The same night Zara experienced her usual nightmare, a young man miles away, forced to reside in the innermost slums of Darhai, stirred restlessly in his sleep, envisioning a nightmare of his own. It was one that seemed eerily connected to the the missing piece in his life, his only clue to it being the delicate ring he wore day after day on the smallest finger on his left hand.
At first, the dream hadn’t been so bad. His vision was white, like a blank painter’s canvas, but that was okay. A gentle voice speaking to him, close to his ear, kept his heart at peace. At some point, he knew he was dreaming. He knew if he wanted to get himself out, he could have, at any point.
But no. It’s too nice. Her voice…it’s there.
Whose voice? That was the bigger question. Whose voice was it that he loved its deep, yet feminine tone, awkward and shy?
A sudden bright light flashed, and Shia was now standing at the edge of a mountain. This mountain was unbelievably high. He couldn’t even see the ground below. He was surrounded by gray skies and thick clouds. It was terrifying, yet heavenly. The cliff he stood on was not very wide. One false move, and he’d plummet down from the heavens and into the depths of agony that lay beyond those clouds. A quick glance back at the craggy black rock told him that this mountain he was precariously perched on was home. He was in Pria, atop Mount Lilith, near the highest peak—even higher than the temple that pilgrims from across the continent made the dangerous trek for. He should be dead—be it frozen stiff or simply out of air. But here he was, alive and deathly afraid.
“Help me,” he whispered to nothing, rubbing an anxious palm over his left hand—over the ring. “Help me.”
The cliff began to move. It shifted and shook. Snow flaked down, faster and faster, and soon the flakes turned to pebbles of ice, hailing over his head. He flinched and his throat closed when his foot almost slipped off the edge. The cliff shook more steadily, and the edges began to crack and fall. Soon, Shia would have no place to stand. He couldn’t take this anymore, and screamed. He screamed that death take him before he plunged into those stormy clouds that now threatened him with strikes of lightening.
“Hey!” a faint voice shouted. It was the voice of a woman, but not the one he wanted to hear. This was a voice he did not recognize. “Hey! Over here! Look at me.”
Shia turned his gaze up toward the voice. A girl, likely only a few years older than he, was shuffling around the cliff to try to get to him. She was on one of the rocky landings above him, and he had no idea what her plan could possibly be. They were both stuck, as far as he could tell.
He squinted as the girl managed to step down to a lower landing. She moved lightly, almost floating like a feather. Her hair was long and ripply, a beautiful shade of brown. Shia couldn’t look away, especially once he got a clearer view of her face. She was a golden beauty, with round eyes the color of hazelnut, and a worried type of expression that severly reminded him of his own face. A lovely face, and a familiar one too. But…he had no idea who this was.
Was it just that she kind of looked like him? Was she his own personal angel? That could explain the absurdity of this situation—she being an angel coming to save him. But…she also looked like someone else he knew. Though he couldn’t grasp who this could possibly be.
The cliff’s movements were becoming more violent by the minute, and Shia let those meandering thoughts drop. He would have to, before the damn mountain dropped him.
The girl was now close enough to reach a thin arm out. “I can help you,” she panted. “Please let me help you.”
She looked so desperate, those big beautiful eyes watery with unshed tears. It caused an odd, sharp pang in Shia’s heart. She was in pain, for him, and he couldn’t bear it.
He found himself reaching out to her, not necessarily to let her save him, but as a means to offer her some comfort in their dire situation. After some tries, finally, he grasped her smaller hand. At that moment, Shia saw how fragile she was, and how he was failing to protect her.
The cliff jolted, the rumbling was louder than ever, the black fogs turned blacker, and the crack between Shia and the girl had grown too wide. They lost their grip on each other, and the girl began to sob, scrambling back.
“I can’t…I can’t hold on…”
“Don’t panic! Don’t panic, sweetheart, I’m here!” Shia blurted out, in a voice unnaturally deep for him. He bit his tongue immediately, a fresh wave of bewilderment and shame spreading through him. What had he just said? Why? He didn’t even know her, yet at that moment, seeing her in danger, he’d forgotten his own predicament, and wanted nothing more than to protect her like she was family.
Suddenly, he felt very aged. He did not have a mirror, but his hands showed signs of it, as did the prickling sensation of a thick beard he never had until then.
A flash of lightening from above almost blinded him. When he opened his eyes, the light hadn’t gone away; it seemed like everything had frozen in time, except for him, the girl, and the figure standing amid the white light near the top of Mount Lilith.
It was a woman—her large irises were as frosty as the surrounding snow. Her wild hair was streaked black, gray, and white. Her slender body was wrapped in flowing cloth of blue and silver, billowing softly in the wind. A beam of light seemed to emit from the center of her forehead. Her feautures were striking, yet terrifying. She stood with a power like no other, almost like she was floating. Like an angel. Or a Goddess.
The icy eyes grew somber for a moment as it gazed upon his face.
His heart stopped.
He knew. He knew who this was…
The mountain quaked once more, the vibrations making Shia’s teeth rattle.
It was too late. Too late to reach her now…
The girl’s focus had been on the entity as well, but now she was wailing at Shia once again:
“She’s going to do it! She’ll destroy us! She’ll destroy our home! Please stop her, before she—”
The subsequent explosion was so incredibly strong and brutal, it made Shia wish he had just jumped off the cliff earlier. He wailed in agony as his body was flung out, engulfed in flames, though it wasn’t long before he was left writhing and choking for air as hot ash flooded his lungs—
Shia gasped heavily, like he’d unwillingly stepped a foot through death’s door. Up on that mountain, as high as any human has ever been, he was surprised he hadn’t lost conciousness. He still felt chilled, given the harrowing experience, but the temperature was not as cold as it was supposed to be…
Then, he realized he hadn’t been on Mount Lilith at all. It was the middle of the night and he was in his room, sitting up in bed, safe. His aged hands had gone back to normal, though clammy. He touched his sweaty face and felt no trace of a beard, save for a few sparse hairs that had begun growing in. His mind now fully awake and present, he took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. He looked to the other side of the room; Rowan was still fast asleep, his frail limbs hanging off the edge of the bed.
It had been nothing more than a dream. But the intensity and the vividness of it was… eerie. Something roiled in his gut. It didn’t feel natural. It almost felt like…a warning.
What could it mean? The girl was someone he did not know, yet he felt like he did. She clearly knew who he was, but if this was just a dream, then Shia had surely conjured her up somehow, for some reason. She had looked a little like him, so maybe because he’d been lonely and feeling quite shitty lately, his mind had brought him a source of self-love in the form of a girl. It was a strange idea, but Shia didn’t know how else to explain it. He wanted to believe that it was only a weird dream.
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He then remembered that nightmarish deity, and even remembered his recognition of it. But frustratingly enough, he could not recall who it had been. He had been so sure, and now, it had fled his memory, like a frail scrap in the wind.
Why? Why does this matter so much? He wished it would stop plaguing him. He wished he could just rid himself of this annoying burden that could never be solved. He grasped at the ring on his finger and pulled it off, intending to toss it out the window and finally close this chapter for good.
But it was impossible. Tears welled in his eyes, as though he were about to toss his chances of finding home again. He slipped the ring back on his pinky, drew the covers up, and eventually went back to sleep.
In another lifetime, the young woman jerked awake, shaken, afraid, and in tears of grief. She sat up, disoriented at first, only to find herself still in the dark confines of the witch’s cabin, with the witch herself looming over her, her molten features haunting in the candlelight.
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Zara smiled brightly once she saw Saren finally coming up the hill.
“I’m sorry!” she said, gasping as she jogged over. She was a quick walker regardless; the long legs helped with that. “I am late. There was a spill on the road near my home.”
“Spill?” Zara questioned, hoisting her satchel further up on her shoulder. She tried to ignore the lingering presence of Emran gazing at her from the open window upstairs, as well as the dark gloom Revan protruded consistently from the study room. He had not been very happy with her performance today.
She’d tried mutating again, and they’d been using rat’s fur, as that was easiest to get and, according to Revan, good enough for a beginner level practitioner. Zara had nearly perfected it, except for the tail. The tail had not shrunk in size with her, and had a mind of its own, Zara swore. It had erratically swiped and swished, knocking Revan’s coffee and treats off the table, and all over his notes.
She had apologized profusely, but when he threatened her with a backhand, she stomped away in tears. The only saving grace of this day would be Saren and their upcoming dance class at the local temple. They had started three weeks ago, and had classes twice a week. Zara looked forward most to these days of learning classical dance, even if it had to be temple style.
“A passing cart was almost tipped over by a broken piece of the road,” Saren explained, amused. “The cart was fine, but a whole case of gooseberry oil bottles riding at the back of it were not as lucky…”
“Yikes,” Zara said, sympathizing with the poor seller who had likely lost wages from the ruined shipment.
“It was everywhere, and the smell—” Saren laughed. “Ooh my! I had to take another way since I could not dare step into it. But here I am now, and hopefully we will not be too late. Shall we go?” As usual, she scanned behind Zara for a sign of Revan, but of course, he was nowhere in sight.
“He’s a bit busy right now,” Zara answered what was clearly on Saren’s mind.
“Oh, is he?” They began to walk back down the hill to the main street. “With a new spell, maybe?” She added that last part in a lower voice, even bending down a bit to Zara’s level so as to not risk speaking of it too noisily.
Zara couldn’t help but giggle at Saren’s giddiness whenever the topic of magic or their magehood was brought up. Since that night at the theater, she and Revan had sat Saren down the next morning at the inn, and carefully told her as much as they could about their true identities. Revan had been very tactful with his words, cautious not to reveal too much about himself or what his intentions were. After all, they did not want Saren to know about what her necklace was bound to do to her.
A pang of guilt flashed through Zara as she side-eyed the green gem resting peacefully on Saren’s chest. Overall, Saren had taken it well, as she was both disturbed and excited at once. She’d had so many questions for them and about who she could potentially be, given her strange abilities. Revan had placated her with filtered information then as well, merely revealing her mysterious ancestry to the ancient Mogheiri spirits.
They strolled the short distance down the market, chatting and laughing all the way, to the small temple built of stone. Its entryway was guarded by statues of different deities, each seemingly watching over the sacred space. The jagged stone path to the temple was weathered by countless footsteps over centuries. Right above the entrance was the engraving of the White Sun, radiant and mesmerizing, the only part of the temple painted a snowy hue. Glowing with a mysterious energy, it was as though it was the very essence of the sun itself.
Yet…Zara felt nothing when she looked up on it. Just a slight distaste for it. As usual, she watched worshippers kneel to the deities as though they’d come to life and grant them their desires. She’d once been like that too; she’d looked forward to temple visits as a little girl. Up until she discovered her “tainted” powers, she had no reason to dislike this way of life. But now, it made her uncomfortable to be constatnly surrounded by people who wished her kind dead. It was why she resisted wanting to participate in this class a lot at first. Saren managed to convince her in the end; it wasn’t like they were going there to pray. No one could read their mind; they didn’t have to respect the beliefs if they did not want to—and they didn’t. This made each visit more bearable.
“I think I have almost gotten the squatting position down,” Saren remarked proudly.
Zara cackled. “Oh really? I’d love to see it.”
She remembered the first few lessons. It had been the first time witnessing Saren looking so awkward, and even more out of place with her bigger stature. Her legs grew tired quickly in the more difficult dance positions, one of which involved a lot of knee excersise and squatting with a straight back. Zara had more self-practice with it, so she was able to learn the proper technique quickly. Even then, their guru always had pointers to perfect Zara’s form. This made Zara feel even better about signing up for the class.
Saren rolled her eyes. “Not everyone can be as natural as you are, Zara.”
Zara blushed. “Natural? Come on. There are plenty better than me. Rishanna is one of the best beginners here. Even I’m not at her level.”
“You are modest,” Saren replied. “Though maybe it would help to get advice from her, yes?”
Rishanna was a sweet girl, a few years younger than Zara, who shared their class. She was not only humble, but showed signs of a blossoming talent. She had the full support of her family and guru. Sometimes Zara couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous about that. Jealous and sad, as she had always yearned for the unconditional support Rishanna was lucky to have.
They entered the temple and turned down a short corrider to a door that led downstairs. The general upper areas were for everyday worship, but the space underground was used for learning the arts of song, music, dance, and the teachings of the scripture.
As they descended the steps, the air immediately grew cooler, tinged with the faint scent of incense and stone. A few feet away from the bottom step was the expansive dance hall, opening up like a hidden world, bathed in the warm glow of golden lanterns and oil lamps that cast intricate shadows across the walls. Stone pillars rose from the floor to meet the carved ceiling above. Each pillar was adorned with detailed geometric and spiritual patterns. Soft tapestries hung along the walls in deep reds, blues, and golds. The floor was polished smooth and decorated with inlaid mosaics. Each alcove along the walls was like a small sanctuary, filled with plush cushions and low seating, inviting dancers to rest and prepare.
The room was bustling as Zara and Saren were the last ones in. They’d spotted Rishanna across the room right away—dressed in pretty pink with her brown locks tightly braided. Her smile always brightened up every space she was in. Unfortunately, she was too busy indulging in gossip with her friends to come say hi.
Zara and Saren chose the nearest empty alcove to set their things down, wrap their scarves around their bodies properly, and put on their anklets. This was the best part of Zara’s simple dressing routine—getting to wear the anklets she’d bought in Pria so long ago, believing she would never be able to wear these things outside her bedroom.
“So, Saren,” Zara teased as she adjusted her dress once more, “before the class starts, did you wanna show me that squat or—?”
When Zara looked back up, her words came to a sharp halt. Saren was standing as straight as the pillar behind her, her concentration disturbingly set on something beyond them. At first it seemed like Saren was having another one of her strange occurences again. But this wasn’t it. Her expression wasn’t glazed over, and Zara could sense that her mind was still intact. No, this was too different—foreboding, even. Alarmed, Zara tried to see what Saren was looking at.
“Saren?” Zara muttered, scanning the room. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“There’s someone there,” Saren said, her eyes still locked on whatever she was seeing. “I think she knows us.”
“Huh? She?”
A moment passed as Zara continued to search impatiently, hoping Saren hadn’t suddenly lost her wits. But when a few of the other conversing dance students finally stepped out of the way, she saw her. And she instantly knew who this was.
“Alright everyone!” their guru shouted, clapping her hands. “Get in formation; we have a lot to cover today!”
Zara couldn’t move. Towards the edge of the room, in the last space in the front row, stood a woman with midnight hair, long, glossy, and straight. Her figure was tall, and she wore a deep violet traditional dance drape, perfectly wrapped and pleated over her lean body. She had her palms together in front of her, like she was meditating. Her aura had been muted; Zara hadn’t even noticed her at all. But now, the darkness was beginning to pulse through. The woman had made Saren feel it first, and now it was Zara’s turn.
Zara had no choice but to follow Saren to their assigned spot, which was in the row behind the woman. Zara gulped as the woman—palms still together—slowly turned her head, her burning yellowish eyes, lined heavily with black kohl, locked on her. Her ruby lips curled in greeting.
“Hello, my dear,” Dayana said. “I told you we would meet again.”