Tremen followed the sorceress as she fled up the stairs. “Help me, please?” he cried. His voice echoed off stone.

She paused at a turning and scowled at him. “No.”

“Once there was a story,” the voice rumbled against her ear and deepest blank hair trailed over her pillow.

The wavering light of the candles covered the stage as Alathic strode out from behind the curtain. The crowd erupted into applause before he said his first word. He took long languid strides to the center of the stage.

Jazmine had always listened to the townspeople complaining, saying they live in such a strange time when catastrophes struck. For then the heroes and the betrayers worked together.

Gathar stumbled to a stop within the doors of the citadel’s central chamber. He blinked at Lysabel sitting on a bench in the center of the room, a scarf wrapped about her face.

Sahri stopped on the palace steps and scowled up at the walls which soft sand in dawn’s light. She’d spent a blissful month absent and didn’t relish the desperate summons which had drawn her back.

Ropes burned across my arms as I twisted on the table. The twice blasted sorceress stood beside her bowl. The water reflected light onto her face.

“I always had the worst luck. Tragically, it followed me even after I left this world.”

As a child he’d been told to be wary of the rails. Altes had heard their words. He even tried to listen. Yet he always returned, fingers curling about cold metal as he peered into the clouds below.

A long sigh sounded behind Red. One which demanded attention. Turning, she tightened her grip on her blade. Whynna sat in the open windowsill.