, John opted to save one from the shelter and named her Patty, after his grandmother, who had passed that same year. From down the hall, he could hear her growling and barking at the door, which struck him as a bit odd since she rarely barked. With all hope of sleep dashed for the moment, John rolled out of bed, lumbering down the hall, his slippers scuffing as he went. Turning the corner to the kitchen, lightning flashed in the darkness outside, sending a ribbon of light flickering across the floor, illuminating Patty. She stood a good yard from the door, the hairs on her back bristling, and she was dug in, growling at the door. 

John hesitated, looking into the kitchen, a shiver creeping up his spine, wondering what had Patty all worked up. Just as he was about to tell Patty to quiet down, there was another scratch at the door, causing Patty to go wild. Instinctively, he reached out grabbing a kitchen knife, joining Patty, his senses now sharp and alert, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He thought for a moment of turning on the light to scare away whatever it was, but as he reached for the switch, he heard it. A voice, fleeting and reminiscent of the wind, muted by the door that marked the barrier between them.

“Why? Why me?” it said. 

John’s hand stopped short of the light switch, his senses overloaded as Patty continued voicing her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he stroked Patty, silencing her. Slowly, he crept to the window beside the door, flicking the porch light on and risking a peek out, hoping to see who or what was there.

“Why me?” it said again, this time dripping of condemnation.

John pushed the curtain aside, looking out the window, but he saw nothing. Only the warm glow of the porch light mixing into the darkness of night that enveloped the secrets of the yard beyond. Reaching for the door handle, it was ice-cold and coated in a veneer of frost, causing another shiver to dart up his spine. Regripping the knife, he pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his free hand and turned the knob, opening the door as his cat darted inside, startling him. Gathering himself, he gazed out the doorway to see nothing more as the cool evening air flowed into the kitchen, the pitter-patter of rain dancing on the ground.

“Stupid,” he said, shaking his head for letting his imagination get the better of him–especially since he wrote stories like this for a living, his latest book being published after a year’s worth of toil. Ready to get back to bed, he reached over flicking the porch light off, but as he turned to close the door, he saw it out of the corner of his eye. It was a wispy thing. More like a translucent fluff, but in a humanoid shape vaguely familiar to him. He slowly turned as it floated closer, Patty now quiet, cowering behind him. Even though his stories often involved ghosts, he’d never seen one in real life. In fact, he’d always believed they were relinquished to the land of fiction.

“Why me?” It repeated like a scratched record as it now started to take on the more defined form of a man in business attire with a satchel at his side. Yet, it remained outside the door, repeating, “Why me?” 

John paused, not certain how to answer, and finally said that which came to him most plainly. “‘Why you, what?”

“Why did you kill me?” It answered before again repeating, “Why me?”

John stood shaken a bit as anyone would be talking to a ghost for the first time and being a law-abiding kind of guy, he was taken aback at its accusation, responding honestly, “I’ve never killed anyone. Are you sure you have the right place? That you’re haunting the right person?”

The ghost scoffed, pulling a book out of his satchel and holding it for John to see. “You’re John James, right? You wrote this book?” it said, its eyes locked with John’s.

Looking at the book, John could see it was his book. “Well, yes, that’s my book–” He paused, starting to think this was an elaborate hoax being put on by his friends and he peered into the darkness, searching for them, but finding nothing. Then, looking back at the apparition, it was so real. Mesmerized, he reached out across the threshold to touch it. As soon as his hand met its outstretched arm holding the book, a chill took his breath away, and he was overcome with feelings of pain and loss. He stepped back, dropping the kitchen knife to the ground in shock and coming to the realization that this wasn’t a hoax. It was real and happening to him.

A bit flustered, he made the mistake of inviting it into the house to talk, an offer which was promptly accepted as they retreated to the kitchen table. It was a rookie move for sure, especially for someone with the knowledge and background like John’s. He’d studied spirits and the underworld for his books, and later, he would recall that you never, under any circumstances, invite something like this into your house. It was really entry-level stuff, but for the moment that didn’t register with John. He merely wanted to have a simple, private conversation with this thing and was curious, as any writer would be. “Who are you?” John asked.

“You know who I am. You killed me, left me for dead on the side of the road. No burial, no wake, no celebration of life. How dare you act like you don’t know me. You stole my life from me.”

As it spoke, explaining the circumstances of its death, John found that its mannerisms and tone of speech were intimately familiar to him. “You’re Sam Smitz,” he said with a sudden realization, recalling the details of Sam’s death. How it happened. Why it happened. How he had, in fact, killed him, intentionally and in cold blood. Sweat now beaded on John’s brow. “But you’re from my book. That’s all fiction, make believe,” he said, struggling to understand how Sam was here.

Shaking his hand in disgust, brow furrowed full of anger, Sam wailed, “Do I look like fiction? Do I look make believe to you now?”

“No, not exactly, but–” John stuttered. He thought that he’d finished the job. Tied it up nicely before moving on with the story.

“There are no ‘buts’. I’m asking a simple question. Why me? Why not Tom or Eliza?” Sam said, looming darkly across the table, waiting for an answer.

“It’s complicated,” John started, opting for honesty. “There were a lot of things happening and, well, at the end–there’s no good way of saying this. Your death was just necessary.”

“Necessary? Necessary?” Sam said, rising from the table, pacing wildly back and forth. Turning away, he took a deep breath, regaining his composure before flattening the wrinkles from his shirt, just as he had done on numerous occasions in the book. He resumed in position across the table from John before continuing in a calm voice. “Necessary is not a good reason for offing someone. Please, tell me more.” True to his character, he settled his hands calmly on the table, still angry, but more subdued for the moment.

Taken aback by the sudden outburst, John wondered where this was going, taking a brief moment to reflect. Realizing he’d invited this spirit into his house, he knew he’d need to see this through or move. Honesty, he reminded himself. Sam may not like it, but John had learned early in life that trading in half-truths and lies only makes things worse. John steadied himself and looked at Sam. “Your death, it was necessary to move the plot forward. You know, in the book. It was the next thing to happen, to continue pushing the story to its end. I admit, it was a bit unforeseen to the reader, to you even, but that was intended.”

“So you intended to blindside me and others? That seems dishonest, like a trick. But it still remains, why me? Why not Tom or Eliza? Killing them would have moved the things along as well.”

John agreed, it was a fair question, and he tried to explain his choices. “Agreed, it would have moved the plot forward, but not where I wanted it to go. See, Tom still had something he had to do in the book, a reason for being in the pages ahead and you–” John paused, carefully choosing his next words, spinning it as honestly as he could. “You were certainly a shining star, but in the end, between you and Tom, I kind of had to keep Tom. You know, for the purposes of the story. But you, you made a lot of great contributions, and remember, it was the memory of you that pushed Tom and Eliza forward.” John ended with a smile, trying his best to sell the story and Sam’s role in it.

“That’s little consolation in my current state,” mused Sam, holding up a translucent arm and passing it nonchalantly through the table-top. “Why not Eliza, then? I could’ve carried the story to the end in her place.”

John let out a small laugh and then choked it back as Sam looked at him unamused. “Oh, you’re serious,” John said, recovering quickly and repressing his laughter.

“Deadly,” Sam said, staring ominously back, devoid of any hint of humor.

“But you were never–you know, the main person. The driver of the story. The protagonist–”

Sam leaped from the table, throwing his arms into the air again, interrupting John. “Protagonist? Protagonist? Is that all this is to you? My life’s merely a chess piece in a story for you to create and destroy with no regard?” Sam stood staring at John, Patty suddenly coming to life, barking wildly.

“Patty! Enough! Go lay down.” John said as Patty relented, retreating to her bed in the corner of the kitchen, her eyes never leaving Sam. With moistened eyes, John looked deeply at Sam, speaking in a hushed tone. “You were never just a person, and it was a difficult decision to–you know, kill you. It was hard for me. You’re my friend, my child. Just as Tom and Eliza are. I felt like I’ve known you all my life, and when you were left on the side of that road–I shed more than one tear for you. You’d been there all along fighting for all the same things Tom and Eliza fought for, but had you not sacrificed yourself at that point, everything you fought for, everything you sacrificed, would be lost and Sven would have won. Sven would have–”

“Yes, Sven.” Sam said with a sincere distaste. “At least we can agree on one thing, it’s good he also died. The only difference is that you mourned his passing. Tom and Eliza even collected his bones, and built a pyre to burn him, releasing his soul to the afterlife. Me, my bones are alone, on the side of the road somewhere, never collected, never buried, and now I walk this world for eternity. Is that too what you intended, John James? For your story’s martyr, your shining star, your friend, your child, to be forever punished? Restrained from passing to the afterlife. Forever wandering?”

Hearing it spoken out loud, it was disconcerting and not at all what John had intended. He’d simply failed to give Sam’s passing its proper due within the pages, but now the book was done. His publisher had contacted him earlier that very evening to say the books had been shipped and would be on shelves next week. It was an exciting call for John, yet it now seemed the book wasn’t finished, and he longed to make this one last change.

“A revised edition,” John said out loud, continuing to explain to Sam that successful books often had revised editions, sometimes years after publishing. That would be the opportunity to address his oversight of Sam’s death. Of course, there was no promise of a revised edition, but he excitedly shared his idea with Sam.

“So,” Sam said, leaning in. “Let me get this right, if your book is successful and if it remains that way for several years and if your publisher is open to a revised edition and if you are still alive yourself, then maybe on  the 5th, 10th or 20th anniversary you can write a revision that properly takes care of me, so I can pass on? But until then, I hang out with you, or if you die before that, then I just wander around, forever? Is that whet you’re saying?”

Of course, as Sam summarized it, the solution, which at first seemed brilliant, lost its luster. John and Sam sat at the table in silence. A moment later, John popped up from the table. “I think I’ve got it. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” 

Sam stared at him, nodding. Moments later, John returned to the table with an advance copy of his book and his laptop. Turning the pages, his finger passed along the pages, skimming the words until he tapped his finger on the page, looking up at Sam. “Yes, right here. This is the spot.” Turning to his computer, he began typing as Sam rose, walking around to see what he was writing. John typed as Sam interjected comments and thoughts sporadically. Leaning back, they both read the newly created passage.

As soon as the blaze on the pyre had subsided, consuming Sven’s body, Eliza looked to Tom. “You know, I never felt right about how we just left Sam, dead, on the side of the road.”

“I know. Me either, but we were literally running for our lives at the time,” Tom said.

“Still, if not for Sam, Sven would’ve caught us for sure. Sam sacrificed himself to save us so that we could finish this.” 

Tom looked at the dwindling fire. “You’re right Eliza.”

She reached out, taking his hand, “We need to bury him, Tom. We owe it to him, hell, the world owes it to him.”

Sam nodded to John with a smile on his face. “That’s a fine start.”

John smiled back, turning his attention to the computer, continuing to write into the early hours of the morning until he finally resolved the oversight of Sam’s death. Looking up to get his final approval, he found the room was empty, only Patty sound asleep in her bed. With a few simple keystrokes, he added the title “Post-Script” and paused, wondering whether his publisher would approve. Shrugging his shoulders, he tagged it to the online version of the book, and hit publish on his computer. Sometimes you just have to do what’s right, and this was one of those times. John closed his laptop, not certain if Sam had really been there, or if it was simply the stress of publishing a book with the nagging feeling that it was unfinished. He knew what he believed, and he smiled, returning to bed for a few hours of sleep before his book signing later that morning.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

“This one is mine,” it screeched in a deep voice, pointing to Aria, its black eyes fixed on me as I stood in the doorway, my sword drawn. It reminded me of a scarecrow, but a burly, overweight one with a face wrapped in a shabby brown burlap. Where its eyes should’ve been were empty voids the size of apples singed into the burlap itself, its mouth the same but twice as large. If I didn’t know what it was, I might’ve found it comical, but I knew it all too well. It was the Reaver, the taker of souls. Different from Death, the Reaver claimed the souls of the living, bending them to its twisted desires. 

Aria was my only daughter and I would not cede her to it. Not today, not ever. Its eyes were empty, devoid of emotion, as I took a small step forward. Perhaps I could circle it, pick up my daughter and flee before it claimed her, but as I stepped forward it became clear that was not an option. It bellowed out a great echoing sound that reverberated through the room, knocking me to my knees and sending things flying off the shelves rattling to the floor.

“This one is mine,” it said, repeating its earlier words.

I stood tall, brandishing my sword, Shard, as its magic crackled to life, bolstering my confidence as I spoke. “You cannot have her. She is my daughter and is protected by me–the Descendant. Now leave this place and I will forgive your transgression.” At that moment, I didn’t know if my power exceeded that of the Reaver, but it had come to my home, to my place of power, and I wouldn’t stand for it. 

It let out another loud screech knocking down the wall behind me, but this time, prepared, Shard hummed to life, absorbing the energy from the Reaver’s magic and leaving me untouched.

Growing confident, I smiled. “Your magic doesn’t work against me here. You shouldn’t have come. It was foolish, unless perhaps you seek your destruction.” Circling to the side, I held Shard between us menacingly clear that I had the upper hand. 

It shook in anger. “She is mine,” it said, not moving from its place by Aria’s bedside

“She is not yours and never will be.”

“You are mortal. Not even the Descendant can live forever. Your day will come and my brother, Death, will call upon you, Dane. It is then I will come for her. She is mine. If not today, then later.”

“You will never take her. I will not let you. We end this today.” Stepping forward, Shard raised in the air flashing downward, but not quick enough.

“Not today, Descendant,” it screeched, followed by a hideous laughter and a whooshing pop that propelled me backwards against the wall. When I lifted my head, the Reaver was gone and Aria rolled over in her bed looking across the room.

“Father? What’s going on? I had the strangest dream of a scarecrow, but it was more like an owl with funny eyes. He was cute.”

“Aria, my darling, that was no dream and there’s nothing cute about it. From this day forward we must prepare you for the ceremony to one day take Shard and my place as the Descendant. Only then will you be truly safe.”

“That’s good. You are ready,” my father said to me with a nod of satisfaction. 

The ten years since the night of the Reaver’s visit had been tough, but with hard work and a dose of grim fortitude, the day was finally here. Shard was to be passed on to me, which had my nerves on edge. Shard was an ancient soul and was known to play nasty tricks on Descendants-to-be as a way of showing its dominance over them during the passing ceremony. I’d read the written accounts from other Descendants and was preparing for the worst while growing confident that Shard would not best me. I wore simple clothes that were tightly bound to my body so that Shard could not make me disrobe. He’d done that to another female Descendant. In the same vein, months ago I cut my hair short instead of wearing the traditional lone braid of female warriors. That way, Shard couldn’t make me shave my head, as he’d also done before. However, the most important thing I did was consult my mother. She was an accomplished herbalist, and I sought a special mixture from her that might serve to block any type of enchantment that Shard might use to make me do these things. Hesitant at first, my mother finally relented and made a special mixture that she’d learned years ago, telling me to drink it just before the ceremony.

With my plans in place, I tucked mother’s elixir in my belt and headed to the garden to meet my father, and Shard, where we would conduct the passing ceremony. It was to be attended by the entire village, and as I passed through the throngs of people I pulled the bottle from my belt, sipping it down. It had a pleasant taste of honey and rosemary with a tinge of mint at the end, tickling the back of my throat. My father reached out his hand, walking me up the stairs to the raised dais where the ceremony would take place. Looking back, much of the ceremony was a blur and the importance of it didn’t really register with me until the moment when my father reached out holding Shard with the pommel directed to me. His eyes looked at me lovingly and even though I’d been preparing for this moment for years, the fact Shard was passing from his hand to mine, and becoming the Descendant was almost too much.

I hesitated, not wanting to take it, not wanting things to change. My father had always been there. My protector, the protector of the village. He had always been the Descendant. It was crazy for me to think a little girl like myself could ever be such a thing, but as I looked out upon the villagers, I was surprised at what I saw. I did not see fear or ridicule or doubt. I only saw hope and anticipation and glee. Then it hit me. It wasn’t me that they were here celebrating–it was Shard. It was the true protector, I was just to be its new vessel. As these pieces slid into place, I turned my eyes back to my father, who looked upon me with soft eyes.

“It’s ok Aria. It’s been your destiny since you were born, as it was mine. I pass Shard to you as my father passed it to me, and you will pass to your child.” A tear splayed from the edge of his eye as he pushed the blade forward.

I wanted to reach out and hold him, to tell him it was ok, but now was not the time. Now was the time to complete the ceremony, and I grasped the pommel, my small fingers barely wrapping around it. My father released his grip on the blade and the full weight of it bested me as the tip dipped slightly before I could grasp it with both hands and hold it aloft. For me, it was a two-handed sword, that is until Shard melded with me, then the weight of the blade felt as if I was lifting a hollow reed from the river. I flashed it side to side with a single hand, a smile spreading across my face, and I looked at my father to see the same smile on his. With that, the blade had passed, and a moment later I heard a raspy voice in the back of my mind. It was clear from the tone it was not happy.

“What have you done, you silly girl?” It scolded.

At first, I didn’t understand where the voice was coming from and looking at my father, he still stood smiling at me and my mother stepped to his side as the voice scolded me again. This time no longer in the back of my mind, but front and center.

“Did you take some sort of elixir? To try to block me? You cannot block me, you silly girl?”

“Stop calling me silly girl,” I said out loud. My father looked at me with a hint of understanding, but before he could speak, I threw Shard to the ground. 

“I will not stand for you talking to me in such a way,” I yelled as Shard clattered to a stop, motionless. “If we are to be bound, if I am the Descendant, then we will have some mutual respect.”

My mother and father took a took step back with a look of horror on their faces, and then I heard the screaming and panic grow from the crowd. I recalled thinking that it was just a sword, and they would all get over it. Shard would relent, and I would pick it up to become the Descendent. But the screaming grew, and my parents continued to shirk away, looking at something behind me. Then a deep, booming voice screeched out.

“When I called on her years ago, Dane, I told you this one was mine. I come for her now.” 

It was the same voice from my dream years ago, and I turned to see the Reaver, the taker of souls, lording over me.

“Aria! Pick up the blade, now!” My father yelled at me, frantically pointing the sword at my feet. 

Within an instant, I came to my senses, squaring my feet as my father had taught me. I looked at the ground, and to my surprise, Shard was in midair, flying toward me. A moment later, its pommel landed firmly in my hand, and Shard once again spoke to me, but this time not as if I were a child.

“You must let me handle this. The elixir has weakened our connection. It will take everything I have for us to survive, but there will be sacrifices today.” 

With these words, I knew immediately that I’d made a grave mistake taking that elixir, but I didn’t know just how grave at the moment. A resounding voice echoed from deep in my chest that originated from Shard and pushed outward through me. “This girl is now the Descendant, Reaver, and shall never be yours. Leave this place and never come back, or you will finally pay the price of your folly.”

The Reaver let out a great haunting laugh that shook the entire dais as the villagers shrieked, running away. They knew the stories of the Reaver, just as Dane had years ago. It lumbered forward, closer to me and my parents, as it spoke to Shard.

“I sense your weakness. I can smell it. Your connection to the Descendant, to the living source is distant, your power diminished. You risk your own life if you spread your power too thin, old friend. I will not be paying any price from you today.”

“We are not friends, Reaver, and the only thing you smell is my contempt for you. The girl is the Descendant and bound to me. She can no longer be claimed by you.”

“That is true, but her father is now free of your protection and no longer the Descendant, so I will claim his soul today.” With that, the Reaver took a step forward closer to Dane.

It wasn’t Shard that objected, but me finding my voice once again. “No, you will not take my father,” I yelled, trying to step forward, but I couldn’t. Then I heard Shard’s sympathetic voice in my mind. 

“We cannot stop him. He is right. The elixir you drank has weakened us.” 

“You must let me try,” I pleaded.

“So be it. You must learn.” Shard said, reluctantly releasing its hold over me, and I flashed forward, landing a heavy blow on the Reaver. Or at least I thought I had, but it turned flicking me away, sending me crashing against the wall. Quickly I rose charging again calling upon Shard for some help, some magic, but none came and once more the Reaver brushed me aside.

“You’re a petulant child,” it said, laughing. “You cannot harm me without the joined magic of Shard. Perhaps this day is a day to teach the Descendant a lesson that the Underworld reigns above all. Yes, today I shall claim a second soul so that you forever remember your failings and forever remember that your power pales in comparison to that of mine and my siblings.” With that, the Reaver reached out, taking hold of Dane and Kristina, my mother.

In my mind, I pleaded with Shard to call upon its ancient magic to stop the Reaver, but there was only silence until finally a quiet voice spoke.

“I’m sorry Aria, without the binding to the living source through the Descendant I only have the power to protect you from the Reaver. That’s all I can do.”

As the words echoed in her head, the Reaver stood tall, announcing to all who remained. “I claim these two souls as a warning to all who doubt my power, and remind you that not even your great Descendant and Shard can protect even the greatest among you.”

“No. I will not let you take them,” I snapped back, jumping to my feet trying to approach, but was again restrained by Shard.

“Perhaps I shall end this charade and take you too and the great Shard.” As it spoke, it took a step closer to me, dragging my parents in tow, but before it could get any closer, Shard took control, causing me to thrust the point of the sword into the ground at my feet. A sudden flash of illumination cascaded upward, settling into a shimmering shell surrounding me. The light had a glimmer, moving as if it were alive, and then Shard spoke through me once again.

“You will not take her today or any other day.” It was a commanding voice, and the Reaver stopped its advance, smirking.

“Well enough,” it said. “I have taken my due today and I will continue to claim others as I always have.”

Through me, Shard remained silent, and I remained trapped in the shimmering cocoon. Later I would realize Shard had saved my life, but today, right now, the anger welled up in me and I spat out in rage, glaring at the Reaver.

“You will not survive. I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth as no other Descendant ever has. You will rue the day that you came here, that you took my parents. It will be your undoing.”

The Reaver laughed. “That is not the way of the world, little girl. There is a balance to maintain and we both have our roles to play in it. Your precious Shard knows that as well as I do. ”

Its words were confusing, and in my current state of mind I had no desire to reflect on them. I was consumed by the anger and hatred that filled me, and I again tried to raise Shard, but my limbs remained frozen. “God damn it, Shard! Let me go. Let’s end this now.”

A resigned voice trickled into my mind. “No, Aria, I cannot let you do that. I am sorry, but you are the Descendant. The only one who can wield my power. If you die today, then all is lost. I cannot let that happen. Perhaps with time you will understand.” 

I again tried to free myself, but was still frozen, my hand on the sword, my body entombed in a magical vortex designed to protect only the Descendant, only me.

The Reaver looked at me in a quiet acknowledgement as it swept my parents in closer. A moment later, there was a whooshing pop that cast out a force of wind which hit the shimmering light surrounding me, but the shield held. My eyes never left my parents as they struggled to free themselves, and then they were gone into a single pinpoint of light, transported away, to somewhere–a place I vowed to find. It would become my life’s purpose to hunt down the Reaver and find my parents. As for ending the Reaver, Shard was even warming up to the idea.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Everyone said it couldn’t be done. Space travel, that is. The talking heads had a myriad of reasons, ranging from a simple conclusion that it was impossible to more thoughtful explanations why all the theories of faster than light travel were the stuff of movies. Pure fiction, they’d say. Simply not based on reality here on Earth. But Tyler knew different. Tyler was a Starman. He not only knew it was possible, he did it every day. In fact, he’d just gotten done doing it and was ready to do it again. Still, it could be cold out there in space all alone, and that always brought him back home.

When he wasn’t traveling in space, he was a barista at the local Starbucks. They had good perks like money for college and a free coffee drink during each shift. He liked the coconut milk latte, no sugar. Next year, he was thinking about going to college to become something. He wasn’t sure what that something was yet–he’d figure that out later. With his feet firmly on the ground, he left for work, his mind wandering upward. It always amazed him he could space travel in his clothes. Even in his green work apron, which he had done on many occasions, slipping away before or after a shift. One time, he actually did it during a shift, but almost didn’t make it back. That’s when he decided break time wasn’t the best time for space traveling.

The people at work were friendly, but not really friends, except for Trish, that is. She seemed different. Not like him different, but different from the others. More willing to explore, but more grounded at the same time. She always said smart, common sense things like, “if you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’ll never find it” and “what would the world look like if more people behaved like you?” See, she was smart, insightful. She was nice too, and he liked her, in a friend sort of way.

Tyler was excited because they were working the opening shift together today and it was always a good time to banter and hear more of her witty sayings. She was pretty much the same age as him, so what she said all made sense, too. Unlike when older people at work talked about their kids, weird stuff from their past, or gave Tyler unsolicited advice about things he shouldn’t do. Being a nice young man, Tyler would just chuckle and say “yeah, right” before moving on to the next order. Older people were weird like that, always looking for reasons why something couldn’t be done. Like space travel. He knew things they didn’t, he’d been places they hadn’t, and seen things they wouldn’t believe–mostly because they’re weird that way.

He was a bit more excited than normal to open with Trish today because he’d decided today was the day. He was going to tell Trish about space travel. Of anyone he’d ever met, his parents included, he thought she’d understand. Not only understand, she might believe it, since she always seemed open to new stuff. Maybe she’d even let him take her for a ride–you know, in a friend kind of way, if she was interested. They arrived at the same time, starting the monotonous work of getting the cafe ready for the morning zombies to arrive. That was how they always talked about the morning crowd. After the cafe was all ready, it wasn’t time to open yet, and they sat behind the counter.

 “You ever think about going somewhere else, doing stuff? Incredible stuff?” Tyler asked, sipping his coconut milk latte.

“Yeah, but it’s hard, you know, with school and work–all these things that steal our time from us. Literally, I feel like I’m always on the run from things trying to take up my time.” She paused, looking out at the morning sunrise, tilting her eyes upward to the sky. “Have you ever thought about what it would be like to go up there?”

“You mean in a plane?”

“No higher.”

“You mean in space?” Tyler asked, hardly able to hold his growing intrigue. Her questions were the most serendipitous, and a smile touched the edges of his lips.

“Yeah, in space, you know, like Star Wars. Pew! Pew!” she said chuckling as she reached out touching Tyler’s hand. “I like you Tyler,” she started.

In that moment, Tyler realized a couple of things as something stirred inside of him. He liked her too, and not in a friend kind of way. Perhaps life here on Earth wasn’t that bad after all. Maybe the old people with their marriages and their kids had found something he was looking for–a purpose, a meaning. Tyler welcomed her touch as she took his hand in hers continuing.

“I’d like to share something with you, something special. A secret that I’ve never told another soul.” She stumbled on her words as she spoke, her eyes joined with his. He could feel the warmth of her skin, sweat collecting between their palms.

“I’m a space traveler, a Stargal. I mean, I like lattes too, but I can travel in space.” She paused, gazing at Tyler, waiting.

“What?” Tyler said, leaning forward, his eyes wide.

“I know, I know, it sounds crazy.” She said, diverting her eyes.

“This is crazy!” Tyler said, still holding her hand, now with an enormous grin on his face.

“You’re right, it’s crazy,” she said nervously, feigning a laugh. “I was just kidding about the space travel, but not about you.” She reached out for Tyler’s other hand, looking back at him, but before she could say another word, Tyler leaned forward and they shared a kiss.

“It’s not crazy. I’m one too, a Starman. I can travel in space too and I like lattes and I like you. But how? Why are we both here? How did we find each other? I knew you were different, but–” A million questions raced through his mind. Were his parents really his parents? Who were her parents? Are they aliens? Are there more of us? What do they do now?

She put a finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ve got all the same questions. There’s time to figure that out later, together. But right now, let’s serve the zombies.”

He nodded as she unlocked the door, turning back to him with a smile. One thing was abundantly clear, he didn’t need to go to college to become something. He already was something and Trish was the same something. They were something together, which is good because it can be cold out there alone, in space.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Long ago, the village of Fhalraven existed somewhere between London and elsewhere. It sat on the coast all dressed up with a lovely white sand beach, a beautiful forest of ancient oak trees, and then, of course, a magnificent castle made of glistening white marble. Some say the castle was grander than Buckingham Palace itself, but perhaps that was a bit much. The village also sported a matching marble wall and a natural river beyond it that glistened in the summer sun, creating the prettiest little moat you’ve ever seen. Most walls and moats are built for protection from invaders, and Fhalraven was no different, but this wall also served another purpose. Because of it, the Fhalraven family had been around for so long that people assumed they’d been there forever.

The summer Gathering at Fhalraven was an exclusive invite that the finest lords and ladies from London and elsewhere clamored to get. Strangely, without it, no one could find Fhalraven, even though the maps clearly marked its location. The Fhalravens long claimed an ancient magic protected the village, preventing it from being found unless invited by one with the family’s blood. It not only protected the village, but the Fhalraven’s themselves. The family was famously long-lived and it was rumored that Death could only find them when they ventured outside it’s walls. At times, growing weary of life, members of the Fhalraven family would show up in London where they passed and were buried in the family graveyard. It was a small graveyard for such an old and distinguished family, but that only fueled the rumors.

Needless to say, Death was not happy about this place as he was, and always had been, inevitable–everywhere except in Fhalraven that is. He had never found it, even after centuries of seeking it out. Every time he came upon a member of the family in London, he would question them of Fhalraven’s location. Upon their constant denial of his inquiries, he would offer them a longer life and riches beyond their imagination if they would give him a clue about where it was and how it was protected. They always scoffed at him, for they had already lived a long life, and in that life they had riches beyond compare. They would all tell Death just before he collected them that he was not invited to Fhalraven, ever, and he didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.

Each time this happened, Death would sulk about for weeks. The only solace he had was delivering these “lost souls” (as he called all from the Fhalraven family) to his brother in Hades, ignoring the point of delivery in his appointment book. They may have had a long life, but they will have a longer afterlife he mused. But it still deeply irked him that this family could scorn his sole duty in the world–to collect people at their appointed time. With the Fhalravens, their appointments always came and passed without Death doing his job.

All of this continued until one Friday afternoon in London when Death was scheduled to collect a stableman from one of the better families. This stableman was not a freeman like others, he was a boughten-man and that never sat well with him. As usual, Death enjoyed a bit of delayed torture, and rarely took people without some kind of glib conversation. He enjoyed offering them something insignificant in hopes it might make their passing easier if they bargained for something with Death and got it. This stableman would be no different, or so he thought.

“I’m here to collect your soul for the afterlife.” Death said as he looked away, disinterested. Almost down to the person, they would look at him and say, “who me?” like Death had accidentally called upon the wrong person, which as we all know never happens. Still, he would chuckle at the irony each time. It was a game he was used to playing, and he’d learned to play his part well. Some people would plead their reasons to live––family, children, and things left undone or unsaid. Others would try to bargain with Death by offering riches, homes and villas, and other trinkets. The pleas were repetitive and tiresome. He was Death, and for all but the Fhalravens, nothing could be said or done to obviate the appointments in the Book of Life, where upon birth he took his ancient quill, spun a series of mandalas, and recorded each new soul’s time of death. He’d learned long ago that there was no rhyme or reason to the time people were allotted. The only thing left open was where the collected soul would be delivered, which was measured by a soul’s deeds in life.

His brief reminiscing was interrupted by the stableman from whom Death had expected the typical pleading, but instead his eyes raised hearing an offer he’d not heard before. A grin spread on Death’s face as he paused, thinking about what the stableman had just said. He was actually thinking about this man’s offer, which was an odd feeling. Having heard the stableman say it out loud, it now seemed so obvious and Death wondered how he had not thought of it himself. Placing his attention on the stableman, he replied. “What would you want–in exchange?” This was a new territory for Death. He did not make any deals, ever.

The stableman cleared his throat. “I know I can’t cheat you. You would eventually just come for me again. I only ask that you deliver me to Heaven instead of–well, I’ve done some bad things.”

Looking at the appointment in his book, the stableman was not lying. He was to be delivered to Hades, but perhaps Death could pull off a switch. He had repeatedly done the opposite with the Fhalravens, certainly Hades would allow him this one misplacement. Hades would still be ahead with the bonus Fhalravens that fell to his domain over the years. Death tapped his finger on the book in thought.

Seizing the moment, the stableman spoke up, hoping to seal the burgeoning arrangement. “I would never tell a soul of the deal and if I do, then you can consign my soul to Hades.”

Death had to admit, the chance to finally catch up with the Fhalravens was enticing. With a flick of his wrist, he closed the book, looking at the stableman. “You will not speak to a soul of this arrangement.” Death said matter-of-factly. However, being who he was, Death would never take a deal that was presented to him. It was in his nature to be much more diabolical. “But if you do speak to another soul of this, then all of your offspring and their offspring for five generations will be sent to Hades upon their passing, regardless of their deeds in life.”

The stableman hesitated. It was a steep price that Death had demanded. A simple slip of the tongue and his family would be cursed, but he knew that this would be the best deal he would get. He took a deep breath, raising his eyes to meet Death’s, and made one last plea. “Yes, of course it’s a deal, but if I may implore you for one more thing. Please cut my tongue out so that I cannot ever be tempted to speak of this. It is the only way I can be certain not to saddle my family with such a burden.”

At this point in his life, Death rarely felt anything, and it was almost to where he’d forgotten how, but today was different. Tossing the stableman’s severed tongue to the ground, Death’s heart had a strange sensation–a spark of hope. Even though he wasn’t able to enter Fhalraven himself, he now had a plan, all thanks to a vengeful stableman who liked to read. Perhaps he would finally catch up with the Fhalravens and end their vile magic. He swept the stableman into his arms and, spreading his dark wings, he rose to deliver on his part of the bargain. A moment later he quietly slipped the stableman through a secret doorway, one that Death closely guarded.

With a renewed purpose, Death spread his wings, leaving immediately for a stable in London to speak with a young footman named Michol who was bound to the renowned Khampbell family. Death motioned for Michol to join him and they silently strolled through the winding streets of London, arriving at an ancient cemetery. Working their way through the ornate mausoleums, they arrived at a stone bench by a small chapel overlooking a grey and desolate pond. Michol was uncertain of the point of the meeting and Death had not spoken a word as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench. Death cleared his throat, his eyes trained on the pond as he took his appointment book out, and then Death did something he’d never done before. He showed Michol the next entry in his book.

Michol’s face went ashen. “You’re here to collect me? I’m dead?” He asked.

Tapping his finger on the time of the appointment, Death spoke slowly. “No. It’s not quite your time yet, but soon.”

Michol swallowed hard as the color returned to his face. “I don’t understand. Why tell me this?”

Death turned, his eyes connecting with Michol’s. “You have a greater purpose, but to see to that you must keep your sword sheathed this afternoon. It is a fight you cannot win. Can you do that?”

Michol nodded. “I can, but what do you ask of me? I know Death does not barter with men.”

“It is not a barter, it is a simple pact. You right your father’s passing at the hands of the Khampbells, and at the same time right some missed appointments.” He said, tapping the pages of the book. “Does that interest you?”

“It does.” Michol said, his eyes growing dark. He deeply resented being bound to the Khampbell family. They treated him as less than human and literally worked his father to death. In fact, he resented all the privileged families of London and elsewhere, which was something Death was relying on.

“We have a deal then?” Death asked, extending his hand.

Michol hesitated. “But you haven’t told me–” His voice trailed off as he looked at Death’s outstretched hand. “Okay.” He said, shrugging his shoulders as he reached out sealing the deal. “Agreed.”

Death grinned. “So be it.” He took the ancient quill from his pocket, striking through the next entry in his book and making a notation before closing it. Looking to Michol, he explained the plan and Michol nodded in agreement.

Death rose, stepping to the side of the pond. “Let us meet me here when you have fulfilled the bargain.”

Michol nodded and turned to set upon the plans laid out. The end game of his charge from Death was to end not only the tyranny of the Khampbell family, but that of the Fhalravens and the other privileged families attending this year’s Gathering. Michol knew that the year’s invitations had been sent and received as he’d been instructed to help the stablemen make preparations to attend. He’d also been told that he would be joining the Khampbells at the Gathering as their Contender, which was not surprising since Michol was a stout young man with an innate athletic ability. The houses celebrated their Contenders, but one’s selection was a death sentence. Each invited house brought a Contender for a series of gladiator style fights called the Bloodletting. Even if Michol were to survive against the other house’s Contenders, he would still have to defeat the Fhalraven’s champion, which only happened on very rare occasions. Given his meeting with Death, he was now excited to attend the Gathering. In fact, he was so excited that he spoke with Contender’s from a few of the other invited families in London and lit the fuse. Now, if only he could think of a way to reach the Contender’s from elsewhere.

For days, Michol pondered about how to reach the other Contender’s attending the Gathering from elsewhere. It was above his station to employ a messenger, and regardless, the message that was to be delivered was too traitorous to be committed to paper. Discovery of the plan that was a millennium in the making was not an option. He continued to be vexed by this problem until one day he was offered a fateful opportunity. A carriage-man directed them to prepare a carriage for a week’s travel. Lady Khampbell was to travel to her sister’s estate on the edge of elsewhere. This indeed was a rare occasion and Michol approached the carriage-man and asked if any protection was needed for the trip. The retinue for the trip had already been set by the Lady herself and, given Michol’s attendance at the Gathering later in the summer, the family didn’t want to risk any ill harm to Michol so she’d opted to take the footman named Brently for protection.

“Brently,” said Michol. “He’s too young, and green. The Lady will not be safe with Brently. There are hooligans and thieves along those roads. Only I’ve the experience to see the signs they leave.” Michol pleaded with the carriage-man to speak with the Lady, but he refused, and as they continued to argue, Lady Khampbell came around the corner subtly clearing her voice to draw attention to her presence.

“Is there a problem here carriage-man?” she asked.

The carriage-man nodded and gave Michol a stern look, but Michol disregarded both his eyes and his words and stepped toward the Lady.

“My Lady, pardon my forwardness, but Brently is not experienced enough for this trip. He is young and still learning the ways of the thieves on the roads. Please, for your safety and the love of the family, take me rather than Brently or perhaps take us both, and I can use it to share some experience he’ll need after the Gathering this year.” He said trailing off but clearly intimating that he wouldn’t be around later to train Brently.

Lady Khampbell turned to the carraige-man asking if there was enough space in the carriage for a driver and two footmen. Begrudgingly, he acknowledged that they could repack the provisions into the larger carriage, but questioned whether it was necessary for the trip to her sister’s estate.

“Trips to my sister’s can always be a bit frightful, so I believe I’ll take up this footman on his offer.” The Lady never called them by name, just by the title of what people did for her. It was her way of always reminding the slaves and hired help that there was a difference between her and them. For one, she had a name, and they did not. Michol did not feel any guilt about the lies he’d just told. His sole purpose was making sure he’d be going to an estate in elsewhere, an estate that had also been invited to the Gathering, and that is how Michol was able to light the fuse in elsewhere just as in London.

It seemed a matter of minutes to Death before Michol appeared at the pond in London where Death had last seen him. Since their last meeting, Death had been busy collecting the souls of the deceased families that attended the Gathering after they were cast into the stream in the village flowing out to sea, where Death was waiting on a skiff to collect them. The first collected were the Khampbells–Lady Khampbell, Lord Khampbell and their accursed off-spring. Followed quickly thereafter by the retinue of other well-to-do families of London and elsewhere. Death thought of the families invited to this year’s Gathering, the final Gathering, and how excited they must have been upon receipt of the invitation unbeknownst what was waiting for them this final year. Death grinned at each soul as he slowly collected them. After seeing the last body flow out, Death looked at his appointment book. All the souls had been collected, that is, except for the Fhalravens.

Returning from his moment of reflection, Death looked to Michol. “Welcome. What of the Fhalravens?”

“It’s done.” said Michol as he shared that the Fhalravens were most certainly dead. Michol recounted that he and the other Contenders joined in a stealth attack the evening before the Bloodletting was to begin. The surprise was for the victors as they floated the bodies of the families down the river. But the Fhalravens fate was different. Those appointments would remain broken as the corpses of the Fhalraven family were not buried. They were scattered about the courtyard to decompose and be ravaged by crows. Their souls consigned to forever wander the desolate village. All but the Fhalravens were cast from the city and its doors closed, forever sealing their souls within the walls of their own magic. Upon hearing the story from Michol, Death relished his revenge. Reflecting on his own life, he knew that an eternity left to endless wandering and seeing the things from life that could no longer be enjoyed was a greater pain to inflict than even Hades.

While Death was in thought, Michol hesitantly spoke. “Do you have a name? I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done.”

Death turned to the pond, his gaze far away. “People have called me many things over the years. I recall having a name like you, but eventually I was simply known for my job and was called Death. But it’s time for me to step down.” Death spoke this as he led Michol away from the pond to the small chapel. The large iron lock on the door fell into Death’s hand as he spoke words to it. The wooden door creaked loudly as Death pushed it inward, entering the chapel with Michol following closely behind.

Death paused, looking to Michol. “You may call me Fedull, for on this day I will once again become Fedull and you will take the mantel and the name Death from now on.”

“But, I don’t understand.” said Michol. “I’m not–” He paused, the realization spreading over him as Death placed a final checkmark in his appointment book.

Unlike the other souls Death had collected, this time he didn’t chuckle at the fact that denial is always the first response when people are being collected. But Michol, true to form, did just that until Death saw the realization wash over his face.

“I’m dead.” Michol said looking to his body seeing the battle wound. A battle he had won, but at the ultimate expense. “But how am I here?”

Death recounted to Michol how the other Contenders, not wanting Michol to remain forever jailed in the lost village of Fhalraven, took his bones out with them, giving him a proper burial. That is how Michol passed to this moment.

“What now?” Michol asked.

“Now is the time of delivery.” Death said as he looked at his book and his face was blank, any emotion gone long before. “But you have a different path than the appointment book. You are to take my place and I will move on as you too will do someday. But when that day comes for you, like me, your appointment calls for delivery to Hades. People maybe not be able to cheat death, but Death can cheat death. I have a secret, a well-hidden secret, in this old chapel, which you may tell no one of and only use sparingly, for if it’s discovered––well, Hades will come for you.” Death walked over to a simple, nondescript wooden door behind the altar. “This is a backdoor. I will pass my mantel to you and enter. It is my time. You too, will know your time.”

Michol had many questions, but before he could ask, Death opened the door from which a brilliant light emanated. Michol’s vision adjusted, and they looked upon the tongueless stableman.

“Dad?” Michol said.

Death stepped forward toward the door and paused, looking to Michol and then to the stableman. The stableman could not talk, but the tears in his eyes were clear and Michol shared them. Without a moment of hesitation, Death put his hand on Michol’s back and pushed him through as he spoke. “Please, tell no one of this door.” Death knew he had to be quick about it or he might’ve changed his mind. What little love left in his heart faded as he walked from the church, replacing the iron lock behind him.

Death stepped away from the old church passing along the pond’s edge. Crows watched as he passed looking at his appointment book. He had some collections to make and deliveries to do.

People say that Death always wins, but he knew on this day that was not the case.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

The Cypress public library was a melting pot of people, the smell of books and leather mixing with the conversations of the vagabonds and the wealthy older residents of the nearby neighborhood. Aaron had recently started working at the library. He was a junior at Cypress High, just around the corner from it. Passing by one day, he’d noticed a sign in the window that read––Now Hiring, Morning Book Returns, Hours Flexible. He’d been looking for a job and what could be easier than working at a library. Before he knew it, Jayde, the head librarian and a friend of his mother, was shaking his hand. He could do it before school and he started the very next day. Aaron was excited to have a little extra coin in his pocket and liked that he could do it before the day even started, leaving the rest of his day open.

After a couple of weeks learning the ropes, Jayde gave him his own key. She wasn’t really a morning person, she explained. This allowed him to come in without her and process the returned books from the bin. Aaron had grown up in town, and as a kid, he heard the rumors at grade school. Rumors that kids would go to the library and never leave, but he just dismissed them as nonsense. People would be in an uproar if kids actually went missing. Still, it felt unsettling being at the library alone, before sunrise. He would often just get his work done as quickly as he could and leave. That was his routine. Then something happened, which is often likely when you leave a teenager in charge, but it’s not like it was Aaron’s fault.

It all started when he found a suspicious note in the book return with his name scrawled on it in a chaotic manner. A shiver ran up his spine, not certain who’d left it for him, but whoever did clearly knew he’d be the first to see it. The darkness from the streets outside seeped in, and he found himself wishing he wasn’t alone. He even wished Jayde were there, even though the kids in town said she was a witch. Not to her face, of course, only when she wasn’t around because the rumor was she ate little kids who came to the library. Kids and their rumors can be so cruel, but rumors have a way of starting with some grain of truth. He opened the letter slowly and unfolded it to find the same scrawling handwriting on the note. All it read was––There is a door in the basement. Use this key, find the truth of Kali.

Immediately as he finished reading the last word, the note and envelope flashed with a purple light and in a puff of smoke they vanished. Aaron pushed back in his chair from the table.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, even though no one was there to hear him.

Where the letter had been sat a black iron key decorated in the design of a female with tusks, three eyes and four arms, and what looked like talons for fingers. The same shiver flushed over him as he looked at the key, his mind racing. What just happened? He didn’t believe in magic or superstitions or anything occult like that, but how could he explain this? He slowly reached out for the key, and when he touched it, he immediately flinched as visions of death and misery flashed in his mind.

“It’s just a key. It’s just a key,” he reassured himself as he reached out and picked it up, this time with no ominous visions. His hand ran over the detailed ironwork of the key. It was heavy and the eyes, all three of them, seemed to move as if they were watching him. His finger ran down one arm to feel the sharp point of the talon. Strangely, there was a door in the basement that was always locked, but he’d been told it was a janitor’s closet. There was nothing sinister about a closet full of mops and buckets and toilet paper and such. But now, with the disappearing letter and feeling the cold weight of the iron key in his hand, he couldn’t help but wonder.

With a creak, he rose from the rickety wooden chair and approached the steps to the basement. Looking down, the basement was shrouded in darkness. A chill went up his spine as he swore he felt the key move in his hand. With a deep breath, he flicked on the lights and the old florescent bulbs hummed to life, revealing a narrow wooden staircase. The library behind him was quiet as he slowly crept down the stairs, sweat pooling in his hand around the key.

“What the hell!” Aaron said as he felt the key move again just before he dropped it, watching it clank down the stairs and skitter across the basement out of sight. He reached for the railing, still trying to convince himself whether the key moved or he’d just imagined it. Shrugging it off, and he pressed onward down the stairs. Now a bit more cautiously, a bit more uncertain about the world, but at the same time intrigued and curious about the unfolding moments.

Stepping into the basement, the glow from the stairs filtered into the room casting shadows haphazardly about as he looked for the key, finding it had skittered to a stop on the floor by the janitor’s closet. Aaron stepped forward, his eyes darting from side to side. The room was lined with shelves of books which melded into nothingness, indiscernible from one another in the veiled light. He heard the scratch of metal on a plate as his eyes flicked to the key, which was still at rest by the door, but weirdly it seemed closer to him now. Blocking out his hesitations, he picked up the key, sliding it in the lock. With a quick turn of the knob, he opened the door.

Inside was complete darkness––the kind that would pool at the bottom of the ocean on the darkest of nights. Where are the buckets, the mops, the toilet paper? He jumped as he heard a clank behind him and turned to see the key lying on the floor, its three eyes peering up at him. He picked it up, and then turned, stepping into the closet, quickly realizing that it wasn’t a closet. It was a hallway, slowly revealing itself to him as torches ensconced in skulls along the wall sprang to life one by one, casting a dim light down the hallway ending in a nondescript chamber. Did those torches just light themselves? He thought. And torches, who uses torches anymore? But then the words from the scrawled note hit him squarely––find the truth of Kali.

He took a tentative step forward and jumped, surprised to feel his watch vibrating on his arm. It was almost time for Jayde to arrive. Ever since she’d caught him snoozing one morning, he’d used his watch to wake him before she arrived. Stepping back, he closed the door using the strange key to lock it before scrambling up the stairs, extinguishing the light on the way. He settled in his chair just as a key rattled in the door to the library. A moment later, Jayde emerged, closing the door behind her as Aaron glanced at his table. The unchecked books spread out before him and the iron key sat at rest by them. His eyes flashed toward her as he wiped the perspiration from his brow. Her eyes settled on him, but her coat had caught in the door, and she let out an indecipherable curse before turning to reopen it. It was just enough time for him to slide the key off the table into the safety of his back pocket, uncertain what to share with her about it as he rose to his feet.

“Morning Jayde.”

“Good morning, Aaron.” she said, her eyes catching the stack of returned books that had not been checked in, or re-shelved, as was expected prior to her arrival. “I see you’ve been sleeping again?”

He shrugged his shoulders, preferring that explanation over the truth for the moment. Aaron returned to his table, processing the books and returning them to their homes. As he stood shelving the last of the books, his mind raced, wondering what could have been in the chamber at the end of the hall when an icy blade slide across his neck. Looking down, he saw a black talon at his throat––a talon just like the one on the key which, until a second ago, had been hidden in his back pocket, but now her hand slid in, removing it.

“If I didn’t know your mother, this would go down differently,” she whispered. He could feel her hot breath on his ear as her talon pressed sharply into his neck, drawing a droplet of blood that crawled down his neck. The small grain of truth now replaced with a boulder. “If you ever come back to this place or speak to anyone about it––it will be the last thing you ever do. Now go and don’t look back.” The talon released from his throat, and she pushed him toward the door.

Aaron grabbed his backpack, following her instructions literally. He ran through the door into the morning sunlight never returning to that library or speaking of it to anyone. To this day, on quiet mornings, he still finds himself wondering whether it was real, but a touch to the small scar on his neck reminds him. Some memories are best left in the dark.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Dagon’s heart raced as he plowed forward, the branches tearing at his cloak. He’d known trying to pull it off in the daytime was a risk, and even though he was in and out before the first alarm sounded, he was not unseen. Emerging from the forest, the sun sat low in the sky and the ocean filled the horizon beyond the cliff.

“You’re surrounded thief.” A voice called out from behind.

Dagon ignored him, peering over the cliff’s edge to the churning waters below. His sleek black leathers hid beneath a dark cloak, now tattered from his hasty escape. Letting out a deep sigh, he drew his sword and dagger, turning to see a man clad in chain-mail that bore the City Guard’s crest of a yellow griffin in flight. Around his right biceps the man wore a blue band of silk telling all he was a captain of the guard.

“Thief. Where?” Dagon answered, looking warily about.

“No games with me, thief.” The captain answered in a stronger voice, his confidence buoyed by a dozen other City Guard who arrived and spread out behind him, pinning Dagon to his ever diminishing sliver of land.

“Do you know who this is?” called out a shrill voice.

“Not now.” Dagon whispered, glancing nervously about. “I’ve got this.”

“Got this?” The voice mocked. “There’s at least a dozen of’em.”

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Dagon said in a low voice, taking a small step backwards.

“What was that?” The captain asked with a confused eye.

“What was what?” Dagon said adjusting his grip on his blade like he’d done so many times before, his eyes glancing to the surf on the rocks below.

A muffled voice called out. “Do you know what sea water will do to me?”

“That,” the captain said, pointing the tip of his blade toward Dagon.

“You can’t silence me.” The voice said again as Dagon squeezed the handle of his blade tightly.

The captain twisted his sword nervously in his hand, looking at Dagon. “Is that your sword, talking?” He asked incredulously.

“A sword talk? Are you a loon?” Dagon chuckled, spinning the dagger in his hand, squeezing the handle of his sword even tighter as he flashed it menacingly about.

“The captain’s not a loon.” The shrill voice objected. “Tis I, Edwin the Eviserator and the hand that wields me is none other than Dagon the Dark. He’ll cut all your heads straight off if you take another step.”

Edwin’s words sent a whisper through the Castle Guards, who nervously glanced at one another having heard the rumors bantered about the taverns late at night.

“Stop it.” Dagon scolded as he took a step backward toward the cliff. “You’re not helping.”

“Better than that cliff,” Edwin answered back. “Do you think I have a death wish?”

“Shush.” Dagon said, frustrated at Edwin’s continued interruptions.

“You can’t shush me.” Edwin said indignantly. “I have rights too.”

“It’s right.” The captain agreed, lowering his sword. “You can’t just shush it. Let it speak if it has words to say.” There was a murmuring of agreement from the other guards as they too relaxed, lowering their weapons.

“Thank you my good fellow.” Edwin said in a calm voice. “But I must warn you, if you do take a step closer, he’ll still take your heads clean off—”

Dagon squeezed the pommel, whispering. “That’s enough. Don’t make me sheath you.” He threatened as he stepped back sending some rocks cascading down the cliff, his eyes searching for an escape.

“And then he’ll boot your heads off the cliff, and then he’ll cut your hearts out to give to the hag in the forest who’ll feed on your souls for eternity.” Edwin continued paying Dagon’s threats no mind.

“What hag? That part sounds made up,” said the captain, raising his sword again.

“I don’t recall her name, but she’s the nasty one that eats children.” Edwin said searching some distant memories. “Zela, or something like that.”

“Do you mean Drezela? You’re calling her a hag?” The captain asked in disbelief.

“That’s my mum,” said another of the guards, offended.

“Follow my lead.” The captain chirped, motioning to his fellow guards as they all stepped forward, further constricting Dagon’s freedom.

Dagon responded decisively, taking a step forward for better footing, flashing the blade in warning.

“Well, now you’ve done it.” Edwin said in a resigned voice. “See, I go out of my way to try to save your life and what do I get? Disrespect. Just remember, you did this to yourself.”

The guards hesitated and the captain held out his hand to Dagon. “Just give it back and we’ll let you go.”

“Sorry, that’s not happening.” Dagon said. “But tell your inbred of a King who stole it from him.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be so hasty.” Edwin suggested.

“Enough!” Dagon yelled, hurling the blade off the cliff, hearing Edwin scream the entire way down. A minute later, the point of the blade landed flush in the wood of the ship's deck.

“You’ve no faith,” Dagon quipped to Edwin as he threw himself over the railing, the water from his clothes pooling on the deck of his ship.

“I really don’t want to talk to you right now,” Edwin said indignantly.

“Understood. But we did it.” Dagon said, smiling at the jeweled music box he’d taken from his pouch.

“Well, you could’ve at least told me the plan.” Edwin objected.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me,” Dagon chided, his grin widening as he spun the key winding up the music box and letting it go.

Edwin stood silent as a haunting melody spun out of the music box casting a luminescent ripple through the ship. One moment the ship was afloat beside the cliff and the next it had disappeared, slipping away to the place only the King’s music box could take it.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Her feet deftly navigated the underbrush following the whispers of an ancient trail revealed by the slivered moon sitting high in the sky . Dressed in her dark leathers, she melded with the forest skirting the ruins, searching them for any signs of movement. She paused behind a tree, her hand scrapping against the bark as she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes peered out from the cowl, hiding her raven black hair that was pasted against her pale skin with sweat.

She preferred to work in the dark, alone. Self-reliance was something her mother ingrained in her early on. She held fast by the tree, listening, waiting. The forest stood in silence, spooked by her presence. She looked to the ruins again, but they stood abandoned, its stone crumbling back into the ground from which it had once risen. In its glory days, the castle was a gathering place for the Empyrean Order in its holy war that washed across these lands. Now it was simply another forgotten place, only known in the faded pages of forgotten books.

Stepping into the ruins, the moon fell behind the clouds, cloaking them in darkness. Igniting a torch, she passed through the gates glimpsing a decaying fresco on the wall depicting an army of serpents behind a paladin clad in ceremonial armor who was casting a burst of radiant grace from his sword cleansing the land. That failed war had plunged the lands into chaos.

She crept deeper into the ruin, her eyes and ears on constant vigil. The roof had fallen and the walls had crumbled, littering the ground with its century’s long demise, but climbing through the rubble she finally saw it. Ahead, a small tower stood still reaching for the sky, a darkened archway at its base.

She crossed the grounds, stepping through the archway into the small circular room of the tower, where a dull metallic glint from the floor reflected the torchlight. A smile creased her face as she recited the words from the book.

“In the Gilded Tower lays the door to the most treasured remains of the Order.”

She strained against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was rusted shut, stoically guarding the way, but she came prepared. Taking a bottle from her knapsack, she poured its contents around the edge of the door. The liquid fizzed with a noxious gas, but once it dissipated, the metal door screeched as she lifted it revealing an inky blackness below.

Kicking her torch down, she watched it crash to the ground with a splash of sparks revealing a stone floor, but not much else. Grasping the edge of the stone, she dropped in, landing softly, retrieving the sputtering torch.

She stood in a stone chamber with three darkened passageways, jumping into a defensive crouch as the trapdoor above slammed shut, surprising her. She chuckled, whomever they were, they didn’t know she wasn’t a simple thief to be locked away with their treasured remains. Her purpose was more sinister.

Turning back, she searched for clues. The pages of the books only told of the hidden trapdoor in the tower. Nothing of the design of what lay below and this place differed from the ruins above. It was cleared of rubble and the floor swept clean. It was maintained. She studied each passageway, to see the same fastidiousness with two of them, but not the third. The third was littered with rubble.

Door hinges squealed, echoing from the other passages and she reflexively smothered her torch, returning the room to shadow. Leaning her ear toward the other passages, something shuffled and scraped along the floor. They were coming.

So, she did what she always did. She made the choice to survive and sprang headlong into the unknown. The image of the passage ahead of her was still fresh in her mind and she reached for the wall, running her fingers along it to gauge her progress. Her footsteps were purposeful, landing with little noise as she inched forward, hoping this was the way to her.

“You sshould not be down the Queen’ss hall.” A dull hissing said from behind.

She smiled, the slurred words confirming the pages from the books, and she sprang forward with renewed vigor as she slammed into a wooden door. Her hand scrabbled for the handle, pushing hard as it creaked open just far enough for her to squeeze through and close it behind her. Leaning back, she reignited her torch, illuminating the room. The hissing voices called out again, getting closer.

She smiled, looking across the room to see the skeletal remains of a female locked in iron chains, her arms outstretched, reaching for a stone pot just out of reach. She scrambled across the room, looking into the pot and smiled. Picking it up, the subtle pulse of it warmed her heart. This is why she’d come, why’d she’d spent all these years in libraries, reading and searching. It all came down to this moment.

Reaching out, she gently placed it inside the chest of the skeleton. At first nothing happened, but then a sooty smoke poured from the heart engulfing the skeleton. As it cleared, a young woman stepped from the smoke, tearing the chains from the wall.

“Follow me.” She said smiling, then exploded forward, smashing through the door. The sound of things discarded, rubble displaced and then the thunderous metallic sound of the trapdoor being torn from its hinges echoed through the crypt.

Back in the prison cell, her torch sputtered as the dust settled. She stepped through the broken door to see a pair of obsidian eyes the size of saucers staring at her, its snakelike body was broken and cast against the wall.

“You fool. You’ve releassed the Lich Queen Rocabarra.” It hissed, barely clinging to life as she passed by.

Kneeling, she peered out from her dark cowl. “Yeah, I know. I’m her daughter.”

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic

Fien fixed her eyes on the trail ahead as her wagon lumbered along. Going from place to place is what she did. She fancied herself as a gypsy of sorts, but in reality Fien was a tinker, a peddler just like her father before her, and his father before him. If people needed things fixed, she could do it. If they needed a new kettle or shovel, she could sell them one or offer a fair trade. She usually traded in simple, inexpensive things, but sometimes not. She’d worked hard to cobble together a good, simple life, and was respected throughout the valley. Villagers would await her arrival, asking for news of happenings from other villages. Local innkeepers were happy to exchange news for a simple meal, a soft bed and a warm bath, but most nights were spent on the road, camping under the stars, which in her heart was what she preferred.

It had been a long day, and she was ready to set camp for the night, picking a nice open glade just off the road. The sky was without a cloud, so it would be a good night for the stars. She had just set camp and was putting her pot of soup on the campfire when it appeared, literally out of nowhere it seemed. It was badly injured. Its arm hung limp by its side and its left leg dragged along in the dirt as if it were broken. Wearily it looked upon the fire, its breaths coming in gasping intervals. Initially, Fien was startled by its appearance coming out of the bushes as it did, and she tried to ignore it, hoping it would leave. But it didn’t. Instead, it settled across the fire from her periodically looking in her direction as she looked away before making eye contact. It remained by the fire, soaking in the heat, until finally it curled up in a ball and fell asleep. It wasn’t much bigger than a rabbit, but unlike a rabbit, its skin appeared smooth and was the color of burnt wood. Small wisps of smoke blew from its nostrils and floated up past its little cracked horns, which glinted darkly in the moonlight.

The fire flickered as she sat looking at the infernal little thing and momentarily thought of taking the stone that lay next to it and smashing its head, but she dismissed the idea as quickly as it had crept into her mind. She wasn’t the killing type. She was more of a helper, a fixer. That was why she enjoyed her life as a tinker. She looked at its arm and leg and, against her better judgment, she wondered if she could fix it. She laughed a bit to herself at the thought of traveling from village to village with a little infernal creature from the underworld in tow. People would certainly start talking. Some villages might even ban her, or worse, for bringing such a thing into their midst.

Ever since the Reaping began, many villages were looking harshly upon travelers and outsiders. In some instances being outwardly hostile toward them, herself included. In fact, on more than one occasion in recent months, she’d been followed out of town by villagers who demanded their goods or coin back while refusing to return what she’d given in trade. Essentially stealing from her. Her father had taught her that not all deals worked out, and it was best to live to trade another day. Her life was worth more than a shovel or a few coins, so she always acquiesced, but she never forgot. She looked across the fire at it again with a curious glance. She knew it was a preposterous idea, but she couldn’t shake it.

The next morning as she packed up camp, she turned to see it crawling into the back of her wagon and curl up on a tattered old yellow blanket before drifting off to sleep once again. Starting to object, she paused and shrugged her shoulders, kicking dirt on the fire to snuff it out. She’d always had a soft spot for injured creatures, infernal or not. She told herself that she’d help it for a few days, keep it hidden and nurse it back to health. That’s it. Then she’d release it back into the woods or wherever it came from. She pulled the flap down on the back of the wagon, hiding it from sight smiling to herself. It was a good plan, but what she didn’t know then was that it had different plans.

She spent the next few days nursing it back to health and was amazed at how quickly it healed. She watched it in the campfire's light, marveling at how agile it was as it collected firewood, put the kettle on the fire and even secured her horses, Patty and Paul, to the picket line. However, each night, as Fien settled down to sleep, she noticed it would get up and head out into the woods. For what purpose, she didn’t know. Never in any particular direction, but without fail, it would head out each night and each morning it would be back at camp sleeping on the tattered yellow blanket in the wagon.

Even though part of her had enjoyed its company and was getting attached to having it around, she knew it wouldn’t work to keep the infernal little thing as a pet. It was time for it to head back into the wilds. Over the course of the next week, she’d tried many times leaving it behind or dropping it off in the middle of the woods only to find that a short time later it was back sleeping on the tattered yellow blanket in the wagon none the wiser. So, it wasn’t really that she’d decided to keep it. It was more like she couldn’t get rid of it.

A short time later, as if it must have felt her efforts to rid herself of it, it started bringing her offerings, like a cat would bring a mouse to the feet of its owner. Only it didn’t bring mice, it brought little trinkets and baubles like lockets with other people’s pictures in them or timepieces carrying some unknown initials or engravings. She initially ignored them, hiding them safely away in her wagon and hoping that whomever these belonged to would never come looking for them. Still, she couldn’t help but hear the rumors spreading about a new thief in the valley and how things would go missing around the time that Fien had visited. Such rumors clearly were not good for her business and she could no longer ignore the gifts or the little evening excursions it would take, so she’d resolved to step up her efforts to go separate ways with it. However, just as before, everything she tried simply did not work. It was like it was somehow attached to her very soul, delivered to her and only her. She’d started to rue the night she’d decided to help it.

The rumors were taking hold, and some villagers refused to trade with her. Those who did trade were difficult and often more contentious than usual. She feared there was some truth to the rumors which may have to do with her new companion, so she resolved to follow it that night after leaving a small village nestled on the banks of the Atherton River. If her suspicions were confirmed, then she would deal with it and she stowed her dagger in her belt just for that purpose. That evening, she feigned falling asleep. Seeing it move through the shadows and once again leaving camp, she arose quietly, setting off in pursuit. She thought that she’d be following it into the village to see it sneak into houses to steal things, but what she learned was different, much different.

She slinked after it, staying hidden in the shadows, following it and keeping it just on the edge of her sight. It was a shadow moving in the distance among the bushes, cloaked in the darkness of night. When it stopped, she stopped. It paused, pacing around a few hundred yards from her wagon as if it were waiting for something, when finally to Fien’s left she saw them. It was two men from the village. Men she’d traded with earlier in the day. One needed some new pots and had traded his mother’s viola for them, but he was quite unhappy about it calling her things that men should not call women, ever. She knew it to be a fair trade, but he had clearly felt differently. The other man had just bought candy for his little one. As the two men drew closer, Fien strained to listen as she heard one man talking.

“There’s the wench’s wagon. Let’s go get me mum’s viola back and maybe a bit of fun as well.” He nudged his friend, and they both let out a throaty giggle that sent shivers up Fien’s spine.

Just then, she saw something move quietly in the darkness. Crouching lower behind a fallen tree, she peeked over it into the clearing ahead. She saw a set of little cracked horns moving from the bushes behind the two men, but instead of its usual seedy black eyes, they were now aflame in an eerie red glow. She continued to watch as it crept slowly, silently closer to the two men, who remained unaware that they were being hunted.

As she stole another peek, the men yelled out. The gruesome reality of the attack was horrific. One moment the infernal thing was the little creature curled up on the tattered yellow blanket in the back of her wagon, and the next it had morphed into a monstrous demon twice the size of a full grown man. Its hands were fists of sheer razors and its eyes raged with fire as it tore the two men to shreds. The two villagers stood no chance against it and were now food for the vultures in the morning. When it was over, the infernal beast returned to the petite size she knew, and it carefully picked the boots from the feet of the two men and pulled a small pocket watch from one. She paused, processing what she just witnessed. It was brutal, atrocious, but she couldn’t help thinking that it was fair, justified, as the throaty giggle of the men echoed in her mind. She strangely found herself smiling as she looked upon her new little companion. Those boots would be good for a few gold coins at one of the next villages and the watch, well she could trade it far away from this village and none would be the wiser.

She quietly returned to camp ahead of it, slipping into her sleeping bag and closing her eyes once again. A few minutes later, it spirited into camp, placing the two pairs of boots by the fire along with the pocket watch, and then it perched itself atop the wagon. She smiled as she saw its silhouette in the moonlight, looking, scanning, ever vigilant of the surrounding. Like a watchdog. Her watchdog, protective and unyielding. She wasn’t certain why it had come to her, but she knew that it was somehow tied to her and she to it.

She arose the next day, placing the boots and the pocket watch into her wagon and clearing camp. She climbed up onto the wagon, smiling as she looked in the back to see the sooty black horns of the infernal little thing. The wagon jostled a bit as the wheel stiffly rolled over a rock in the road. It briefly opened one of its beady black eyes before closing it again, digging its head back into the blanket as they headed down the road to the next village. Her father would have told her that she was crazy keeping an infernal as a pet, but she preferred to think of it as unusual, just like her.

Psst! Me again. If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider subscribing and sharing it with a few friends.

Subscribe now

Share detect magic