Chapter 1 Emory #3
As soon as they left their shelter, rain fell upon them, thunder rumbling overhead. Even without the ash-umbrae to impede their journey, it seemed the world itself was always against them: landslides, flash storms, anything to slow down their progress.
“I hate this place,” Virgil grumbled as they walked, miserable and cold and already exhausted at the thought of another long day ahead of them.
Emory had to agree with him. This world might have been beautiful if it weren’t so desolate.
During the week they’d been here, they hadn’t come across a single person.
They’d stumbled upon one village, and it had been abandoned, most of it destroyed by some storm, or perhaps by something worse, like the ash-umbrae.
The silence, the emptiness, the raging storms… it was crushing their spirits. Especially since the mountain range still looked so distant.
But today, it seemed, they were given a bit of a reprieve.
Around midday, Ivayne returned from scouting ahead, her draconic wings unfurled, with a smile on her face. “There’s shelter up ahead, not very far. Some kind of ruins.”
The discovery couldn’t have come at a better time as hail started pelting them.
The ruins in question were at the foot of a waterfall, half-submerged in the flooded river that wound through the desolate landscape.
The site was impressive: great carved pillars and broken sculptures, what could have been some sort of shrine, part of a wall that still stood with carvings of winged horses and great peaks among the clouds.
“Looks like this might have been a temple,” Vera said with awe.
Emory could feel the ley line beneath them, corrupted as it was by Clover.
It would have made sense to build a temple to the Celestials—this world’s version of the deity that was Atheia—atop such a source of power.
Part of the ceiling was still there, protecting them from the hail.
The howling wind seemed not to reach them here either.
True silence reigned, making Emory realize the constant wind had become so normal to her ears that she hadn’t really heard it anymore.
It was eerie. In her mind she heard those whispers from her nightmare, the souls of the dead calling her name.
Emory, Emory.
There was a sudden, earsplitting crack like the earth was splitting apart as a shaft of lightning hit the waterfall a mere few feet away from the temple.
Ivayne already had her sword drawn in case the ash-umbrae showed up, despite it being useless against the monsters.
Emory hurried to the draconic’s side, magic at the ready.
Another fork of bluish lightning split the skies, but not a single ash-umbrae appeared.
Something else did.
Across the river, a man sat astride a horse of pure white.
Emory’s first thought was that it was Clover, but the man’s stature was too bulky, the frame of a seasoned warrior.
He wore a navy jacket embroidered with silver details of lightning bolts and wind gusts, and had a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, the hood drawn over his head.
Gloved hands gripped the reins of his steed, which had feathered wings just like the creatures carved on the temple ruins.
As beautiful and ethereal as Emory would have imagined a winged horse to be.
Except for the eyes. They were gaping, dark hollows ringed by knotted veins of black that spread all along its face and neck, marred its beautiful wings, too. As if it were corrupted from within. A ghostly, tainted version of what it once might have been.
The man held a hand to the skies and caught a bolt of lightning that fashioned itself into a wicked lance.
In one swift motion, he threw the lance at the temple.
It whirred past Emory, so close she felt it singe her cheek, and embedded itself in one of the carved pillars, crackling and sparking until the lance disappeared in a wisp of smoke.
From that smoke appeared another man dressed in a similar outfit, holding a sword of lightning and moving on silent feet.
They hadn’t noticed him coming into the temple from the opposite side.
Vivyan threw herself at him with a battle cry, her metal sword meeting his lightning one in a thunderous clash.
The man’s lightning sword pierced through Vivyan’s shoulder, making her scream.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Before Emory could think of helping Vivyan with magic, before any of them could go after the man, a horde of ash-umbrae descended upon the temple swifter than the wind.
The man disappeared among them, only to jump across the river with inhuman strength and settle behind the other warrior astride the winged horse.
As Ivayne and Vivyan swung their swords to no effect at the dozens of ash-umbrae that encircled their group, Emory opened herself up to the power of the ley line.
Silver veins danced along her skin. She felt it burning inside her, power coursing through her like the cold burn of a distant star, and she unleashed herself to unmake the ash-umbrae.
She tried to reach farther still to the two men across the river, but she was burning out, depleting herself too quickly.
Ash-umbrae fell around her, but more seemed to rise in their wake.
Distantly, she felt the call of the pieces of Atheia, blood and bones and heart and soul, but they were too far away and felt shielded from her somehow.
The ley line tore through her. Ghosts sprung up around her. She tasted blood in her mouth, heard someone screaming in her ears—her own screams?—and felt her vision blur as unconsciousness pulled at her, seeking to plunge her into the dark.
Suddenly there was music.
A voice singing loud and clear, achingly beautiful. The dark skies above them split open, sunlight piercing through to chase away what was left of the ash-umbrae, which seemed to disintegrate to dust under the light.
Emory fell limp to the ground. Before darkness could claim her, she searched the riverbank, but the two men were no longer there, their infernal steed carrying them toward darker skies.