The Northern Spine
Overlooking the city of Cyme, Amazakaraan
Western Realm

Marcus Vogel peers down at the heathen city of Cyme. Shadow Wand in hand, he sits astride a dragon on the Northern Spine’s jagged, moonlit pinnacle, snow crunching beneath the broken dragon’s feet. An icy wind whips against the gauzy gray shield Vogel’s thrown up around both himself and the multi-eyed raven perched on his shoulder as he watches the web of Shadow undulating over the rune-marked dome encasing the valley below.

The Amaz are trapped, he gloats. Like insects under a cup.

He watches, transfixed, as the fog swirls around the dome’s scarlet Amaz runes. The world-altering sight of Shadow power beginning its engagement with high-level fortress runes prompts a tremor of anticipation through his firelines. He pulls in a shuddering breath.

Amazakaraan, that dogged bastion of heathen defiance, finally about to fall.

Serves them right, the blasphemous whores, Vogel seethes. For their hostility toward the Magedom. And for harboring an Alfsigr Icaral beast in their midst.

His righteous fury notches higher.

Never again will the Amaz defy the Holy Magedom.

The Reaping Times have come.

Over a thousand Mages on dragonback line the Spine’s apex, along with a contingent of deadly Alfsigr Marfoir. And positioned just below him on an outcropping of ice-glittering stone are Fallon Bane and her brothers, Damion and Sylus, the Level Five siblings ready to advance the invasion’s leading edge. With righteously brutal Commander Fallon Bane at the helm.

Fallon turns and meets Vogel’s gaze, green eyes flashing. Vogel holds her stare with a nod of approval as he wonders, not for the first time, why the Ancient One charged evil-tainted Elloren Gardner Grey with Black Witch power instead of ever-righteous Fallon Bane.

“The flawed vessel can be purified.”

The holy verse lights in Vogel’s mind, suffusing him with a rush of hope for redemption.

Redemption for Elloren Grey.

Redemption for himself.

And for the whole of Erthia.

His grasping hope intensifies as he scans the increasingly Shadow-hazed valley. The weight of his multi-eyed raven is a centering ballast, the creature a window, when he closes his eyes and focuses through the eyes of his many-eyed ones. Vogel basks in the glow of the Ancient One’s gift of this power as well as His divine fury. He can feel that fury purifying his lines, everything going according to the Ancient One’s Most Holy Plan.

The Icaral of Prophecy is dead.

The Shadow Wand has been transformed by Holy Purpose.

And the Black Witch...

Vogel glances at his green-glimmering wand hand and revels in the Ancient One’s unexpected leading—a leading that will place Elloren fully under his control, along with the Great Wand of Myth that the Ancient One led to her. He sighted the Great Wand’s energy, granting her perfect aim when she took down his scorpios, her emergence as a warrior compelling to behold. And now, the two Wands of Power will soon be united in defense of the Magedom.

Vogel narrows his gaze back on the Amaz dome as the Shadow web slithers higher and Marfoir scuttle over it, their bone-white forms mere specks from here. With sly calculation, he considers that it will take at least three days for news of the obliteration of Amazakaraan to reach Noilaan with the time lag in even the best of the Vu Trin’s hidden portals.

He smiles.

By the time Noilaan receives word of the Magedom’s rune-obliterating power, it will have fallen.

And heathen Alfsigroth will soon be consumed as well through their Zalyn’or necklace bindings—including Wynter Eirllyn, the filthy winged one hiding under this dome.

Revulsion ripples through Vogel at the thought of those unnatural, feathered appendages. But then, some relief gathers, blunting his reflexive rush of hate. The Eirllyn creature is a helpless little beast, her disgusting wings ragged and incapable of flight, her fire long since doused.

She’ll be easily put down.

Vogel relishes the idea of handing her over to the Elves to smite as they see fit. The Alfsigr monarch, Iolrath Talonir, insisted on taking custody of the creature, the Alfsigr religion mirroring the Gardnerian in its hatred of demon wingeds.

Let the Alfsigr have this one, blessed triumph, Vogel magnanimously considers, even as he yearns to obliterate her wings himself. Let them gain a blessing from punishing the demon girl before we secure dominion over both them and their lands.

The whoosh of broad wings sounds beside him, breaking off his thoughts. Vogel turns as an incoming Mage soldier lands his dragon. Shadow horns curl up from the glamoured pyrr-demon’s Mage-black hair—horns only Vogel and his Shadow soldiers can see—the demon’s eyes a glowing red under their glamoured green.

Vogel eyes the Shadow-tethered demon with barely concealed loathing. Mage dominion over Shadow power necessitates dominion over unsavory creatures—who will be disposed of after the Reaping Times.

The soldier dismounts. “A rune hawk just arrived, Your Excellency,” he states, his sulfuric gaze simmering like twin coals.

“What news?” Vogel inquires.

The bottomless flame in the demon’s eyes deepens to a more ominous red. “It sends word that Yvan Guryev’s ‘assassin,’ the wandmaster Mavrik Glass, has defected to Noilaan.”

A cataclysmic rush of fire sears through Vogel’s lines, his sense of unimpeded triumph burned clear away as he absorbs the ramifications.

If Mavrik Glass, our most talented assassin, is a traitor...then the Icaral of Prophecy is potentially...

...still alive.

“What news has been confirmed?” Vogel asks, slow and deadly firm as an image of dark wings accosts his mind.

“We tortured a captured Vu Trin spy,” the envoy replies. “She told us of Yvan Guryev’s survival. His death was a ruse.”

Vogel’s internal fire stokes higher, violent outrage churning through him. “How can it be? The Icaral was impaled.”

“He is Lasair Fae,” the demon answers. “The Vu Trin said he drew on Fae healing powers to bring himself back from the brink of death.”

beast, her disgusting wings ragged and incapable of flight, her fire long since doused.

She’ll be easily put down.

Vogel relishes the idea of handing her over to the Elves to smite as they see fit. The Alfsigr monarch, Iolrath Talonir, insisted on taking custody of the creature, the Alfsigr religion mirroring the Gardnerian in its hatred of demon wingeds.

Let the Alfsigr have this one, blessed triumph, Vogel magnanimously considers, even as he yearns to obliterate her wings himself. Let them gain a blessing from punishing the demon girl before we secure dominion over both them and their lands.

The whoosh of broad wings sounds beside him, breaking off his thoughts. Vogel turns as an incoming Mage soldier lands his dragon. Shadow horns curl up from the glamoured pyrr-demon’s Mage-black hair—horns only Vogel and his Shadow soldiers can see—the demon’s eyes a glowing red under their glamoured green.

Vogel eyes the Shadow-tethered demon with barely concealed loathing. Mage dominion over Shadow power necessitates dominion over unsavory creatures—who will be disposed of after the Reaping Times.

The soldier dismounts. “A rune hawk just arrived, Your Excellency,” he states, his sulfuric gaze simmering like twin coals.

“What news?” Vogel inquires.

The bottomless flame in the demon’s eyes deepens to a more ominous red. “It sends word that Yvan Guryev’s ‘assassin,’ the wandmaster Mavrik Glass, has defected to Noilaan.”

A cataclysmic rush of fire sears through Vogel’s lines, his sense of unimpeded triumph burned clear away as he absorbs the ramifications.

If Mavrik Glass, our most talented assassin, is a traitor...then the Icaral of Prophecy is potentially...

...still alive.

“What news has been confirmed?” Vogel asks, slow and deadly firm as an image of dark wings accosts his mind.

“We tortured a captured Vu Trin spy,” the envoy replies. “She told us of Yvan Guryev’s survival. His death was a ruse.”

Vogel’s internal fire stokes higher, violent outrage churning through him. “How can it be? The Icaral was impaled.”

“He is Lasair Fae,” the demon answers. “The Vu Trin said he drew on Fae healing powers to bring himself back from the brink of death.”

And fooled the entire Magedom.

Silvery flames spit against Vogel’s vision, but he quickly re-tethers his violent inner storm. “It is the Ancient One’s will,” he states, chillingly calm. “So, let the Prophecy come to completion. The Holy Magedom will soon have possession of Erthia’s most dangerous weapon, and she will smite the Icaral demon without mercy.”

The envoy dips his head. “Are we to step up the hunt for Elloren Grey, Excellency?”

“It is unnecessary.” Vogel’s lips edge up. “I know exactly where she is. And I have the perfect bait to draw her to me.”

City of Cyme, Amazakaraan
Western Realm

Wynter Eirllyn stands before the huge Goddess statue in the center of Cyme’s crowded plaza, dread coiling in her gut as crimson torchlight flickers over the besieged Central Plaza. The city’s dome looms above, its scarlet runes casting a ruddy glow through the Shadow relentlessly churning over it.

A sea of women and girls look to Queen Alkaia, who stands, supported by her cane, on the statue’s broad pedestal, her Queen’s Guard—including Wynter’s soldier friend, Freyja—bracketing her. A huge contingent of the Amaz military surrounds them all.

We’re trapped, Wynter thinks, her fright echoed by the rosefinches perched on her shoulders.

Sensing another kindred winged, Wynter glances up and spots a lone hawk soaring down toward them, a pinprick disturbance roiling the Shadow dome where the winged must have burst through. And...the winged one is all wrong.

The scarlet hawk’s normal blaze of ruddy coloration morphed to hues of gray, the bird’s eyes unnaturally silvered. A stunned sympathy shivers through Wynter as she senses the bird’s fear in the frantic motion of its wingbeats.

You’re corrupting and terrifying my wingeds, she thinks of Vogel, agony mounting. And then, something Wynter is not used to feeling ignites. Something her Zalyn’or necklace usually suppresses, as it does with all Alfsigr Elfkin.

Defiance.

The spark of rebellion fuels Wynter’s next thought.

Runic domes are magicked to allow wildlife passage.

The grayed hawk swoops down and lights on the Amaz fowler’s outstretched arm, the message attached to the bird’s rune-banded leg hastily retrieved.

The fowler’s blue-hued jaw tightens, her sapphire eyes scanning the missive. “My queen,” she says, looking to the Amaz monarch with outraged gravity. “It says, ‘Surrender your lands to the Magedom immediately. Or face total annihilation.’”

Protests erupt as the message is conveyed across the plaza.

Queen Alkaia bears down on her cane and raises one green, rune-marked palm to her people. “Free People of Amazakaraan.” Her ancient voice booms out, amplified by the scarlet rune hovering in the air just below her mouth. “The Goddess’s Prophecy is here.” She glances up at the Shadow-coated dome, her emerald eyes narrowing as if sizing it up for battle. Then she sets her fierce gaze back on her people.

“The Mages think they can terrorize us with their Shadow power. Place bonds around our throats. They falsely imagine that the Goddess’s Own True Daughters can be brought to heel.” She straightens, and Wynter can sense the collective will of the people rising around her as the monarch crushes the missive in her fist. “Blessed Daughters. Who here will raise weapons to journey beyond our dome and smite these invaders with the Goddess’s own fury?”

A tremendous roar sounds as every Amaz from thirteen up draws runic weapons and raises them in the air, the weapons’ scarlet runes burning bright as those that mark the city’s dome.

Wynter’s throat suddenly tightens, and it’s not a normal tightening.

It’s a Zalyn’or tightening.

Scared that she’ll lose the ability to speak if she waits a second longer, Wynter fans out her ragged wings and steps forward.

Queen Alkaia and Freyja both meet her gaze in evident surprise. The queen raises a hand for silence, and the cries of defiance settle into a thrum of gathering runic power.

“I seek to send a message!” Wynter croaks out, her wings flapping against the Zalyn’or’s suffocating grip on her voice.

Queen Alkaia’s gaze sharpens. “What message do you seek to send, Wynter Eirllyn?”

“I seek to send my wingeds!” Wynter rasps before she’s choked off. She motions emphatically toward the Shadow-covered dome.

A subversive gleam enters Queen Alkaia’s eyes. “Send your message, then, winged friend of the Amaz,” she says, voice blazing with revolution. “Let the first true volley in this war be sent bya Zalyn’or-marked Icaral.”

Wynter drops to one knee and lowers her head, her ragged wings fanning out to their full breadth as the Amaz step back to give her space. Burrowing into her minuscule surviving ember of Icaral power, Wynter drags in a breath, then forces her invisible sterling aura out.

The incoming rain-sound of wings beats on the air, birds closing in from all directions, some soaring through the shadowed dome: black-throated warblers, silver-crowned sparrows. Crimson tanagers. A host of hawks and owls, eagles and falcons. Flock upon flock circles down, their panicked tweets and caws overtaking the plaza as they descend toward one single target.

Wynter.

The Amaz surrounding Wynter draw back in astonishment as birds land in a thick mass around her winged form.

Foreboding swells in Wynter as she realizes that some of these birds are from the Agolith Desert, their normally vivid coloration torn away. Red desert hawks rendered to shades of gray. Cactus wrens and gilded flicker birds stripped of their gold. Sand-colored eagles with eyes that normally glow saffron, now pewter with eyes of white fire.

What’s been done to you?

The birds crowd in, the ones in the forefront pressing tilted heads to Wynter. Her empathic heart tightens from their rush of love—love that she returns a thousandfold. She touches her hands to feathers and closes her eyes.

The birds’ collective warning hits Wynter like a thousand bolts, her body shuddering from the onslaught.

SHADOW, SHADOW, SHADOW!

Beloved ones! Wynter counters, hurling the desperate, empathic thought out through the Zalyn’or’s strangling grip.

The birds still, an almost reverent silence overtaking the plaza and Wynter draws on that silence for courage.

My loved ones, she sends out even as pain strafes her skull, her thoughts threatening to collapse into oblivion if she waits a moment longer. Fly forth and pierce the Shadow! Find Naga the Unbroken and appeal for aid!

The Zalyn’or clamps down and Wynter wheezes, her empathic thoughts cut off as the birds lift as one. Their wingbeats are a storm, a roar against Wynter’s ears as they rise and rise then soar straight through the dome. The Shadow coating the dome briefly fragments, the Amaz battle cry rising as Wynter gapes up at what she’s wrought, heart hammering.

A sudden wave of hate slashes through her mind.

She stiffens, wings shivering, swept up in the feeling that she’s a butterfly caught at the end of a pointed stick. The plaza blinks out of sight, replaced by a vision of Shadow forest—undulating tree trunks and limbs of dark smoke tendriling upward from charred ground.

Thrust into panicked disorientation, Wynter glances frantically around.

Marcus Vogel strides toward her through the trees, a gray wand trailing Shadow in his hand. Wynter recoils, her trembling intensifying as Vogel fixes his pale green eyes on her.

Icaral, he says.

The Zalyn’or necklace tightens and Wynter’s head arches back, a strangled cry torn from her throat. She shudders as she’s swept up in a new, overpowering Zalyn’or yearning, the old yearning to be purely Alfsigr stripped away. Yes, she still wishes with everything in her for her demonic wings to be torn from her back. But there’s a staggeringly fierce, new longing in her now—to have black hair, glimmering green skin, and black clothing. And to follow the one true path. Not the path of the Alfsigr faith at all, but the Mage religion.

The only path to purity and righteousness.

The only path to salvation.

Realization hits Wynter like a tide.

I’m reading him. I’m somehow reading Vogel through the Zalyn’or.

Galvanized, she manages a steadying breath, summons her courage and closes her eyes.

Thick smoke flows into her empathic mind as she follows her connection to Vogel, all of his Shadow power oriented toward the Wand gripped in his hand. Battling her fear, Wynter follows his tether...straight into the Wand.

Her sense of the plaza’s tiles beneath her knees disappears.

Her body drops and she cries out as she plummets into a bottomless abyss, limbs flailing. Shadow eyes surround her, streaking past as she falls. Cruel, demonic eyes. Some red. Some full of roiling smoke as Wynter is assaulted by the presence of unending malice and fracture.

What have you done? she cries out to Vogel. Do you realize what you’ve aligned yourself with?

A blast of power slams against her empathic senses, and Wynter’s connection to Vogel breaks. Filthy Icaral! screams through her as her link to him funnels away.

Wynter’s consciousness is hurled back onto the red-lit Amaz plaza, palms and knees pressed to the stone as she pants and wheezes.

“Wynter, what happened?”

She lifts her head and meets Freyja’s hazel eyes. Unable to speak, she reaches up with quavering hands and yanks the collar of her tunic down so hard that the fabric tears open.

The Amaz soldiers facing her, including Freyja, draw back in horror.

Wynter looks down and sways. Dark lines of Shadow are spreading out from her Zalyn’or imprint, burrowing under her skin like a veiny sickness.

Wynter looks to Queen Alkaia, feeling like a netted sparrow as she struggles to keep the free sliver of her mind from being dragged into the Zalyn’or chasm. “Get your people East,” she rasps through Vogel’s choke hold. “There’s no stopping him now. He’s going to control all of Alfsigroth. And he can hear and see us. Through me.”

Queen Alkaia’s gaze turns lethal. “Let him hear us, then,” she seethes. “Let him hear that an Icaral raises her fist to the Magedom and beats her wings against its demon tide. And let Marcus Vogel hear that we, the Free People of the Caledonian Mountains, bend the knee to no one, save our chosen Queen and the Great Goddess on High.”

Wynter’s sense of Vogel lights again. But he’s small and sly this time. Lurking just behind her eyes as the slimmest trace of Shadow ripples over her vision and she’s suddenly seeing through his eyes, looking down at Amazakaraan’s shadowed dome.

Looking down with his army.

The urge to warn the queen of his intent strikes through Wynter, the words straining for release. Get your people East, now! He’s linked the Magedom to demonic power, and it’s about to be unleashed!

But, try as she might, Wynter can’t speak. She draws her wings in painfully tight, struggling to scream out the vital message as a wave of nausea rises. Unable to fight it, she lurches forward, mouth forced open. Vomit bursts from her in a splatter of dark filth and spreads over the tiled plaza, sounds of alarm surging to life as Shadow rises from it.

The soldiers surrounding Wynter, save Freyja, draw weapons, arrows nocked, eyes fierce on Wynter’s crumpled form. She peers helplessly up at Queen Alkaia’s horrified face and struggles for breath. Struggles for her voice.

“Don’t shoot!” Freyja pleads, throwing herself in front of Wynter’s prone form. She casts her a fraught look. “Wynter...what did you see—?”

Freyja’s words are cut off by a silver flash from the Amaz dome’s crimson runes, the valley momentarily brightening.

Everyone looks up in confusion.

And then, like stars blotting out, every scarlet rune on the dome blinks out of sight.

Wynter’s gut clenches. “He’s here,” she manages before an ear-punching blast detonates and the protective dome over Cyme explodes in a spray of Shadow.