“There are those who walk this world who only take. They will take your kindness, your time, your love. They speak of these things, they promise with bladed words and hooked insults. It is lies. When they speak of kindness, they speak of what you can give to them. When they speak of your time, your attention, they wish to be the only thought you have.
I do not know what they mean when they speak of love.
Their victims walk the world as well, lost. Alone. Because when a monster has looked you in the eyes and said they love you, what do those words mean? When your heart was turned against you, how can you ever trust it again?
Iris of Qethsegol, describing her latest artwork, an eternally unraveling and reforming length of rope.
When love is a lie, what words can you use instead?”
ZELITH
Coursework came and went, the entry level classes moving by in a blur. The answers came to Zelith easily, basic concepts she had been teaching herself for years. Quickly, the academic life was starting to drag her down, a sense of boredom creeping over her.
Sitting in her corner of the dorms, she tapped her metal finger on the table in front of her, over and over. After a few moments, stars began to flicker in and out of sight. Without a specific pattern or coordinates, the nascent spell-seeds flickered out of sight as quickly as they appeared, Zelith’s lips vibrating a moment as she looked at the homework she’d been given.
Words kept repeating, the witchblood catching herself repeating the same line over and over. Groaning, she stomped over to Conall’s cot, finding the redhead frantically reading over the coursework, tapping a star into existence in front of his face and writing more.
“…You doing okay?” Zelith asked, sitting down on his bed as Conall looked over, giving a weak smile.
“I mean, it’s an introductory class, but…gods, they really expect a lot from us, huh?” he asked, turning to look at her. “I mean, obviously you’re fine. I’m still…getting used to all of this. It’s hard to feel like I’m supposed to be here, especially since you, you know…”
“You deserve it,” Zelith said, quickly. “Loads of people here don’t know shit about magic, they’re in here because they have the money. You’re smarter than most of them. I just got your foot in the door.”
Conall smiled a bit more, looking a bit more reassured as he turned back to his notes.
“Just need to get to the point you’re at,” Conall said, nodding. “Just nerves. Thanks for checking in.”
Zelith looked at the side of her old friend’s head, his face turned away from her as she stood up. Her expression was dull, her entire face numb, but she grimaced and forced her voice to come out normally.
“Of course. You’ll feel better about it eventually,” she lied. “Good night, Conall.”
Zelith walked off, waving to Conall as he went back to his study. The dorm was full of other students, a mix of humans and others like Professor Verin, their faintly glowing forms indicating some connection to the Glowing Ones, the Elves.
Zelith shook her head, marching back to her desk and bed in the corner, pulling out a notebook and starting to work. Not homework, but something that was dragging her attention back to it, over and over.
A map of the Lasair basement, notated with every second of every loop in time she could remember, the location of every vision, every flash of strange light. The rift in space.
Every time she saw Grey die.
She went back to the writing, to the formulas that had started to come to her when she was asleep. She’d failed. She’d failed so, so many times, and whatever this rift was, it was the only reason she’d managed to do anything.
Her focus was drifting, for a moment. Back two years, in a secluded apartment on the eastern end of Stinjul.
“I would never expect anything from you that I didn’t know you could do, Zee. That’s why I’m so disappointed when you don’t. But hey, if you love living with failure, what can I do to change that?”
Zelith hissed, red flames flaring up near her metal arm before she shook her head and turned back to the notebook. More notes, wracking her brain. Every second, every loop.
No more failure.
GREY
“Seven heads. Good money for good work.”
Grey tapped her foot, waiting as the coins for the last hunt were being counted. Seven wyvern heads lay on the counter, and the man behind it, a somewhat greasy swamp dweller, was holding up the client, a wicked-looked scimitar with a single, humanoid eye made of red sapphire peering out towards the Sunvaar.
“Twenty carals per head,” the sword said, the edge vibrating in the air as the voice hissed out of it. “Good day, hunter.”
Grey picked up the coins and nodded, turning on her heels and stalking out of the raised hut. Outside, her father and the stormhead were arguing, Zarucan slapping some poultice onto an angry red burn mark on Kevyn’s shoulder.
“Have the coins,” Grey said simply, tossing the bag over to the Old Bear. “Metalborn bastard should double it. Go out for crocodiles, find wyverns instead.”
“Don’t worry,” Zarucan chuckled. “Paid us to deal with ’em. Didn’t say shit about the eggs. Crocs can’t survive alone. Wyverns can.”
The old bear shook his head, walking over to Grey as Kevyn grimaced and got their boat ready.
“…You’re ticked off,” Zarucan said simply. “Been shortchanged before. Not a big deal.”
“It’s nothing. Just…bastard. Going in without knowing, could kill somebody,” Grey shot back.
The Old Bear narrowed his eyes a bit, running his hands through his stubble as he seemed to be trying to be studying his daughter’s expression.
“Well. Back to Baytown. Enough money to make ya feel better,” Zarucan said, shrugging.
Grey frowned, getting into the boat. The ride back was quiet, as trips with the Sunvaar tended to be. No words wasted when they weren’t needed, just grunts and the occasional mention of something up ahead. The swamps west of Stinjul were choked with ancient ruins half-buried in muck, an old civilization from before the Titans died left to rot.
As some of the buildings passed by, Grey could almost imagine Zelith sitting at the edge of the boat, going on and on about history, about whoever built the ruins, just. Words. And Grey would be torn, between wanting to hear every one and convincing Zelith there were better things she could use her mouth for.
Before she could imagine exactly what she’d do if Zelith was there and her family were not, Grey shook her head, folding her arms and glaring out towards the setting sun in the south, as the shape of Baytown materialized from the faint fog that crept up from the water, like a blanket rising up over the entire area.
Hours passed, Grey moving through the streets of the town. And, despite her best efforts, she ended up back in her room on the ship, staring at the ceiling, alone for the seventh night in a row after the demon had been defeated and the Sunvaar had left Stinjul.
Grey growled, looking over towards a mostly empty bottle and frowning.
“Dammit, Lily,” she muttered, wiping at her eyes before downing the rest of the bottle and tossing it to the side, letting the bitter taste flood her mouth, a match for the mood that had fallen over her.
Sighing, she closed her eyes, the drink already numbing her as she sighed.
“…Burn that damn school to the ground.”
Strike The Horizon 