I glide my fingers down one of the eight columns, each one an artistry of death, carved from bones and skulls of the sacrifices sent here. They are my only companions in this somber existence, where I remain as a sentinel of some modem of balance.
I flex my fingers, sensing the powers of my sibling’s rage inside me. Each of them is a distinct and tumultuous entity that pushes and pulls against one another, yet all of them vie for release. Nyxara’s tricky magic blazes through my veins, aching to weave destinies and timelines again.
Intertwined with hers, Astraea’s muddied hue of dream powers haze my mind while Volan’s fiery power of will singes my body. Essentria’s surge of tempestuous magic crackles beneath my skin with electrical force to join the rest before Cyna’s judgment and truth powers stir within me with a blast of primal fury. As always, I restrain and tighten them to my core, despite their futile attempt to rebel against my darkening thoughts.
I will not allow the prophecy to unfold, even if it means destroying everything and anyone on my path to prevent it.
I command my shadows to form a bridge and carefully step through it, leaving the ether behind, a place that exists between the Darklands and the mortal world.
In a swirl of mist and shadow, I fall through time and space until the familiar burn of the veil slices through me. Twinkling stars appear among the blur of darkness, like pinpricks of silver against the black canvas. Below, houses and trees grow larger as my body descends in a rapid spiral towards the mortal world. My lungs burst when I draw the first breath of the night, only for it to be knocked out of me the second I hit the ground with a swift, sharp thud.
The sky slowly comes into focus as I open my eyes. Coughing, I sit upright, my gaze traveling over the familiar, night-pinched meadow on the edge of the forest in the small coastal town of Ennismore.
“Damn mortal bones,” I splutter, and press my palm against my shoulder, then massage out a twinge of pain throbbing at the curve of my muscle.
Slowly, I stand. Gusts of wind whip through the tall grass and purple wildflowers, lashing my nude body with icy abandon. A shiver snakes down my spine, and I rub my arms.
Ribbons of power slither between my fingers to knit darkness, shadows and stars into an embroidered, silver and black tunic, midnight pants, and leather boots. The clothes clad around my muscles, shielding my skin from the gusts of Olen, the cold months.
I let out a long exhale as the last of the magic simmers, then recoils in a dark smoke, back into my core. My gaze lifts to the inky sky while my veins singe with an indescribable grief that is only eased by the lingering fog of amnesia in my mind.
I leave the meadow, keeping to the shadows as I enter Morcidea Forest, an endless sea of gray, barricading the entire town in a barrier of time-chiseled trees and magic.
Peering through contorted gray branches, knotted like bones, I inhale a deep lungful of the town’s air, scented with lavender and smoky incense.
The darkness becomes my cloak as I keep out of sight, peering from the refuge of the shadows.
Booths stand amidst the market cloaked in glittering black, embellished with shimmering silver thread depicting the ancient sigils of the gods.
My lips curl upward when I spot one that stands out among the others—the fine embroidery of skeletal fingers of my reapers curved around three crow’s heads.
The God of Death.
“Over ere’,” a voice calls as the market dwindles to an end. I tilt my head, my eyes drawn to a woman at the helm of the closest booth, her long gray hair tied in a thick braid.
With a twist of her wrists, shadows rise in an illusory swirl, capturing the merchandise from her stall. She wiggles her fingers, dancing the shadows into submission, and they link through the locks of the chests. One by one, potion bottles are placed inside shadow fingers, the contents inside shimmering with purple and poison.
The sign reading ‘Night Market’ catches my eye from the front.
They’re celebrating the upcoming Harvest. My Harvest.
My eyes close briefly as I press my palm against the trunk of a graywar tree, its gray branches bare as the season of Olen captures the world in a frosty grasp. The cold flurries circle Ennismore like vultures, picking at every drop of life left in nature. Olen, the season named after the mother of all, snatches the harvests and crops cruelly, holding life in her grip for four long months.
Excitement pinches the air of the town as I disappear into the darkness of Morcidea Forest. The shadows become my cloak under the moonlit branches, hiding me from mortal eyes as I navigate the rough terrain.
I pass the stone circle in the heart of the forest, a place now abandoned, where each stone and symbol etched in weathered by the flow of time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a mess of blood-tinged feathers on a patch of (snowy) grass nearby. A small bird, its heart thumping erratically, lays nestled in what remains of its scattered nest. Shell from hatched eggs lay scattered, frost coating them like tiny icy crypts. Spiderwebs glisten, blanketed between the branches high above, the moonlight catching against raindrops. I sigh as I watch a Nighbor Spider climb up a strand of thick web, then settle in the center, awaiting a brave creature to venture too close to their hideout. Within the dead branches, I sense their magic. Much like the Shadow Vipers slithering into my presence, drawn by the familiar tinge of death magic from which they were born. I stride around them, their long, red and black bodies forming a knotted pile on the barren ground.
Their hungry eyes latch onto the dying bird, and I kneel, my leather boots pressing against the frost-bitten mud and moss. “You do not wish to live,” I whisper, and lean over, my fingertips darkening, decay magic pulsing under my nails. For her babies are devoured already. Her torn wings tell her story, but she could not save them from my spiders or vipers.
Such hungry little things.
I can at least offer it mercy from the fangs of the Shadow Vipers. My fingertip glides over its feathers, and as my touch presses over its racing heart, the thumps still. Its small eyes find me, and the creature turns to ash.
Quickly carried away by a breeze, my eyes are dragged with the swirling ash to the tree line.
Tenenocti.
I emerge through the dangling vines of the tree line and onto the familiar pebbly shore overlooking the Black Sea. I run my fingers through my silver strands and lift my gaze to the starry midnight black sky. The full moon hangs low behind the silhouette of the small island, casting white light on the turbulent, inky waters surrounding it.
My lips curve in a seldom smile as the wind whips around my ears, knotting through my hair, and the spray of the ocean caresses my face.
As I cast my eyes to Tenenocti Island, cloaked in perpetual clouds, with fog enveloping the trees like a halo, the familiar symphony of death surrounds me. Whispers carry from each wave, and anguished screams cry into the night from the souls trapped within the waters.
From the dense vegetation, a short boat ride from this pebbly shore, I can sense their rage—my family. I have faced countless horrors as the God of Death, and there is little I fear, but as I gaze over Tenenocti, a tendril of dread slides down my spine.
My heart pounds as I stare through the shimmering veil of my domain, cloaking the island and the Black Sea.
My stomach churns as I grow closer to the water’s edge. My Skhola holds them captive. The silver band, carved into a skull, glows as I use it to siphon the powers of my siblings. It pulses as I get closer to the water’s edge, the magic thrumming through my fingertips.
An unmistakable reminder that if I reach too deeply into my domain, encompassing the island and waters, all the magic I took will return to my siblings. My domain is unlike anything else in this mortal world, a slice of the ether with a sense of home created for me so I could exist to carry out my duties here of guiding the dead.
Without my siblings—the gods and goddesses of dreams, destiny, judgment, will, and creation—Dahryst has descended into darkness. The kind where dreams become nightmares, and destiny refuses to be bound. Even in death, there is no peace.
I pull the hood of my black cloak over my silver hair, blocking out the whipping winds. As I gaze around behind, I bring my fingers to the sky. Carved on the trunks of the trees facing my domain, is my sigil, splintered into gray bark by the locals.
They worship me now. Adore me. Admire me. It was not always this way.
