The sea defies existence; its touch is death.

  Shimmering waves of vibrant impossibility roil and swell across an infinite horizon, marching inwards from beyond eternity to crash against reality’s unstable edge. The water sings and gibbers as it churns, shouting flagrant lies and whispering dark secrets in a thousand languages no human tongue could ever imitate. The riotous waves fall silent only when they fall against the land.

  Matter begins with an open field of tightly rippled glass. This barren crystal plain forms a narrow shore between the calamitous waters and a land of deep shadow.

  Back from the edge, at a remove of ten long paces, the cool dark glass gives way to arid stone. Farther inward by another hundred steps, that dry rock leads into the ruins of a once-great city. The metropolis, what remains of it, barely stands. Its wind-worn, crumbled buildings hold themselves upright not in testament to their ancient strength, but merely for the lack of an opposing force.

  One solitary storm might collapse and wash away these desiccated bones of a civilization long decayed. Lucky, then, that water never falls here. Or, if not luck, perhaps design.

  By whatever mechanism, the old city endured just long enough to be reclaimed. Life has at last returned to one small corner of the dusty tomb, and now its ancient ruler watches over his new guests.

  At the center of a long-abandoned market square, a stone colossus carved in the likeness of a warrior king stands tall and proud. His decapitated head and the wreckage of a right arm which once gestured to the heavens both lie in rubble at his feet. Around his broken personage, a merchant caravan enjoys the pleasures of its own bustling camp.

  To the monument’s left, a woman with a glowering jade face wrestles a shorter man with wide set lapis shoulders. Eager onlookers crowd the contenders in a tight ring, shouting their bets between calls of encouragement and playful insults. The game of dice with which this friendly contest had begun now lies abandoned beneath their shuffling feet.

  Farther along, an old man with twig-thin, triple-jointed fingers and four gnarled thumbs on each hand plays his thirty-stringed lyre to a small but appreciative audience. Other groups linger near enough to hear him, but not so close as to cause disruption with their chatter. While his lilting bardsong drifts beneath their words, the relaxing workers take turns recounting stories with which every member of their tightly gathered cohort is already well familiar.

  To the statue’s right, laughter echoes constantly around a haphazard arrangement of soup kettles as cooks trade gossip for a ladled meal. Behind the kitchen, a ring of five inebriated heat-binders collaborates to maintain a small vortex of twirling sand. They drink every time it falls, and so imbibe with increasing frequency as the game progresses.

  Here and there, the odd laborer who still has tasks to complete darts amidst the night’s momentary revelry. In most places, there is calm. In all, there is contentment.

  From a vantage high above, perched atop the towering shoulders of a headless king, one solitary man monitors the lively camp with a fond smile. His pleased expression runs opposed to dour lines that mar the dark skin of his aging face. Those subtle wrinkles speak of a youth given away to obligation, of a life half-passed yet only just begun. Bliss is clearly something new to him, or rather something long since set aside and only recently recovered.

  Tonight, the man has managed to recapture that untroubled sense of joy, if only in modest measure. For the most part, he simply feels relieved to find his people in such fine spirits and good health. Their long journey to this city taxed them, as always, and it pleases him to see how much energy and passion yet remains.

  Two years of repeated expeditions have ground away all traces of the apprehension and fatigue which had defined their early visits. Gone are the days of speaking in hushed tones for fear of waking vengeful ghosts. This ancient city, or at least the small part of it they occupy, finally feels alive.

  Satisfied with the condition of his camp, the watcher turns to glance back over his shoulder. His keen eyes drink the wane glow of a perpetually setting sun to scour the army of long shadows its distant radiance failed to banish. Amidst that lingering dark, he sees what he expected.

  Behind his perch, the rest of the ruined city stands silent and empty, lifeless per nature’s decree. The vacant settlement’s somber veil of deathly quiet causes most visitors to feel like trespassers within a tomb. The watcher felt that same guilt, when first he traveled here. And he felt it again, more keenly, when he cleared a path for his caravan through these deserted buildings.

  However, the practicalities of commerce have long since smothered his romantic superstitions. There is no trade route more vital or lucrative than his bridge across the sea of chaos, and his people have begun to rely upon its wealth. He will oblige the city’s ghosts to hold their complaints, assuming any souls yet linger here.

  With nothing left to see, the man turns forward again and looks down once more to the lights and motion of his camp. He locates the members of his company who will join him for the opening ceremony and notes that they have already prepared themselves to depart. If their employer does not join them soon, he is at risk of being late.

  The tall man slips off his cloak, revealing a network of faded scars across his right arm and the matching side of his chest. He drapes the chlamys over one shoulder and holds its end tightly in his right hand.

  He rolls his neck and stretches an inhuman left arm, limbering its ageless joints more out of habit than necessity. The black, leathery prosthesis hangs nearly six feet from shoulder to nail, with its elbow bending just below his hip. Three clawed fingers dangling at its end curl and flex above his ankle as he readies himself to wield the power it contains.

  Then, without further hesitation or concern, he steps off the statue’s neck and plummets toward the ground.

  Cold wind buffets him as the earth rushes closer. Brass ornaments sewn into the hems of his knee-length chiton and its over-kilt stop the garments from billowing as he falls. His long cloak whips behind him over his right shoulder, its fabric unburdened and out of the way. Nothing blocks his view of the oncoming stone.

  With mere seconds to spare before impact, the falling man sets his birthright authority against gravity’s hold and tears governance of his own inertia from nature’s hands. In wielding this dominion, he gains an immediate and intimate awareness of the physical laws controlling his fall. Comprehension conjoined with authority siphons into his body through his skeletal left arm and pools inside the bones that share its ink-black color.

  With a minor exertion of will, he erases the thought of his descent from the world, and his momentum vanishes as if it had never been. For a moment afterward, he hangs motionless.

  In the next instant, he relaxes his hold. Gravity restores its touch with a tentative caress, yet he does not permit it to grasp him fully. Instead of dropping like an eager stone, he gently drifts to Earth in the unhurried manner of a feather. He falls this way for a breath and a half before his leather sandals touch softly upon the stone, and he settles with the quiet poise of a fallen leaf.

  Wasting no further time, he returns his weight to nature’s stewardship, pulls the cloak back on, then strides forward through his camp. His people nod or call to him in passing, but otherwise continue with their business and their games. He returns their nods but does not stop to join them; his work for the night will soon begin.

  First, he must collect his spear. He’d left it lying on the ground at the edge of camp, next to an unassuming three-legged stool. His long gait crosses the ground swiftly, detouring as necessary around the cavorters and their hangers on, and soon he finds both seat and weapon sitting precisely where he discarded them.

  The man bends to grab the spear in his right hand while lifting the stool with his left. With both necessary objects now in hand, he exits camp through a decluttered avenue which leads toward the incomprehensible sea. He hears additional footfalls as five of his subordinates fall in behind him, each of them carrying a pack stuffed with cloth padding. Their contingent walks the stone path together, matching his pace, and soon they pass beyond the city’s final crumbling wall.

  Only a hundred paces of stone and ten of glass lie before them now. Beyond those narrow surfaces waits a brilliant void of violent nothing that might conjure any dream at every moment. None of them look at it directly. For reasons beyond man’s comprehension, they won’t hear the water’s voices so long as they pretend it isn’t there.

  Even while averting their eyes, however, they feel the wrongness, the un-nature of that impossible ocean. Its wild influence wafts over them like a hot sea breeze. The false wind carries a thousand half-formed thoughts that vanish before their minds have time to understand.

  To their leader, it is a familiar discomfort. His gait never falters, and his people follow steadily in his wake. They stop only when they reach the line of glass. Here, their leader sets his stool upon the ground and settles in to loiter. It won’t be long now. He shuts his eyes, awaiting the telltale scent of stale air.

  With calm, steady breaths, he meditates through the next few minutes. Without looking, he knows that each of his subordinates has turned their back to the sea. None of them care to face infinity, even with their eyes closed. Their leader cannot fault them for cowardice, as their choice shows more wisdom than his own. Still, he won’t turn away in imitation. No worldly experience compares to the magic which awaits.

  It always starts slowly.

  Through closed eyes, he begins to see. A soft light shimmers faintly in the darkness of his blinded sight. The weak, distant glow brightens slowly as it nears, carrying with it a stream of sound, scent, sensation. A trickle of faint impressions slowly builds into a surge of feelings and experiences.

  The man feels upon his skin the false-familiar heat of a blistering noonday sun. He tastes the pleasant tang of foreign wines, breathes the subtle fragrance of exotic flowers, hears the bubbling giggles of a young child, and feels the soft brush of a woman’s hand against his cheek. He catches a glimpse of his coastal homeland from the eyes of a hawk flying high beneath low clouds. From the bottom of a crystalline river, he watches strange quadrupedal giants as they bend their slender necks to drink.

  He hears chanting and song in a dozen languages unknown to his people. Tender caresses, rough blows, blood, perfume, long roads, narrow alleys, dark waters, cold mountains, and endless skies trapped in eternal nights. All these things and hundreds more crash into him in waves.

  The man holds tight to his identity against the mounting pressure. His long left arm grinds its claws against the stone, careful not to touch the glass, and his human right arm presses a strong thumb against his thigh. Through these feelings, he reminds himself of what is real, of what is here.

  With the rest of his attention, he revels in the discordant chorus of alien worlds singing their existence into the void. He allows their stories to wash over his soul, drinking in as much of their wisdom and wonder as his consciousness can swallow. When the flow at last begins to ebb and his awareness gradually resurfaces, he feels both relief and loss. He has outlasted the flood and returned to his empty desert.

  The man breathes deep, expecting and finding the familiar musk of an acrid and windless plain. That signal means the time has come. Knowing that the sea no longer threatens him, he opens his eyes. Before him, a great wall of liquid night rises upward to the stars. Its dark presence looms endlessly above, featureless and unknowable.

  The watcher hefts his spear and stabs its golden point into the infinite black curtain. Viscous shadow pushes back against him, resisting his strength by clinging to its own substance like pitch. He sets his feet and engages the muscles of his back, then drives the spear deeper. He knows without doubt that the wall between worlds has grown thin enough to pierce, and he will not be denied.

  “Open,” he commands. His deep voice casts a ripple across the barrier’s surface. An iridescent wave comprising a thousand effervescent colors surges outward from his spear tip like water yielding to a plunging stone. He quickly steps forward into that depression, maintaining force. Then, at the point of his thrust, the curtain splits at last, and the liquid void pulls open like a parting veil.

  The dark, desolate world waiting on its other side holds even less life than the ancient city at his back. No sun or stars shed their light upon its surface. In heaven’s place, it has a lid.

  High above black sand dunes, but well below the elevation of clouds, a dull metal sky floats unbuoyed and unmoored. The slag ceiling stretches outward beyond sight, seeming either a reflection of the desert below or the surface of a second world. Looming so close, it appears mere seconds removed from calamitous impact, yet it does not fall. Some unseen force holds its endless bulk aloft and steady, as if it rests upon the shoulders of a god.

  Metal spines hanging from the underside of that smelted mass reveal its contours in flashes of crimson light. The stalagmites flare and dim in an asynchronous dance, flickering like torchbugs. Too dim and discordant to illuminate the world below their perch, they shine just bright enough to glint upon the desert’s black sand.

  If not for their pale clothing and pallid skin, the dozen slim figures waiting on the far side would blend completely into their native gloom. Even given the stark contrast between their bodies and land, they still nearly fade into the all-encompassing shadow.

  Though he can barely discern their features under the present lighting, the man knows from prior exchanges that every member of the opposing contingent is female. The reason behind this custom remains a mystery to him, one of many peculiarities which he now accepts as a matter of course.

  Two of the pale women, the obvious leaders of their band, hide their faces beneath painted wooden masks. Inscriptions he cannot read adorn their foreheads. The long, tubular sleeves of their tunics drape loose at the wrist. Beneath those tunics’ knee-length skirts, strange garments wrap their legs in additional tubes.

  Soft conical hats with forward-tucked points lightly perch atop their onyx-black hair. Brass hooks sewn along the caps’ forward brims pass through boreholes at the masks’ upper edge, allowing the thin wooden faceplates to hang freely.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Apart from their headgear, the servants lurking farther from the portal dress after a similar fashion. However, while the laborers come clad in linen, their masters wear silk.

  The long-armed man regards that leading pair with a wary respect, and their bearing implies a matching attitude towards him and his inhuman limb. With the portal between them, neither party should fear the other’s treachery, but both sides have seen the strange magics their opposites wield. Caution is only natural, but it also wastes time.

  Breaking the needless standoff, the tall man lifts the golden spear in his right hand to salute his opposites. He calls a simple greeting in their foreign tongue, speaking one of the few phrases he knows from that archaic language.

  One of the masked women, the older of the two by considerable margin, repays his salutation. She responds not through speech but with motion. Her arms wave and fingers dance in a complex sequence of graceful gestures. A bare-faced servant standing at the old woman’s side translates the message into spoken words. Her intonation carries a thick accent, betraying her lack of fluency, but her voice travels clearly through the still night air.

  “Gods keep you, Prince of Merchants. May the Artisan favor our meeting.”

  The self-styled prince nods his agreement and steps back before turning to signal his subordinates. All five have already set their packs on the ground and pulled open the lids, patiently waiting to unload the wares stored within. At their leader’s signal, one of their number approaches the portal and unrolls a brightly patterned rug across the stone. Once the mat is ready, the others approach and begin to arrange their goods upon the fabric.

  On the portal’s far side, the two masked women direct their inferiors to prepare a similar display. As before, the foreign leaders communicate using only their hands and arms, speaking nothing aloud. The same servant who spoke previously continues her service by softly translating orders for the uncomprehending laborers.

  In short order, both contingents have arranged their offerings before the gate. The merchant hands his golden spear to a subordinate before the five withdraw again. Then he steps onto the rug and strolls forward towards the portal. He walks a narrow path between the goods until he reaches the edge, where, in a deliberate show of boldness, he stops only one pace before crossing.

  On the other side, the masked crone advances to an equivalent point. She places herself slightly to the man’s left. Offset by a single stride, the two leaders stand almost shoulder to shoulder. From these positions, they examine the curious goods arrayed before them.

  Their meetings always begin with small items. Most of these trinkets carry little value or importance, but this practice gives them something to barter over before they progress to the prearranged exchange of bulk materials. The opening event functions as something between a social nicety and a game. It might even qualify as tradition, given that their first trade consisted of nothing but the expendable objects they happened to have on hand.

  In any case, this is simply how they start.

  After a brief moment of assessment, both of them begin to pick out the novelties and relics they find most fascinating. Rather than conversing through an intermediary, they communicate by assembling two groups of matching goods. After a few minutes of pointing and rearranging, they share a nod to seal the deal.

  Both leaders step back then, and two of their subordinates move forward to replace them. The old woman’s servant and the tall man’s employee carefully stack the chosen objects into otherwise empty packs. When the goods are well arranged, the two leaders step forward again. The man effortlessly lifts his parcel with his inhuman arm. Like everything else, it feels weightless in his claws. The old woman, for her part, merely rests a hand upon her pack as a younger and stronger woman hefts it for her.

  Carefully, with keen awareness of positioning, they pass their bundles through the portal. First the merchant receives the grandmother’s pack with his human arm, then he passes his own bundle into the servant’s waiting hands. Throughout the exchange, the three of them move with deliberate caution to ensure that no portion of their living flesh brushes against the unseen wall between their worlds.

  Steady hands make safe work, and the transfer completes without issue. When the ritualized pleasantry concludes, both leaders withdraw once more, allowing their subordinates to gather up the remaining trinkets and remove the rugs. Once they’ve cleared the ground before the portal, the time for real business has arrived.

  The man turns back to face the abandoned metropolis and the road his people carved through it. As expected, he sees a small train of heavily-laden wagons rolling towards him from the ancient city. The trundling vehicles carry crates of smoked meat, stacks of tanned hides, glazed amphorae filled with garum, and small boxes of ambergris. All according to his wizened counterpart’s commission.

  Satisfied, he returns his attention to the other world to watch the pale foreigners haul their wooden sleds across a field of coarse, black sand. As the laborers drag their platforms forward in two parallel columns, a woman walks before both groups to douse their paths with water, creating slick tracks of mud to ease the desert’s grip.

  The amphora from which she pours seems bottomless, disgorging far more liquid than the vessel could possibly contain. What’s more, it almost appears as if the mud beneath their feet flows forward in a slow current, pushing the sleds just slightly faster. The merchant knows these bare-faced working women command no magic of their own, so one of their masked masters must have conjured that irrational jug into being before handing it off.

  He isn’t sure which of the two, the young woman or her elder, possesses that ability. Given what he’s seen of the crone’s dominion, he would judge her the less likely source, but the applications and limits of their power seems far more arbitrary than his own. Either way, it's a pity such artifacts can’t cross between worlds. The merchant would pay handsomely for a portable wellspring, but since the gate won’t allow that transfer, he’ll settle for the riches of the earth.

  Per longstanding agreement, the approaching sand-sleds carry crates of unrefined silver ore, small chests of uncut topaz, and stacked spools of tightly-wound silk thread. These raw materials will route to his refiners, jewelers, and weavers, respectively. Under the full light of day, the gemstones will glint in a dozen subtle shades of black while the fabric shimmers with the gloss of pearl. All three products should generate good profits after processing.

  The first sled reaches the portal ahead of the first wagon, and the pale women push their burden halfway through the gate before the merchant steps forward to relieve them. His left hand touches the platform without him needing to bend, and he digs his claws into the wood.

  With an errant thought, he consumes the sled’s weight and easily pulls it through the rift between worlds. He carefully drags the top-heavy vehicle out of the way, then leaves it for his subordinates to unload and returns to the portal to assist with the next transfer.

  His wagons arrive shortly thereafter, and the other members of his group labor alongside him, applying muscle and magic in whatever measures each one can. The merchant banters with some of them, paying special attention to those few who had never seen the edge of their world before tonight. Even the new joiners seem to take the unearthly sight in stride, and he feels a measure of pride at their easy focus.

  He chose his people well.

  Working efficiently and with practiced coordination, the merchant and his company quickly intake and unload all of the outworlder’s sleds. As each platform becomes available, they pack it with goods from the wagons and push it back through the gate.

  The women on the other side work slightly slower. Their shoes of tightly-woven bark sink into the black desert with every step, and the runners of their sand-sleds encounter heavy friction after pulling aside from the mud trail. All the same, they move with sufficient haste to keep the portal clear, and the night’s work progresses swiftly. Soon enough, they finish the exchange.

  With their task completed, the caravans immediately ready themselves to leave. As the laborers withdraw, the merchant and his counterpart meet once more at the gate, where the old woman carefully passes a sheaf of papyrus through the portal. On its surface, a tabulated list of pictures and numbers communicates her desired goods and her offered payment. The values haven’t changed since their last meeting, so the merchant records his assent with an ink-pressed claw mark.

  He passes the page back and they exchange a quick round of half-understood pleasantries, then their business concludes. With a parting nod, the merchant turns his back on the other world and walks away. One of his employees returns his golden spear, which he accepts with a word of thanks despite having no further use for the sacred implement. The gate will close of its own accord soon enough.

  The merchant’s mind turns to the ports in which he’ll sell his new goods, and he trails distractedly at the rear of his convoy. He travels only a dozen steps across the stone before a startled cry draws his attention back to the other side.

  In the black desert, a bare-faced young woman has broken away from her station and sprinted for the gate. Her fellows shout surprised objections, and some briefly try to catch her, but none pursue far. The younger of the masked noblewomen attempts to act more decisively. She grabs her mask and nearly pulls it free, but stops when her elder lays a gentle hand upon her arm. Understanding the silent order, she stands down, and the masters take no action as their fleeing servant rushes to her doom.

  The merchant, for his part, raises a hand in warning and commands the running woman to stop. Given the frantic look on her face, he expects to be ignored.

  Her panicked footfalls toss up sand as she swiftly closes the gap. Then, with a final leaping stride, she crosses the threshold. At least, her body does. The woman’s mind, her soul, her breath of life, or whatever energy it is that animates the human form, that stays behind. All that passes through the portal is an empty corpse.

  A dead woman crashes into the rock and tumbles briefly as momentum carries her body forward. She stops face up, staring blankly at an alien sky. Her pale skin, deathly even when she lived, somehow seems ethereal beneath the golden glow of a sunlit world.

  Poor girl.

  The merchant wonders if this is the ending she had wanted, or if she had believed her masters lied about the danger. He isn’t sure which possibility would pain him more, but that’s a subject for later rumination. In this moment, he needs to act.

  He schools his expression then turns to check the reactions of his people. Writ upon their faces he sees pity, frustration, and hurt. A few of them mutter prayers. A few others mutter curses. One softly chides, “Idiot.”

  The merchant silently agrees but holds his tongue. None of his employees seem confused by what occurred, so he has no need to explain. In that case, he doesn’t feel like speaking at all. He walks forward to the corpse in grim silence and gently touches a single claw to her shoulder. With a wordless command, he lifts her body into the air.

  She might have preferred a burial in his world, considering what she risked to reach it. In the absence of her final testament, however, he’d rather return the woman’s flesh to the home of her soul. The merchant wouldn’t know what rites to perform for her funeral anyway.

  With a gentle push, he returns her body through the gate. His influence fades slowly as she drifts through the air. Rather than dropping like a stone as soon as she crosses, the woman floats forward and down until she settles softly on the onyx sand. The footprints left behind by her mad dash draw a vibrant line beneath her static form.

  When the corpse lies still, the masked women approach. The younger of them bends to lift the body from the desert. She nods her head to the merchant, and he nods back. He gestures at the dead woman and asks for her name. The older woman understands his meaning and answers through her translator. Committing the foreign sound to memory, he resolves to transcribe it in his record of this meeting.

  He nods again to the matron. “Thank you, Lady Jaleh.”

  The old woman bows her head and sends a reply through her translator’s voice.

  “We thank you also, Lord Blackwing.”

  The masked women turn and walk away. The younger of them places the corpse on a sled while the elder gathers their workers. A few of the common women have begun weeping. One in particular seems inconsolable.

  The grandmother positions herself between the portal and her servants. Facing away from the gate, she lifts a hand to her face and removes the wooden mask. That simple action unleashes a swell of magic like nothing from the merchant’s own world. Her sentiments and wishes pour into every mind around her, carried atop the gentle flood of her personal dominion.

  Even through the gate, with several paces between them and her back turned, Blackwing still feels the strength in the old woman’s serenity. Her intention weaves throughout the mental current, and her magic almost seems to whisper in his mind. Though the message holds no words, he understands.

  “Death is perfect peace. The dead should cry for us. You need not mourn for them.”

  Her magic instantly persuades its intended audience. The women who had begun to weep wipe dry their eyes, and all distress fades from their expressions. Collecting themselves, they look to their master with calm acceptance and thank her in subdued tones. With this accomplished, the old woman replaces her mask, and the surge recedes.

  Blackwing mentally shakes himself from the trance and shouts at his workers to rouse them from its effect. Under his direction, they continue their withdrawal to the city. Behind them, the gateway finally begins to close. The merchant feels the returning ocean’s manifold lights, sounds, and scents as they softly intensify. He would normally pause to appreciate the change, but this no longer seems an apt time for wonderment.

  Three months will pass before their worlds draw near again. He hopes for a happier conclusion on that next meeting. He can bask in the experience then.

  “No!”

  His heart nearly skips a beat when he hears another shout of alarm. He almost whirls back around before realizing the call came from his own side. He finds the one who yelled and sees her pointing back to the portal. What is it now?

  Blackwing turns back to the gate, averting his eyes from the encroaching sea. For a moment he sees nothing on the empty stone. Then, like a mirage, something flickers into view. He sees an unfamiliar waifish woman with pale skin and a painted wooden mask stumble towards him from the tatters of a shredded illusion.

  She’s clearly a member of the other world’s ruling caste, yet she stands on his side of the gate. She survived the crossing. How? Before Blackwing has time to comprehend, the woman clutches at her masked face and screams in pain.

  Understanding nothing about this stranger apart from her sudden need, he rushes to the traveler’s side. He reaches the woman as she throws aside her mask and presses both palms against her eyes. To Blackwing’s surprise, her young face looks fully human. He had expected stranger mysteries beneath the outworlders’ constant fa?ade, but he puts those thoughts aside.

  The girl begins to collapse as he reaches her, so he catches her body with his human arm. As he gently lowers her to the ground, she begins to convulse. He shouts for assistance, but his people are already at his side. Someone drops by the girl’s feet to restrain their thrashing kicks. Another person pulls her hands away from her eyes, revealing red marks on her face where she had dug her nails into the skin. A third helper arrives a moment later to force a strip of leather between her teeth before she can bite off her own tongue.

  Throughout it all, Blackwing watches helplessly. Only his human arm could be of any use, and its hand must continue cradling the girl’s head to protect her skull from the unforgiving stone. All he can do is stare down at the painful metamorphosis occurring beneath her skin.

  Silver lines writhe beneath the surface, growing and forking in a rootlike network. He catches a brief glimpse of her eyes before she shuts them tight again, and he sees her irises and sclera shimmer with the same silver glint.

  With that, he thinks he understands what happened. The girl’s magic must have changed when she crossed between worlds. She’s growing her graft now, all at once, and the process is clearly excruciating. Having no other way to help, Blackwing tries to speak soothing words, promising that soon the pain will end. He could say anything at all; she won’t understand him even if she’s still aware of a world beyond the pain.

  Looking down at her face, he notices with dim distraction that the skin above her graft is also changing. He watches in fascination as pale alabaster slowly darkens to an olive tone. The transition makes her seem less otherworldly. Blackwing had assumed the foreigners lacked pigment because they had no sun, but their coloration must instead result from their native magic. With that realization, their homeland seems even stranger to him.

  While he muses, the girl falls silent, having finally fainted. As her graft finishes its development and the painful changes stop, her breathing gradually calms. After another minute of slowly weakening shivers, she eventually looks like she’s peacefully dreaming. Blackwing sighs in relief at the sight of her placid face. The exhale releases more tension than he’d known his body held.

  The girl will live. For the first time, someone actually survived the crossing.

  Blackwing glances towards the portal then quickly looks away. The dark curtain between worlds has disappeared, and the sea of change has returned to its rightful place. Absorbed as he was by the adolescent outworlder’s difficult arrival, the merchant hadn’t noticed when the gate closed. He’ll need to wait three months to learn Jaleh’s response to this development.

  In the here and now, one of his subordinates retrieves the leather strip from the girl’s mouth and wipes the spittle off her face. Another hand gently turns her head skyward and brushes her hair aside, revealing the full extent of her new graft. On seeing it, they gasp in shock.

  The silver markings on her face no longer resemble roots. With their pattern complete, Blackwing recognizes the outline of feathers. He stares at the intricate design in quiet stupefaction. After a moment, he confirms that no member of his group has ever seen the like.

  Grafts don’t draw pictures on their host’s skin. This change isn’t natural.

  What did this to her?