Chapter 1: Unstable Times
The scream came before the pain.
It tore from Patreek’s throat—raw, animal, wrong—echoing through the stone chamber as the cauldron boiled beside him.
The liquid within it was a deep, unnatural red, thick as blood and bubbling as though it breathed. Each burst released a sickly, metallic scent that clung to the air. A ladle dipped slowly into the churning surface, lifting the substance with eerie precision before pouring it into a square-cut glass. The liquid slithered against the sides, reluctant to settle.
A soft, wicked laugh followed.
“It is perfect, Master.”
The elleth’s voice was smooth, almost reverent, as she extended the glass. Her pale fingers did not tremble—but Patreek’s did. Violently.
For a single heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then something unseen seemed to force him forward.
The glass struck his lips. He drank.
And the world broke.
The vessel slipped from his grasp, shattering against the stone floor as his body convulsed. His scream rose higher, splintering into something inhuman as his skin blistered and bubbled—stretching, warping—as though something beneath it struggled to escape.
“Fear not, Master,” the elleth said calmly, watching him writhe. “It will only hurt for a moment.”
Then—
She turned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her eyes locked onto Sahara.
“Aranel?”
The word snapped the world apart.
Sahara gasped as sensation crashed back into her body. Cold air filled her lungs too quickly, too sharply, and her vision spun. Hexaria’s small hand tapped lightly against her nose.
“They have her,” Sahara whispered, her voice trembling as tears blurred her sight.
The Kingdom of Darkuth stretched beneath her from the hilltop gazebo—its scattered candle lights flickering like dying stars in an ocean of shadow.
“They have her!” she cried, louder this time, panic cracking through every word.
Her legs gave out.
She hit the stone hard.
“Are you alright?” Brystol was suddenly there, his hands gripping her shoulders, trying to pull her focus to him.
Sahara shoved him back with more force than she intended.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded, her voice rising, frantic. “They have her! We have to do something!”
Brystol recoiled slightly, frustration flashing across his face.
“What are you talking about?” he snapped. “You just collapsed—your nose is bleeding. You looked like you were—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Like you weren’t even here.”
“I was there,” Sahara insisted, clutching her head as a sharp, searing pain tore through it. “I saw them. They have Bularia.”
Hexaria stilled.
“A vision,” she said, her voice quieter now—laced with both concern and intrigue. “Do you have them often?”
“My head—” Sahara gasped.
The pain surged, overwhelming—loud, buzzing, relentless. It filled her skull like a swarm she couldn’t escape. A broken sound escaped her as she doubled over, pressing her hands to her temples before collapsing forward into Brystol.
“What is happening to her?” he demanded, his voice tight as he steadied her against him.
“It is not unusual for powerful elves,” Hexaria said quickly, already moving. She darted toward a cluttered shelf lined with strange bottles, her fingers brushing over glass and cork. “Visions often begin after an elf’s seventeenth birthday.”
She paused—then brightened.
“Ah!”
A large purple jar hovered toward her with a flick of pixie magic. The lid popped free with a soft plop, releasing a thick, lumpy substance that sloshed as she poured it into a glass nearly as tall as she was.
“Here,” Hexaria said, wobbling slightly under its weight as she carried it toward Sahara. “This should help with your headache.”
Brystol took the glass from Hexaria, eyeing the thick, uneven liquid inside with open suspicion before passing it to Sahara.
“I think this might be for you,” he said.
He had spent the entire summer traveling beside her through distant kingdoms, learning their customs, their magic, their strange and intricate rules—but the pixies remained utterly incomprehensible to him.
Sahara didn’t hesitate. She raised the glass and swallowed.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then everything did.
Her breath hitched sharply as the pain slammed back into her—worse than before. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the stone as a scream tore from her throat. She clutched her head, doubling over, the sound raw and unrestrained.
“Do something!” Brystol snapped, panic breaking through as he turned on Hexaria.
The pixie only stared, her expression caught somewhere between fascination and confusion.
“I—I don’t—”
“Her magic is growing stronger.”
The voice cut cleanly through the chaos.
Verdiwild stepped into the gazebo as though he had always been there, his presence immediate. His sharp gaze swept over Sahara before he extended a hand.
“Jresturo.”
A slender, intricate metal instrument appeared in his palm with a faint shimmer. He crouched beside her without hesitation.
“Hold her still.”
Brystol obeyed instantly, pushing Sahara’s hair back from her face. As he did, his hand faltered—just briefly.
Her ear.
The tip had begun to sharpen into a faint, unmistakable point.
Verdiwild pressed the cool metal tool gently against Sahara’s forehead. It emitted a soft, chiming ting as he murmured something low and fluid in the ancient elven tongue, the words curling through the air like a spell half-forgotten by time.
The effect was immediate.
The crushing pressure inside Sahara’s skull unraveled, dissolving as quickly as it had come. The relentless buzzing fell silent. Her breathing steadied.
Relief.
Pure and sudden.
Verdiwild withdrew the instrument. “That should help.”
For a moment, Sahara remained still, as though afraid the pain might return if she moved too quickly. Then, slowly, she pushed herself upright, slipping free from Brystol’s grasp.
“Thank you, Verdiwild,” she said, her voice quieter now, steadier.
He studied her carefully, his expression unreadable.
“How long have you been having these headaches?”
Sahara hesitated—just a fraction too long.
“It isn’t a big deal,” she said, brushing it off with a weak shrug. “I’ve only had a couple.”
“A couple?” Brystol scoffed, folding his arms as he shot her a look. “Try a couple a day for the past two months.”
Sahara shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual force.
Verdiwild said nothing for a moment. Then he extended the metal instrument toward her.
“Take it,” he said.
She did, turning it carefully in her hands. Up close, it was even stranger—etched with fine, shifting markings that seemed to move when she wasn’t looking directly at them.
“Sleep with it beneath your pillow,” Verdiwild continued. “It will counteract the headaches.”
“I have never seen an elf suffer headaches from their magic,” Hexaria said, her wings buzzing softly as she drifted closer to Sahara. “Unless…”
She trailed off.
Sahara frowned, waiting—but Hexaria did not finish. Instead, her gaze dropped, sharp and deliberate, to the chain resting against Sahara’s collarbone. For a fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered across the pixie’s face before she glanced quickly toward Verdiwild.
“Unless what?” Sahara pressed.
Hexaria hesitated.
Then, more quietly, “What is that you wear around your neck? I do not think I have ever seen you without it.”
Sahara’s hand instinctively rose, fingers brushing the chain. She shifted slightly, ensuring the gem remained hidden beneath the fabric of her clothing.
“It was a gift,” she said carefully. “From Verdiwild—when I arrived. He said it would protect me.”
“Ah.”
Hexaria drifted backward at once, her tone light—but her eyes lingered. Again and again, they flicked to the chain, as though drawn to it by something she could not ignore.
Sahara’s unease deepened.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” Hexaria replied quickly—too quickly. Her wings faltered for half a second as she cast another brief, almost nervous glance toward Verdiwild before forcing a small smile. “Not at all.”
The words were light.
But the silence that followed them wasn’t.
Sahara’s fingers drifted back to the chain at her neck, brushing the hidden gem beneath her clothing. It felt… warmer than before.
Or maybe that was just her imagination.
Hexaria didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Her gaze lingered on the necklace—sharp now, no longer curious.
Almost afraid.
Sahara’s pulse quickened.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked, quieter this time. Though she isn’t sure why, she knows no one else understand their words.
Hexaria opened her mouth—
Then stopped.
Verdiwild shifted behind them.
And just like that, the moment shattered.
Hexaria straightened, her expression smoothing into something bright and harmless once more.
“Nothing,” she said.
But—
Sahara didn’t believe her.
Not even a little.
Her grip tightened around the chain.
And for the first time since she had been given it—
She wondered if the thing meant to protect her…
was more than what it seemed.
