The last ten days had been hell.

After her trip to the Sidhe lord’s realm, Aphora had debated for weeks whether or not she’d accept his offer. Part of her feared it was a trap; true, the man had made no attempt to keep her there, nor had he made any attempt to harm her. But that wasn’t quite enough for her to trust him.

He might go by the name Imḫullu now, but Meḫḫawwû had been one of Sidhe’s strongest - and most famously blood-thirsty - warlords. She knew the man had likely slain thousands of elves by his own hand, and far, far more than that had died at his orders. Plus, most of the Sidhe were famed for their predilection for deception. Sure he could have killed her at any time, but perhaps he simply found it more fun to trick her into thinking she could trust him and only then kill her.

Thus, she’d put off making any decision until Imḫullu’s deadline had forced it on her. She’d led her people here in the hopes of establishing a sanctuary from the war that was tearing the Empire apart, a war she feared she was about to spiral even further out of control if the dwarves really did attack. But while Arallû seemed to be relatively safe, it had its own share of problems: isolation and darkness.

The city, while completely protected the emerald barrier, was far behind enemy lines. There were no neighboring cities to visit, no trade caravans stopping by, just the elves and the Fey, who didn’t mingle as much as she’d hoped.

The darkness was a problem too. It wasn’t even that the caverns were particularly gloomy; enough of the rocks and vegetation had luminous qualities that it was never truly dark, and even the ocean’s waters glowed with a pale purple light. There was more than enough light to see by, but while though it was never truly dark, neither was it ever truly light. The land seemed stuck in perpetual dusk, and the lack of light, specifically the blessed light of their goddess, wore on her people’s mood. The isolation from friendly cities was something she couldn’t fix, at least not right now, but she did have a solution to the darkness. She just needed to actually be willing to a risk.

Thus, a rather reluctant Aphora had left the safety of Arallû behind to fulfill Imḫullu’s request. The journey had been nerve-racking. This region of Gemlir’s former empire was mostly low-lying plains which, thanks to the relatively rare rains that fall on them, were largely bereft of large trees to provide cover. She’d felt exposed the entire time, and at one point, had been nearly certain that a Sidhe was following her. But somehow, she’d made it across the plains and reached her destination, a re-emerging town in the foothills of the Parzilli mountains unscathed.

Aphora crept to the edge of the cliff on her hands and knees and crouched down behind a small boulder to survey her target: Birat-Burumû. The so-called “fortress of the heavens” didn’t live up to its name these days. It had been almost completely demolished by the Corsythians in the Desolyton, but over the last two hundred or so years, one of Gemlir’s surviving spawns had begun the slow task of restoring the stronghold. It had yet to reach a tenth of its original size, but Aphora had to admit that it was still far larger than she had expected. For generations, the Empire had prevented the Gemlirians from rebuilding, but now that they could barely hold their own against the Zalancthians, it seemed the trolls had been quick to take advantage.

Damn it. She stared there for hours watching the guards come and go, looking for any signs of weakness. If Imḫullu’s information was to be believed, most of the soldiers had been sent west to deal with a rampaging clan of emarukkū - apparently, a Gemlir lord had dammed up a river, and the dragons that dwelt with it had taken offense - and, after a few hours of counting, she concluded he was right. There were perhaps no more than a hundred soldiers still manning the walls of Birat-Burumû. I can probably do this, she decided.

The next few hours were spent in preparation. Aphora had no intention of attacking until Selene had risen, so there was no point in not putting her runic magic to work. Runes weren’t generally great for combat; they were neither fast enough nor flexible enough to adapt to the frenetic pace of battle, but, if given enough time to prepare, they could make for a devastating opening salvo, and Aphora had plenty of time.

It took nearly three hours of crawling on the ground before the circle was finally complete - three hours and Selene only knew how many thousands of gold coins worth of ingredients. Then, in order to truly capitalize on its effectiveness, she was forced to sacrifice even more materials, rigging a half dozen essence crystals to power the runes rather than channeling the energy herself. Tearing a page out of her notebook, she left a set of directions outside the runic circle and set a delayed fuse to active in an hour.

Aphora then raced across the clifftops as quickly as she could and circled around to the other side of the fortress, where she hunkered down just beyond Birat-Burumû’s moat. All that was left was to wait.

When the crystals finally activated, there was nothing subtle about it. Even though she’d ensconced herself just on the far side of the valley, Aphora could see the show begin.

A halo of blue light glowed above the runic circle. Lightning struck the ground again as the air above it cracked and split, revealing a void through which stretched a massive horned head that sported a mouth with a double row of razor-sharp teeth and eyes that sparked with lightning.

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A ridiculously long neck followed the head out, more than three men in length, and then the creature’s body emerged. It was built like a tank. Massive plates covered its sides and belly, supported by four legs as stout as cedar trees that ended in white, ivory claws. It staggered out of the circle, spinning around until its equally long tail had fully emerged from the void. She couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if the abūbu had read her note, but she received her answer soon enough. The enormous head dipped back into the runic circle, and the halo of light abruptly vanished as the creature consumed the essence crystals, accepting her offering.

Rising up on its hind haunches, lightning flashed on every side as the great beast roared into the night and the heavens answered its call as a deluge of rain fell from the sky.

From her hiding place, she could hear the shouts and cries of terror as the Gemlirian guards spotted the great beast, and a smile curved their lips. Let them cry - it won’t save them.

The abūbu stayed raised on its hind quarters for nearly a minute as the rain continued to pour down on the parched grounds. Then it slammed its feet back into the ground and the entire cliff-side crumbled into a wave of mud dirt. It surged down toward the castle walls, lightning and rain following in its wake and the guards abandoned their posts fleeing in terror.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Aphora vaulted over the moat and quickly scaled up the curtain walls, confident there was no watching her. She reached the top at the same moment the abūbu slammed into the fortress in an ear-rending explosion, followed by a tremor so large that she was nearly thrown off the walls.

Recovering her balance, she leapt down from the castle walls into a small courtyard, straight into the midst of a pack of guards fleeing from their abūbu’s assault. In their panic, they never even saw her coming. As she fell, the silver strands of her garment unraveled and exploded in every direction around her as she landed. Blood spattered the courtyard’s tiles as the majority of the guards were skewered instantly. The few that survived her initial onslaught made it no more than a few steps before death descended upon them.

Standing to her feet, Aphora saw there was no left moving. She was almost surprised at how easily their deaths had come. I guess the Corsythians aren’t the only ones who are no match for their ancestors. The abūbu’s roar echoed off the walls, and she broke into a run. She wasn’t sure how long the great beast would choose to aid her, and she needed to make the most of every minute.

What followed could only be described as slaughter. She rampaged through the halls of Birat-Burumû nearly untouched. The Gemlirians were so overcome by their fear of the monster that most of them failed to even discern the other danger that lurked within their midst until their bodies sprawled across the ground. Indeed, Aphora encountered no resistance at all until she reached the far side of the castle.

The eastern side of the stronghold’s walls had been caved in by the mud flow. A massive gap of nearly fifty feet now stretched between the drawbridge gate and the walls of the nearest tower, and it was there that a handful of the castle’s elite were engaged in a desperate last stand against the Abūbu.

Aphora reached the entrance courtyard just in time to see the beast rise up on its hindquarters. Latching on to the walls tight, she watched as the Gemlirians soldiers steadied themselves for the blow. Thunder cracked as the beast slammed down on the ground, and a wave of mud and water surged toward the soldiers.

Digging their long kite shields into the ground, most of them withstood the blast, save for two that were washed away in the flood. As they floated near her, her silver strands struck swift and true, slitting their throats.

The men rallied as the men began to recede, and the tallest of them, a truly massive troll decked out in ornate gilded armor roared back in defense. A surge of essence poured out from him as he lashed out with a long, smoldering whip that coiled around the abūbu’s neck. The creature bellowed in pain and Aphora broke her cover.

She sped across the bloodied pavement as surefooted as a gazelle, and her fingers writhed as she summoned her essence into a shining moonlight axe that she raised high as she leapt toward him.

The Gemlir lord must have heard her coming; abandoning his fiery whip, he yelled for his men to rally, and turned to face her. The two men closest to him made it there in time, raising their thick, black shields to meet her blow. Her blade cut through them like chaff, slicing deep into the ground, but Aphora had already dismissed it.

She barely danced to the side in time to avoid the blazing whip that cracked through where she was standing, and the silver strands around her flared out and latched on to the whip as it retracted.

His men were forced to block again as the abūbu struck from behind, but the troll lord’s attention was firmly on her now. He fought to wrest his whip free from her grip, no doubt expecting it to be an easy fight - the Gemlirians were generally not as magically talented as the elves, but their physical prowess was unmatched by any of the civilized races, unless once counted the Atrometos. But Aphora was far older and stronger than she appeared, and her grip didn’t waver.

Abandoning his attempt to wrest his weapon free, the man sought to release the spell, but the silver strands dug in, continuing to pull his essence out of him. That was when panic set in. She smiled cruelly as their eyes locked, and she could feel his essence surge as he attempted to find something, anything to save himself. But her smile disappeared as a giant head closed over his body and, with a loud crunch, separated his torso from his legs.

“Hey,” she glared up at the abūbu. “Get your own kill.” The great beast simply ignored her; it crunched up the bones and armor and returned for the legs before turning around, and lumbering off. Oh well; it more than earned its keep. She watched until it disappeared and then she decided it was best that she too disappear. The attention of the Gemlirians and their Sidhe protectors should be trained on the west, but there was no point in tempting fate. By the time the sun rose on the ruins of the fortress, she was already far, far away.