What the Sorceress Sees

A venomous scowl twisted Lady Zovira’s lips. Her gaze was fixed upon the shimmering surface of her scrying pool, where she watched the image of the Outrealmer girl and her companions as they scrambled from the chasm Trogg had created and vanished into the nocturnal gloom. When she finally looked away from the glass-smooth water, a caustic fury ignited deep within her.

“Muscaria!” she shrieked, the name shattering on the final syllable. A sudden silence descended, leaving her breathing in sharp, ragged gasps. Before the last echo had faded from the cold stone of her chamber, an Aelvin warrior was already kneeling before her.

Clad in immaculate plate mail, Muscaria’s arrival was so swift and silent it was as if she had materialized from the very shadows. Like all her Aelvin kin, her frame was slender and delicate, her features so sharp they might have been carved from obsidian, and her skin possessed the dappled hue of twilight. From the ornate helm tucked beneath one arm to the steel-tipped sabatons on her feet, she was the epitome of martial grace. Her poise was as liquid and undeniable as a cascading waterfall; when she moved, no whisper of sound betrayed her. This was Muscaria, general of Zovira’s armies.

Her gaze remained respectfully downcast. “You summoned me, my lady?”

The sight of her general, kneeling steadfastly upon the flagstones of her citadel, did little to quell the inferno in Zovira’s soul. Yet, she had not clawed her way to this pinnacle of power by surrendering to every fleeting frustration. She was a master of masking her turmoil, schooling her features into a mask of serene composure.

“And why,” Zovira began, her voice a silken, threatening purr, “is there now a Feyan in their midst?” The question was far from rhetorical. A race of warriors, the Feyan trained their children in the lethal arts of staff, sword, and axe from a young age, rendering even a single one of them a formidable threat.

“It is possible he has allied himself with them for the same reasons as the others, my lady,” Muscaria responded, her voice a low, melodic chime. “Or perhaps he has been retained as a sell-sword.”

“Him,” Zovira corrected absently, her attention drifting back to the scrying pool. The water’s surface shimmered and cleared, revealing the chaotic scene of the pursuit. She witnessed a blur of motion as the Feyan artfully decapitated a stumbling Trogg that had blundered into their path. In the depths of her mind, a brilliant, cold idea began to crystallize.

“Muscaria,” she said sharply, her focus snapping back to the Aelvin general. She began to speak, her words sharp and precise as she detailed the intricacies of her plan. Throughout the briefing, Muscaria’s dark eyes never left her mistress’s face, her own expression unreadable. When Zovira concluded, the general offered a short, sharp bow and then simply vanished, gone to muster her forces for the impending assault.

A slow smile spread across Zovira’s face. She plunged a hand into the pool, shattering the image with a cascade of silver ripples. As her smile widened into a predatory leer, a chilling laugh echoed through the vast, empty halls of her fortress. With preternatural patience, she waited for the water’s surface to calm, making no move to hasten the process with her magic. The plan would require time to unfold. And when it did… Zovira laughed again, her voice sharp with merciless anticipation. She could hardly wait.

To say Jianna was displeased would be a gross understatement. There are few sensations quite as jarring as being roused from a deep sleep by the thunder of Troggs stampeding overhead, and even less so when one of them proceeds to crash through the roof of your shelter. What made it particularly galling was that, for the first time in days, she had been genuinely comfortable. Full from their rations and nestled beneath a warm blanket, she had experienced a minor miracle: Flitterwing had produced an actual hairbrush. For ten blissful minutes, she had worked through the knots accumulated over the past two days before tying her hair back into some semblance of order. She had then curled up and drifted into a warm, contented sleep.

Until, of course, the incident with the Trogg and the ceiling.

The night was an ink-black void, so profound she could not see the hand she held before her own face. A sharp stitch was already lancing her side, but she found herself silently thanking the two years of high school track that had granted her a modicum of endurance. Beside her, Blynn was not faring as well; unused to such prolonged exertion, the Satyri’s breathing was a harsh, ragged sound, even over her own, and he was beginning to fall behind.

Malakor set a frantic pace at the head of their desperate flight. Despite the bandage on his arm from their prior battle, his six limbs moved with an unsettling celerity, pausing only intermittently to allow the Satyri and the slower Human to catch up.

As they ran, Flitterwing, initially a calm and deadly presence, grew increasingly agitated. He would frequently dart skyward, a fleeting silhouette against the starless canvas, to survey their surroundings. When Malakor berated him for revealing their position, the Feyan’s frustration only seemed to intensify.

Finally, his wings beating a frantic rhythm as he hovered abruptly, he stopped. “Something is wrong!” he cried out, his voice a blade of terror slicing through the darkness.

Malakor skidded to a halt and spun around, while Jianna and Blynn collapsed to their knees, gasping for air. “What is wrong, Fey?” Malakor growled, his own patience worn thin.

But Flitterwing seemed oblivious, his head cocked as if deciphering the distant, sporadic roars of the Troggs that punctuated the night.

“There’s something wrong,” he repeated, his voice tight with strain. “Those Troggs… they should be dead by now!” Without another word, he became a silver streak against the black, shooting back the way they had come.

Malakor swore under his breath and turned to Blynn’s heaving form. “Keep goin’ this way,” he commanded. “Watch for Troggs. Hide if any get too close.” Then he raced after Flitterwing, moving with a speed Jianna had never witnessed before.

His shouts for the Feyan to return were lost to the wind, swallowed by the panicked creature's flight. With an exasperated roll of his single eye and a knot of apprehension tightening in his gut, Malakor settled into a grim, silent pursuit.

They bounded back across the marsh, unharmed, and through the tall grasses of their first meeting. Flitterwing landed suddenly, giving Malakor a moment to catch him. His eyes were wild as he scanned the familiar landscape. The demon, panting, opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but was cut off by Flitterwing’s voice—hollow and distant, as if speaking only to himself.

“There should be guards everywhere,” he whispered. “Anyone with half an ear could hear those Troggs…”

“What d’ye think is wrong?” Malakor pressed.

Flitterwing merely shook his head and launched himself back into the air. With a huff that turned to steam in the cold air, Malakor sighed and gave chase.

The reason for the Feyan’s terror soon became terrifyingly apparent.

It struck them first as a scent—a foul miasma of spilled blood, scorched flesh, and the acrid tang of smoke. The overpowering stench stung Malakor’s nostrils, making him recoil. High above, Flitterwing seemed to falter in the air, as if the sheer weight of horror were dragging him earthward.

Slowing his pace to a walk, Malakor surveyed a scene of utter devastation.

The plains were a charnel ground, littered with the broken and bloodied forms of the dead. Some of the bodies still smoldered, exhaling noxious fumes that mingled with the metallic taste of blood. In several places, tunnels had collapsed, the landslides revealing more mangled corpses beneath the raw earth. The stench of death was a palpable, cloying presence that thickened the air, and Malakor’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

Flitterwing’s eyes were wide and vacant, his mouth agape as he struggled to form words that refused to come. He was breathing in rough, harsh gasps.

Malakor hung back, giving him a moment, his gaze fixed on the Feyan.

Tentatively, Flitterwing drifted closer, his head tilting from side to side as he absorbed the scale of the carnage. Suddenly, a new and desperate energy animated him, and he whirled about.

“Where is it? Where?” he whispered, his voice cracking. It has to be close—the most heavily fortified place in the entire colony, he thought. It must be safe. It had to be. There! Spotting a deep depression in the ground, he darted toward the collapsed tunnel. He began to claw at the earthen rampart with his bare hands, frantically scrabbling at the soil, ignoring the stones and roots that tore at his skin. Drawing one of his swords, he began to hack at the packed earth, pulling away chunks with his bloodied fingers. He had tunneled more than two feet into the packed soil when his hand suddenly broke through into open space. Working with a frenzied, desperate speed, he tore the opening wider and scrambled through to the other side.