Starriace whimpered in the chilling darkness, lungs burning with ragged breath. The hard stone floor embraced her with cold, damp greetings. Her face, laying on the unforgiving surface, grew numb from the seemingly glacial sensation, but she knew it was fatigue more than anything. A fine dust stirred with each painful exhale; a cold ache filled her nostrils. Anemic from her brush with death, fighting for her life, the flight—the exacted toll was more than she expected. She lay motionless, frail, debilitated. Through the nebulous pain filling her head, fragments of memory trickled in. The last moment she remembered was teleporting with Rusem’s ring.

  Stirring, she sat up, groggy, opening her eyes, but the darkness lingered. A sharp pain lanced through her head, festering behind her eyes. In her mind, flashes of red and purple light permeated, the screaming sheol, the distinctive pop, the heat pouring out of her eyes. Even now, they burned. Tentatively, she reached up to rub the irritation away.

  “Don’t touch them,” Rusem’s voice carried to her. His presence brushed the edge of her essence, his aura distinct, calculating, methodical, cold, and aloof.

  Shouldn’t he be dead? Why do I feel a presence?

  “Why? What’s wrong with them?” she asked, her voice hoarse. Her throat ached like a flared infection, even swallowing hurt. Disorientation waltzed away with her senses; the unforgiving darkness revealed nothing.

  “You tapped into an ability too strong for you to dominate,” he intoned with ease, his voice smooth, thoughtful. “It should have killed you. I am surprised by your resilience. Strange.” He paused, and she felt his essence brush against hers.

  He should not have an aura! she noted in a flushing panic.

  “By attempting the ability before you were ready, you lacked the required vitality for such conjury. The power drew from the only available source, your life, and it cost you dearly, I am afraid. It taxed your body, and you’ll be affected for the rest of your life.”

  “What will be affected?” she whispered, dread saturating her voice.

  “Your eyes,” his oily voice answered. “I’ve never believed in luck, something unproven, but I can admit when I am wrong. You are very lucky, indeed.”

  “How does it affect my eyes? What’s wrong with my eyes?” she badgered him.

  “Permanent disfiguration,” Rusem revealed.

  “Am … am I ugly?” she uttered between her teeth, horrified.

  What will Lily think? Will she still like me? What of Kam? Will he still want me?

  His chuckle, a deep rumble that sounded patronizing. “Do I detect a modicum of vanity? You have nothing to fear; you look the same, with the exception of your sclera, the whites of your eyes glow scarlet, or is it crimson? I can never tell.”

  A faint gasp slipped out of her, a precursor to a quick sob before she wrangled her emotions.

  Lily will never love me again. She couldn’t look at me without being disgusted.

  “Learn to contain your sentiments. They will give you fuel when needed, but will leech you, leaving you weak and vulnerable. During heightened emotions, well, let’s just say that most regret their actions. Be the antithesis of passion, become placid, a sponge; let nothing escape from your face, voice, or mannerisms. Only at the end of a battle, when you are ready to finish off your opponent, should you release the hell that storms inside you.”

  “I understand,” Starriace voiced in the darkness, hollow and monotone. She was anything but—her passions remained untethered, unbound, and the more she tried to gain control, confine, the more they rebuffed her.

  “A good start,” Rusem praised her. “Learn while you are exhausted and vulnerable, and the lessons will guide your actions in times of strength.”

  “I still can’t see.”

  “A momentary setback. Like I said, luck played a part. In a few days, we’ll see if your sight will return.”

  It was three days before Starriace’s sight returned, and Rusem used the time to teach her how to fight blind, guided by her aura. Through Rusem’s teachings, the loss of her sight, and Fife’s grueling discipline instilled in her, she grew to trust its guidance. The loss of one of her senses heightened the others, and her mastery of air granules helped her detect incoming attacks from distorted movements of air.

  Rusem, like the others in her life, answered questions with deliberate pauses. She could hear the hesitations, the half-truths, and the calculated lies. It was poison in her veins. He withheld information, like Fife, like Judas. Too weak to leave, she suffered his patronizing attitude. The loss of her vision emboldened his manipulation, but she would leave recovered, indemnified. Disgust formed in her stomach for the ghost, but her former master, Fife, took the brunt of her scorn, despite realizing the truth behind his words. Now, she believed it was never a question of her being ready, but that the Grand Maghai had been terrified by what he might unlock within her.

  Rusem taught her the rejuvenation spell, remembering Judas using it a few times during her short-lived apprenticeship with the warlock. With the ability, she worked day and night, every hour, to hone her skills. Eating and sleep became a luxury; she did both as little as possible, making up for wasted time with Fife Doole. Perhaps she would return later on and kill the imbecile.

  If I keep this up, she mused, I’ll be imperious.

  Being with Rusem helped sideline thoughts that always ruled her emotions. Judas, Meristal, Staell, Ava, Fife, even Xilor, persisted as faint impressions best left forgotten.

  On the fourth day, Rusem introduced a dim light to the dark room. The dimness didn’t hurt, but a bright light would, so he gradually increased the luminance in the temple. After almost four days of darkness, the dim light seemed like Apor and Praema high in the sky.

  Over the few scant days they spent together, the spirit opened up about his previous life. On the fourth day, he told her a tale of how this place came into being.

  “When I was younger, I took control of a domain. At the age of twelve, I was the Lord of the Valley of Stones domain, which lies south of the Melodic Mountains. I was surrounded by wizards and elyves more powerful—well, more accurate—but all obeyed my commands. When I became older, nearing the Age of Maturity, I rode out with my marshal, the commander of my vast army.”

  “How come the wizards use armies instead of magic?”

  “Not everyone is as powerful as you or I … not everyone is meant to be great.” He hesitated briefly and continued the tale. ”We were at constant war with a neighboring city, Chissu’Nanuci, no more than a week’s ride for a swift steed. They set up an encampment about a two day’s journey from my home, along the river that runs to the Valley of Stones in the east. We went to destroy the encampment with the help of the Stone Giants.

  “When the dust settled, one of my scouts reported there was an opening in the ground with stairs that lead into a huge cavern. There, I encountered what I can only describe as an echo of a thousand deceased wizards, a collective called the Genah. Over the course of several years, after proving my dedication and loyalty, they instructed me to build seven focal temples, the eighth one in this city as the focal point. If you haven’t noticed already, there are seven engravings in the pedestal in the center of this room. Each for a stone. Once all seven temples were in place, I took on the quest to find seven unique stones for the engravings, but someone else was on the quest, too. A dark creature of heart and mind called Xilor. He already possessed six, and I held the seventh. Placing the six in the circle, he overcame me, taking the seventh…” He wavered, a blank expression came over his face. ”With the seventh in place, the whole world went white. I cannot tell you what happened next; I don’t remember, but I have been here ever since, pondering what exactly happened.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Some people say that when cursed with a vile evil, or when someone murders you, your spirit is scarred for eternity, becoming a corporeal ghost. I do not believe that is so. I believe that when you are given too much, beyond the capacity of your body, you become what I am. If you had an alternative source to draw from when you performed your attack against the sheol, the same would have happened to you.”

  Starriace sat, entranced by his tale and warning. She was fascinated by the eight temples and the seven unknown stones and what purpose they served. Xilor had all seven at one point, did he still have them? Indeed, he survived, or did he? Did he still possess them, or did utilizing the stones destroy them?

  What happened when the world went white? Did it make Rusem a ghost? Why hasn’t anyone else ever talked about the world going white? Judas never mentioned it, neither did Fife.

  That night, she surrendered to sleep for the first time in four days, but the temples and stones flooded her dreams. In her slumbering fantasy, it was she who exposed the cave, built the seven temples, claimed the mystic stones, and placed them on the pedestal. The bright light engulfed her and faded.

  The quest repeated several times through the night. Starriace took the dream as silent confirmation of her next task. But her nighttime vision didn’t come unaccompanied—another vagary weaved between, more like reliving a memory. A shadow attacked her, claws swinging for her face, catching her flesh, ripping through her cheeks. Long skeletal nails dug deep into her arms as it tried to drag her away. Without success, the sheol reverted to sinking its claws into her skull, leaving a trace of itself in her. Death, carnage, and obliteration filled her, the remnants of events done in service of a master.

  She bolted awake, gasping for breath. While the temples faded, her journey remained clear and concise. The hallucination with the shadow happened before, in Far Point, the night she met Harold, Kam, and Lily. The thought chilled her. How could she have forgotten? What was its significance? She pushed the thought away, trying to recollect the temples. A cold certainty fell over her with the revision and Rusem’s tale. Xilor placed the seven stones on the pedestal and destroyed the city, turning it into the City of Despair. Conflicting thoughts reemerged, the clarity in which she once sympathized with Xilor.

  Starriace understood him, his addiction to unchecked potential, but he was inherently evil, driven insane. No matter the choices she made, Starriace was not him, not like him. With cold resolve, she let out a huff.

  He needed to die before he hurt anyone else again.

  How to defeat such an entity? She managed to damage the sheol with lightning, but the attempt nearly killed her in the process. The sheol only succumbed once she used the life drain. Hope flickered in her chest, having arrived at a possible course of action. But could she repeat the feat? Doubt gnawed her insides.

  With torpid eyes, she cast about for the spirit, rubbing the sleep away. She didn’t find him; he always left when she meditated or slept. Running the notion by him seemed like a good idea, not trusting herself with such an important decision, but perhaps it was too trusting of her. Passion and potential ruled her life, but she lacked age-old wisdom. Internal deliberation ensued, but she put the debate on hold when a small chitter snared her attention, loud in the vast quiet. Movement caught her eye, a little mouse padding cautiously towards her.

  I thought everything here died. How did it survive?

  The curious thought fell away to reason, hypothesizing mice and other animals were not affected. Xilor’s blast from combining the stones most likely wiped out all life in a brief, intense flash. Since then, all sentient beings kept away from the city, but animals? Perhaps it didn’t affect them the same.

  She shifted, leaning towards the mouse, a perfect candidate for her experiment. She wondered if she had enough control. Could she start and stop the life drain as she wished, or did she have to continue until the conjury ran its course? The results of flirting with such dangerous sorcery could prove grave or miraculous.

  Best to start small.

  As the rodent approached her, she stretched out her hand. The mouse paused, its little nose rolling around, the whiskers quivering. Starriace closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. She reached out like Harold taught her, distinguishing the mouse’s life force; it barely clung to its existence, starved and emaciated. A few more hours, a day at the most, and it would keel over. Relieving the rodent of a miserable few hours of pain seemed merciful.

  With moderate confidence, she tugged, drew the last wisps of life out of the animal. The small creature didn’t offer up much, but Starriace detected a subtle change in her essence. As the last of life sapped from the being, it rolled to its side, stiff and unmoving. Careful not to absorb the life into her essence, she waited for a few heartbeats before releasing the energy, filling the diminutive form.

  The mouse stirred, twitched. A smile flashed across her face, her eyes wild. The smile fell as the rodent struggled to its feet. She reached out with her essence, encompassing the vermin, detecting the change. Evident change shifted before her eyes, the hair promptly turned from brown to ash gray, sickly and withered, atrophied. To her startling discovery, the little mammal didn’t even breathe; it stood motionless, black lifeless eyes stared at her. She sent small nudges of psychic power to it, suggesting it perform what she wished.

  It did.

  Unexpectedly, it keeled over, dying a second time. As it stilled, a red-black element escaped the body and floated away, dissolving, fading. Glowing scarlet eyes flickered up, thoughtful. Could she perform a life drain on a ghost? Naturally, it wouldn’t technically be called the same, but the concept remained. Rusem took physical form before when Ava accompanied her, or whenever he wished, often doing so when they conversed. Would it be enough?

  Her time in the temple reached culmination, her sight restored, and a task fueled by a story, begging for completion. She would have to act quickly, take him by surprise, unsure if he had the ability to fight off the attack. He had lied and manipulated her, prodding her towards a hidden agenda of his own. Did he think to possess her? Was it possible?

  I will never be weak again. I will never be helpless.

  “Rusem?”

  “Starriace?” he answered, materializing with a smile on his face, his eyes glittering.

  She waited until he formed fully. He took a step towards her, a hand extended.

  In stunning haste, she called upon the life drain. Her hand reached out hastily, palm up, her fingers mimicking curling spires, like palming a small ball. Rusem glowed red; the force leeched from him. The luster, traversing the expanse between them, entered her outstretched hand.

  His face spasmed in a jerk of strain, his face paling. Dark satisfaction flared in her chest, a smile coming to her lips. “I sense your terror. Not of me, but of what I can do to you. You lied to me, Rusem, tried to use me, manipulate me. You are no different than the rest of them!”

  “You dare!?” he strained. “I helped you! I taught you while others abandoned you!”

  His words invoked her need for retaliation, pulling harder on the siphon, strengthening her command. A howl of rage ripped through the room, and for a brief moment, Starriace thought he would break her grasp.

  “How can this be?” he screamed. He strained against her hold, fighting the hemorrhage, clamping down metaphysically. What passed for his cognitive center buzzed in concentration. She felt her grip slip, and in a panicked attempt, attacked him with her psyche. She imagined his determination like a hand clamping around a gushing wound and mentally pried the fingers away, weakening his resolve. The weaker his grasp became, the more panic flooded him, enveloping both combatants, but where he drew fear, Starriace drew strength.

  His mind raced for a solution, knowing he was losing the battle. As quick as he thought of one, Starriace countered. The red energy rippled between them like a tight-spinning, horizontal cyclone, tendrils of lightning. The air crackled and thrummed, potent. The more of his essence she consumed, the more corporeal he became. A stray, bleak thought flashed through his mind, and she snatched it away, making it her own.

  “You fear that I will bring you back repeatedly?” she choked out, the siphon taxing her. Sweat prickled her brow, and she altered his thought, ingenuity taking root. “No, Rusem,” she said, a malicious smile spreading. “I’ll only bring you back once; you will be the first of many. Imagine what an army could do!”

  She basked in his brimming terror, gorging herself. The last tendrils of defiance broke; his mind lay exposed. The secrets he kept belonged to her now, even if she had to pluck them out. He crumbled to the floor, his knees jarring into the stone, and the funneling stopped for a brief moment.

  Finish what must be done.

  With palm stretched out, the red glow arched out of the body on the floor. “This won’t hurt,” she encouraged soothingly. “At least, not anymore.” A sick, oily laugh rose in her throat, curling like smoke, thick and choking. Color faded from Rusem’s corporeal flesh, the light from his eyes dimmed, and the red siphon dissipated. Holding the life-force, contained yet apart, she channeled it back into the lifeless being. The luminosity flowed back into Rusem, giving him life once again. She tapered off the ability as the body twitched and rose to his feet.

  “You are the first of many,” she promised, smiling at her creation.

  A dark, manic glimmer sparkled in her eye. The problem she faced now was finding deceased beings and an energy source. She could use her aura, but it would require her raising them individually, separately. She needed an army.

  “You’ll be a lord over our marshals like you were long ago.” An army of one risen wouldn’t get her far, and she was not about to kill people to get what she wanted. She wasn’t Xilor.

  She took a cautious step forward to examine Rusem when a sudden jerk pulled her from behind. Fighting the tenacious grip encircling her waist, she almost succeeded in breaking the hold. Someone or something attempted to rip her away from the temple. The moment passed in a long pause, a heartbeat where her exerted force canceled the other out. Then it was gone, and she was jerked off her feet, hurtling backward. Blackness chased her for a few moments before she landed hard, sprawled on the floor. A towering shadow loomed over her.

  “Welcome, Fallen Angel,” Xilor greeted.