The Amethyst Flame

Magic weaves through the jagged cracks of the cobblestone path laid before me—cracks like wounds in the earth, caused by time, something most people step over and disregard. But here, in this city, that is unheard of. Faeloria, the pinnacle of civilization, boasts golden statues of its council members, glistening like the very sun. A disgusting sight.

Pixies, creatures of old, dance around them, idolizing them as if they’ve never laid eyes on something so captivating. These grotesque statues put other nations to shame, not because of what this city represents, but because they didn’t come up with such a foolish concept first.

Within seconds, those golden statues morph into towering flames that lick the heavens, and the pixies, once so joyous, become faceless beings wearing masks adorned with kaleidoscopic treasures. At first glance, people might think they’re hallucinating, stunned by the grandeur of such strange sights. To me, they are but tiny things people flaunt for status. Unfortunately, I know where I stand in this society they created. I am beneath the very ground they wander on.

Blood runs thick through the veins of this city, each drop whispering tales of great generals winning wars and commoners assassinating the very council members who now stand with this nation. Everyone harbors a story, one they might share if you stroke their ego or trade tales.

If someone were to ask me what I think of all this, I would plainly say: absurd. We are all separate beings. Shouldn’t we live as such?

The faceless beings wrap their crooked fingers around my forearms and wrists, pulling me in every direction. It feels as though they want to drag me to countless places, to show me countless things, and yet no one can decide who should go first. Their touch is not filled with life. It feels as though they are vessels of emptiness, of callousness, of feelingless hunger.

Before I can so much as utter a word, they drop me in front of a beggar. The man wears a cloak of the finest silks. Antique coins, a variety of crystals, and silver envelop him, yet he raises his hand to the heavens and begs. His eyes bear no empathy, no sentiment. He isn’t living, but instead frozen in time. Have the gods not blessed him enough?

The ungrateful man dissolves into ash before my very eyes, carried gently by the wind’s hands as if it were embracing a lost child. The tragic beauty withers, and in its place, golden statues jut from the ground, each figure scrutinizing me. I know that look in their ruby eyes far too well, the look everyone has offered me for as long as I can recall. They see me as nothing more than a pebble beneath their shoe.

Ethereal whispers fill my ears. The tongue is archaic, yet I comprehend the words. I open my mouth to speak, yet not even a sound passes my lips. I can’t find my voice, the feeling I detest most.

The statues’ arms creak upward, gold grinding against gold, flaking off and falling to the earth, which laps at it hungrily. The whispers grow louder, caressing my mind, ripping through my layers, clawing for my innermost secrets. They speak faster. I hear the words, yes, but I can’t comprehend what they’re saying. What are they all trying to tell me?

Skimming over the monumental sculptures, I flinch as they suddenly let out uproarious laughter, and liquid gold trickles down their mouths.

Before me, a marvelous tower appears. It shines luminously, crafted from the finest silver, the most radiant gold, encased in rare silk. I should be gawking at it. Instead, I’m not impressed. It’s far too grand.

The sun, once high in its glory, begins to fall, creeping toward its betrothed, the moon. As it descends, the tower begins to splinter and crumble with a hiss. Wide-eyed, I feel my heart sink to my stomach. I try to move, but my legs reject the idea. The magic, the sick magic threading through this place, is darker than I thought. What is this place? What kind of corrupt enchantment flows so freely here?

The longer I dwell in this place, the less I understand. I do the only thing I can. I shield my face.

But as the tower collapses directly above me, I feel nothing. Peeking between my hands, my eyes skim my surroundings. The statues that once taunted me are gone. Black ash replaces where they once stood. Something observes me from the ash. I can make out a sinister smile. That’s all. The darkness conceals its other features.

Looking down at my legs, whatever compelled me to stay has left. I can now move.

The creature’s smile transforms, and its sharp teeth are pure gold. Its eyes, now visible, are radiant rubies. Yet as dark and twisted as it looks, there’s something familiar about it all. Its company almost feels like that of an old friend, like it has been waiting for me, like it knows exactly where I have been wounded.

The whispers soften. They no longer claw. They coax.

You are not beneath them.

The words curl through my mind like smoke.

You never were.

My breath stills. No one has ever said that to me. No one has ever looked upon me and spoken as though I am something more than dirt beneath polished shoes and golden thrones.

Cautiously, I reach out. The creature’s breath dances across my knuckles, leaving a trail of blisters in its wake. It causes no pain. Instead, it’s welcoming and comforting. That comfort frightens me more than the teeth.

Centimeters from touching its face, or so I hope, I feel something strong wrap around my forearm and tug me back. A distant shout echoes through my mind, one I can barely hear, but its presence is unmistakable. Someone is interfering.

From the corner of my eye, I see a glint of grey metal, a sword. The stranger raises it and drives it directly into the ash. Where the blade touches, sunlight pours from it, dispelling the shadows. The pixies squeal and dance joyously in the new light.

The fanged beast screeches, a demonic sound that sends my stomach churning and goosebumps racing across my skin. That thing isn’t as welcoming as I first imagined. That creature was pulled from the depths of hell, where hopefully it shall remain.

I glance at my savior, another faceless figure. My head throbs. This isn’t a dream anymore. It’s a vision.

The faceless figure places a hand on my cheek, warm, peaceful, secure. I feel what he feels. Yearning. It strikes me so sharply that I forget to breathe. He touches me as if he knows the shape of my grief. As if he has held it before. As if losing me would ruin him.

He lowers his head, pressing his forehead against mine. For a moment, I forget everything surrounding me.

The now-liquefied gold pools beneath our feet, and the once-proud tower is nothing but dust. But just as he’s pulled away, he leaves something in my hand, gems, rubies. Once the sunlight strikes them, arcs of green, red, and purple light burst forth.

Whispers ricochet off the walls in my mind, several voices louder than the last. They shriek and screech. This time, I find my voice.

I scream.

I jerk awake, my head throbbing, my brown hair sticking to my sweat-dampened face.

That was no dream. No dreams replay like that. That was a vision, the heavens trying to convey something. But I can’t grasp what it means.

My heart pounds against my chest as I crease the warm pillow beneath my head. A trickle of sweat glides down my brow. I haven’t had a vision like that in what feels like a lifetime. My throat burns as if I had truly screamed. My palm aches as if the rubies are still pressed into it. And even though no one stands beside my bed, I can still feel the ghost of a hand against my cheek, warm, peaceful, secure.

Part of me hopes sleep will claim me again. But alas, it doesn’t.

My door bursts open, the hinges groaning under the sudden force.

“Rise and shine! It’s a beautiful day to go around and steal their coin pouches from right under their noses. They’ll learn not to look down on us!”

I feel a groan threatening to pass my lips. I know that boisterous voice far too well. Einar, the scruffy dwarf with a fixation on axes and preposterous tales. Are any of them true? Only he knows.

“Ten more minutes, please,” I pray, though I’m unsure why I bother. I know exactly what Einar is going to do next. He’s not one to let things go easily.

“See, I would, but you know how Amate gets when she’s angry.” He gives an audible, nearly comical shiver. “I don’t like it when she’s angry.”

As much as I don’t want to hear those words, he’s right. She’s as dangerous as she is captivating.

Begrudgingly, I force myself to sit up. The smell of whatever Amate is cooking fills my nose. It’s divine.

I shoot out of bed and dash toward the kitchen, seeing her crouched over a large iron pot above a small blaze. A peaceful hum passes her lips, her serpentine tail swaying behind her, a sign of how calm and collected she feels.

“You’re late.” Two simple words pass Amate’s lips. Though simple, they’re filled with dismay.

“Hopefully the traveling merchants haven’t packed up and left for the bordering city.”

“Yes, mother,” I say, lacing my words with sarcasm. They aren’t meant to harm, only to lighten the air.

“Don’t forget to pick up the herbs. Others came by this morning needing some, and I’m running low.”

She completely disregards my comment, which tells me she either didn’t find it funny or has more pressing matters.

“Others?” I ask. I know what she means—other people, just like us, scraping by however they can. “Did they say anything else, or were herbs the only thing they needed?”

“Funny that you mention that.” She turns her face toward me, her brows furrowed. “They mentioned a new merchant. One they’d never laid eyes on before, came through the gates last evening. No one knows who he is.”

I lean forward with every word that leaves her lips. My fingers itch. My knee bounces. This is becoming more and more intriguing.

It should be nothing more than that. A stranger. A merchant. A passing rumor carried through the city by people with too much time and too little coin.

But my palm still aches.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I see ruby eyes gleaming through ash.