Page 6 of Night of Death and Flowers

No matter how much I’ve tried, my memories linger out of reach, like hazy smoke that can never be grasped. Yet, the emotions remain intact. Whatever caused me to leave and imprison my family was rooted in heartbreak and betrayal.

I have picked apart the prophecy countless times, carefully deciphering each phrase. My sister loved nothing more than giving double meaning to her words.

Daughter of creation.

As we cannot have children, it must mean the witch was born into Essentria’s coven.

I mull over Nyxara’s next words.

On the fifteenth harvest.

The sacrificial tournament—The Harvest—closes the last days of my one hundred and fifty years. From what I discovered while in the Darklands, I had used sacrificial magic to bind the magic spelling them to sleep. Therefore, if the prophesied witch is killed on that island, then it will undo the spell.

A daughter of creation, doomed with death, shall free those trapped and destroy Death’s domain.

The witch will be amongst them, this Harvest. She will free them.

Draperies of silk woven from shadows cascade from the pillars that surround the chamber, their threads glistening with silver as if they were cut from the night sky.

I glide my fingers down one of the eight columns, each one an artistry of death, carved from bones and skulls of the sacrifices sent here. They are my only companions in this somber existence, where I remain as a sentinel of some modem of balance.

I flex my fingers, sensing the powers of my sibling’s rage inside me. Each of them is a distinct and tumultuous entity that pushes and pulls against one another, yet all of them vie for release. Nyxara’s tricky magic blazes through my veins, aching to weave destinies and timelines again.

Intertwined with hers, Astraea’s muddied hue of dream powers haze my mind while Volan’s fiery power of will singes my body. Essentria’s surge of tempestuous magic crackles beneath my skin with electrical force to join the rest before Cyna’s judgment and truth powers stir within me with a blast of primal fury. As always, I restrain and tighten them to my core, despite their futile attempt to rebel against my darkening thoughts.

I will not allow the prophecy to unfold, even if it means destroying everything and anyone on my path to prevent it.

I command my shadows to form a bridge and carefully step through it, leaving the ether behind, a place that exists between the Darklands and the mortal world.

In a swirl of mist and shadow, I fall through time and space until the familiar burn of the veil slices through me. Twinkling stars appear among the blur of darkness, like pinpricks of silver against the black canvas. Below, houses and trees grow larger as my body descends in a rapid spiral towards the mortal world. My lungs burst when I draw the first breath of the night, only for it to be knocked out of me the second I hit the ground with a swift, sharp thud.

The sky slowly comes into focus as I open my eyes. Coughing, I sit upright, my gaze traveling over the familiar, night-pinched meadow on the edge of the forest in the small coastal town of Ennismore.

“Damn mortal bones,” I splutter, and press my palm against my shoulder, then massage out a twinge of pain throbbing at the curve of my muscle.

Slowly, I stand. Gusts of wind whip through the tall grass and purple wildflowers, lashing my nude body with icy abandon. A shiver snakes down my spine, and I rub my arms.

Ribbons of power slither between my fingers to knit darkness, shadows and stars into an embroidered, silver and black tunic, midnight pants, and leather boots. The clothes clad around my muscles, shielding my skin from the gusts of Olen, the cold months.

I let out a long exhale as the last of the magic simmers, then recoils in a dark smoke, back into my core. My gaze lifts to the inky sky while my veins singe with an indescribable grief that is only eased by the lingering fog of amnesia in my mind.

I leave the meadow, keeping to the shadows as I enter Morcidea Forest, an endless sea of gray, barricading the entire town in a barrier of time-chiseled trees and magic.

Peering through contorted gray branches, knotted like bones, I inhale a deep lungful of the town’s air, scented with lavender and smoky incense.

The darkness becomes my cloak as I keep out of sight, peering from the refuge of the shadows.

Booths stand amidst the market cloaked in glittering black, embellished with shimmering silver thread depicting the ancient sigils of the gods.

My lips curl upward when I spot one that stands out among the others—the fine embroidery of skeletal fingers of my reapers curved around three crow’s heads.

The God of Death.

“Over ere’,” a voice calls as the market dwindles to an end. I tilt my head, my eyes drawn to a woman at the helm of the closest booth, her long gray hair tied in a thick braid.

With a twist of her wrists, shadows rise in an illusory swirl, capturing the merchandise from her stall. She wiggles her fingers, dancing the shadows into submission, and they link through the locks of the chests. One by one, potion bottles are placed inside shadow fingers, the contents inside shimmering with purple and poison.

The sign reading ‘Night Market’ catches my eye from the front.

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