Page 176 of Ash and Feather

I kept walking.

A house soon materialized at the end of my path. Its design was relatively simple, featuring stacked stone and wood beams reminiscent of the small cottages that dotted the human villages around my old home in the mortal realm. Except there was nothingsmallabout it; it sprawled as far as I could see in both directions, and the closer I came to it, the taller it seemed to loom.

By the time I reached the front door—which was partially ajar—I was certain it was magic making the dwelling grow.

A twinge of doubt struck me as I stared at the warm light slipping through the cracked door. But I’d already come this far, so there seemed no point in hesitating now.

I let myself inside.

Only to immediately freeze at the sight before me.

The interior lookedexactlylike my old home, down to the scent of cooking spices, woodsmoke, and freshly-tilled earth. I could hear familiar laughter, too. My father’s. My sister’s.

I tucked my chin toward my chest and shut my eyes.

Opening them again, I lifted my head, and the scenery had changed—now it was the tent where I’d last seen Cillian. Except it was empty. Sounds of a battle rose at my back. It smelled of blood and dust, metal and fire.

Another blink, and it was all gone.

Over and over, my surroundings flashed before me, changing with every blink, becoming all the places I’d been, all the memories that haunted me.

“Enough,” I said into the churning scenery.

I washere,now, and I would not be defined by those past places, those memories, any longer.

As soon as this thought crossed my mind, I tightly closed my eyes again. The house grew quiet. I peeked and saw it had changed yet again. But it was an unfamiliar sight, now; still quiet, and with a settledfeeling about it—blinking no longer shifted any of its pieces.

The permanent design it had taken on was made up of wooden walls, narrow corridors, and shelves lined with both books and trinkets of all kinds, from crowns and goblets featuring shining gemstones, to small, intricately detailed figurines made of all different varieties of wood and stone, to some objects I couldn’t readily name.

I itched to organize the decor according to their colors and shapes, but I kept my hands to myself and continued walking.

I moved deeper inside, choosing hallways mainly based on how brightly they were lit. My Fire magic didn’t seem to have any effect on the torches that lined the halls, even when I tried to brighten them. My feet made no noise against the plush, silver-white carpet. The smell of leather and books slowly overtook thespaces around me, and I heard soft music playing from some distant room that I never managed to find.

After several minutes of exploring, I reached the end of a hallway and found myself stepping into a vast space. Not a proper room with a door or windows, but simply an expansion of the hall itself—one with curved walls and yet more shelves filled to the brim with a wondrous amount of different objects.

A man sat in a large, straight-backed armchair next to a fireplace filled with white flames, clutching a silver cup. Black, raven-like birds hopped around his feet, leaving shadowy trails in their wake. Feathers drifted about the room, along with bits of shining ash that seemed to be originating from the white flames dancing in the hearth.

The man spoke without taking his eyes from this strange fire: “Karys of Mistwilde. Elf. Rebel. Mortal…” He lifted the cup in his hands toward his lips, inhaled from it, but didn’t sip. “Or…Karys, Goddess of Fire and Forging. Immortal being of the Shade Court.” The cup stayed poised just out of reach of his mouth as he slowly cut his gaze toward me and asked, “Are you here to ask me which one of these sides you belong to?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m here to tell you that I don’t belong to either of them.”

He lowered the cup, staring into the shining eyes of the bird closest to his boot as if he was consulting the creature.

Then he gestured to a chair across from him—one that I was almost certain hadn’t been there before—and said, “Sit down, won’t you?”

Phrased as an invitation, yet it sounded more like a command in his quiet, powerful voice.

I gathered every scrap of courage I could and made my way to the chair.

The fireplace brightened as I sat down, fully illuminating the man—thegod—across from me. Malaphar. The Dark God. The Moraki responsible for enlightening the world with all shades of knowledge, blessing its creatures with souls.

I’d seen him before, but never quite like this. He looked slightly more approachable than in the past—or maybe it was me who had changed, who was no longer content to cower at the sight of him.

He was—predictably—beyond beautiful in a terrible, otherworldly kind of way. His face looked as if it had been hewn from a slab of white marble; strong, smooth, its pale color oddly multifaceted in the light of the fire. The shade of his eyes reminded me of the stream I’d seen when I first arrived in this realm—a milky sort of blue with iridescent qualities. His usual black wings were missing, but the feathers drifting around the room seemed eager to be made into those wings; they kept gathering at his back only to be dismissed by a subtle shake of his head or a twitch of his hand.

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