by S. K. Sayari
“You lost all this?” She turned and found Theo standing with his hands behind his back, somehow looking both younger and older at the same time.
“A just recompense for the horrors I have caused.”
“So these people…” She stopped in front of a scene of a little girl with wide brown eyes and a soft smile. Her hair hung in tangled curls down to her lap, where dirt-stained fingers curled around a half-wilted rose. “They all summoned you…didn’t they.”
Theo stepped forward to stand behind her. “That’s Grace.”
Fondness softened his words, and Mira felt a pang of jealousy at the affection in his words. He had loved these people, had helped them simply because they’d called him. She had grown up believing jinn were wicked, malicious spirits who existed to torture humans, to twist their words, to defile their wishes. But they were not that way at all.
At least, not this one.
Mira turned away so he could not read the emotion in her eyes. A flash of red drew her gaze to a corner, where a single red rose floated in a glass dome on a small table. She approached it with wonder, eyeing the dark ribbons of shadow that twined around the stem.
“What is this?” she breathed in fascination.
“A gift,” he answered with a reminiscent smile. “I keep it alive as a reminder.”
Mira took his hand and trailed her finger across his palm, watching the shadows respond to her touch. Watching Theo respond to her touch. The pain of hope collided with reluctant fear before settling into a sort of morbid finality.
“If there was a way to set things right,” she asked softly, “would you?”
“I would do anything to take back what I have done.”
“Even if it kills you?”
His eyes glittered with a fierceness she had never seen. “Especially if it kills me.”
Mira picked at her dinner—the last meal she would eat in this shadowy realm—and wondered why she did not want to leave. Tomorrow she could go back, return to Earth, to the sun, to her mother.
“Theo, I need to tell you something.”
“It can wait.” He pushed back from the table, crossing the room to fiddle with some half-ancient machine in the corner.
She watched the strong slant of his shoulders, the curls that gathered at the nape of his neck, and wished she could run her hands through the dark locks. Wished she could hold him close and tell him what he had grown to mean to her. Wished her first dagger had worked and ended it all a year ago, so she wouldn’t have to make this choice now.
“I think I found a way,” she said. “To kill Isandra, I mean.”
Theo turned and the haunting melody of a song she didn’t know floated across the room, as sad and peaceful as his eyes. He approached her slowly, his eyes smoky and soft, like the fur of a wolf—but she knew he was no beast.
“I’m going to try it,” Mira said, wondering why her pulse raced so quickly, why her hand longed to reach out and touch his. “But I think it will—”
“Dance with me.”
“What?” Somehow his simple request invoked more fear than any threat he could have made.
“Dance with me.” His voice was laced with midnight velvet, full of promise. He reached out a hand, a symbol of trust, an offer of peace.
“Okay.”
When her hand clasped his, the shadows rushed forward, twining around them. Mira took comfort in his arm, strong and firm around her as he led her to the center of the floor. She pressed herself closer, using his body as a guide, letting her feet get lost in the dance. Her yellow skirt spun around her in an aura of sunshine as music filled the room, pushing against years of pain, breaking down the walls she had forged so carefully.
Theo smiled, and Mira felt something melt inside. Tomorrow she could put back up the walls. Tomorrow, she could be what her mother had made her.
Tonight, she would dance.
Mira shivered in the surreal stillness of the Shadow Forest, where nothing moved except wisps of grey fog slinking between her feet. The stunning yellow dress she had worn last night was gone, replaced with black leggings and a dark grey sweater.
Theo appeared at her side, a faithful shadow, an ever-attentive host. “Here,” he said.
She looked down at the weapon in his palms, a dagger unlike anything she’d ever seen on Earth. Instead of a single, flat blade, two thin blades wrapped around each other in a dangerous spiral that ended in a wicked point. The handle was formed from bone, dark as ash, and tailored to fit her hand perfectly.
“A goodbye gift,” he said, folding her fingers over it. “Perhaps we will meet again. In another life.”
She drew in a sharp breath, unfamiliar emotion catching in her throat.
“Are you ready?” he asked gently, gesturing to the air that shimmered before them. The veil between the Other-Realm and Earth. All that separated them from Isandra.
“Yes.” A breath. A whisper. A lie.
Then she stepped through the veil to the other side.
Theo watched the air ripple around Mira, spreading as her body disrupted its natural flow. He had stayed up all night, listening to the vorgs and other creatures disturb the hushed darkness as the veils opened at midnight. He had waited as long as he dared, giving the sun ample time to rise, and he caught a glimpse of it now. Of white snow glistening in a pine forest with real trees. He imagined running his hands over the rough bark, imagined the pine needles brushing against his skin.
His face hardened as Mira stepped out of the way, revealing another figure. Isandra.
“Theo!” she chirped with delight as she spotted him. Her mouth split open like a crack in quartz as she gave him a wicked smirk, coming to stand just in front of the veil. The air still shifted and swirled, blurring her image slightly.
“Isandra,” he growled, keeping his feet firmly planted on the shadow ground.
“Well, child,” Isandra said, turning to Mira. “Did you get what I asked for?” She extended a hand, her nails painted the color of blood, long and sharp.
Mira looked back at Theo, pain etched across her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling a rose out of her pocket. Not a rose—his rose. “This is the only way to kill her.”
Theo’s eyes widened as he realized what she was about to do. “Mira, NO!”
But it was too late. She threw the rose on the snow, grinding it under the heel of her boot.
Mira sucked in deep breaths, the cold burning her throat, tears stinging her eyes. She did not want to look, didn’t want to watch Theo fall, or dissipate into shadows, or scream in agony as she crushed his heart beneath her shoe. But it was the only way. He would have wanted her to do it. Would have wanted her to kill him if it meant killing Isandra too.
Except that neither one of them was dead.
Mira opened her eyes, her tears blurring the crumpled flower at her feet. The shadow that had twined around the stem, keeping the rose alive in the Other-Realm, slithered across the snow toward Isandra’s feet. Mira’s stomach lurched as she remembered what the shadows represented—jinn magic. Isandra’s magic.
And Mira had brought it right to her.
Isandra’s eyes lit up with centuries of greed and impatience as the shadow jumped to her hand, circling her fingers before crawling up her arm. The inky tendril brushed against her neck like a lover’s caress, and Isandra opened her mouth, sucking it inside. Mira watched in horror as her mother smiled, eyes glittering with malice.
“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, her voice laced with a warning. “Did you say it was the only way to kill me?”
Mira froze, fear clutching her chest, chilling her bones. “No, I mean—it’s his heart. That’s—it has to be his heart. There’s nothing else.”
“Oh, but I think there is,” Isandra crooned, stepping closer to Mira. “What you both don’t realize is that I finally figured it out—how to steal a jinn’s heart. It’s you.”
A shiver raced across Theo’s skin, shadows buzzing around him in frantic desperation as they tried
to leap across the veil, to join the sliver of magic that now lived in Isandra’s blood.
Isandra turned to face him, her ice-blue eyes taunting. “Isn’t that right, Theo?”
He shook his head, intentionally avoiding Mira’s face. If he looked at her, he would feel things, and he couldn’t afford to feel things right now.
“Jinn don’t have hearts,” he said gruffly, praying she believed him. Praying they both believed him. “I’ve told you that.”
“So if I kill Mira right now, nothing will happen?”
Mira’s hand flashed, Theo’s dagger in her palm, but Isandra was quicker, pinning Mira’s dagger arm and twisting the other behind her until she winced.
Don’t look.
“Well, your daughter would be dead,” he answered with as much apathy as he could muster. “But I don’t see how that would affect me.”
“Won’t it? Are you saying if I crush her right now, you won’t perish as well?” Isandra’s arm tightened around Mira’s chest, making her slender body squirm in pain.
Don’t look.
“Oh, I will perish,” he answered calmly, a twinge of triumph flaring in his chest. “But so will you.”
Isandra narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“We share a soul now, remember? If you kill me, you die too.”
One of Isandra’s eyes twitched, a flicker of doubt. “You’re lying.”
He smiled. “I never lie.”
Isandra’s face twisted in anger as she lashed out, shoving Mira forward, toward the veil. Mira stumbled, gasping, falling, and he instinctively lunged forward to catch her.
He didn’t realize he’d crossed the veil until the sun warmed his face, cold snow soaking into his pants. He looked up at Isandra, horror sinking into his bones as the shadows that had hovered around him for centuries rushed toward Isandra instead, finally completing the wish.
“Yesss,” she hissed, closing her eyes as half of his magic flowed into her, filling her veins with power that now equaled his.
“Theo…” Mira twisted in his arms, struggling to look up at him. “I forgot…I’m so sorry.”
He stroked her hair, admiring the way the auburn roots burned like fire in the sunlight. “It’s okay, my love. You were right to try.”
Tears dripped down Mira’s face. Tears of confusion, and frustration, and regret. “Your heart…the rose…I don’t understand.”
“The rose is nothing more than a flower, a reminder of a happier time.” He wrapped his arms around her, throat tight, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I gave my heart to you a long time ago.”
She buried her face in his chest, sobbing silently as grief replaced years of bitterness and apathy, an almost welcome pain.
“How sweet,” Isandra taunted. “True love, together at last. And now you both must lose it.”
Mira looked up at Theo and smiled, sad and triumphant, a small smile meant only for him. “Maybe we’ll meet again,” she whispered, her breath warm on his cheek. “In another life.”
Theo raised his hand, wet with snow, and gently cupped her face. “In another life, then.”
Mira leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, and Theo closed his eyes, letting the pain and bliss and rage and joy all blend into one chaotic breath. Isandra laughed behind them, but they ignored it, and when Mira broke the kiss to press her forehead against his cheek, Theo tasted the salt of her tears.
“I hope you are quite finished,” Isandra declared, striding toward them with evil delight, her long black skirt trailing behind her like ash.
Mira leaned back, her lips brushing Theo’s jawline. “Whatever it takes?”
He nodded and felt the world crack with the gesture, a tiny movement that would end it all. “Whatever it takes.”
Her fingers slid into his, the beat of her heart pulsing against his palm, and then she drove his dagger into her chest.
Isandra’s hand shot out in alarm, sinewy shadows streaking toward them, but too late. The shadows faded, Isandra’s body dropping to the ground as she faded with them.
Theo’s breath stilled in his chest, the sun warming his face for the first time in centuries. He gently stroked Mira’s cheek with transparent fingers and a peace he had been searching for his whole life.
She smiled faintly at his ghostlike touch then closed her eyes for the last time, while beside her, pushing through pine needles laden with snow, a ribbon of shadow twined around a single red rose.
THE END
Wyrms of Avasal
S. K. Sayari
Zana snarled and lunged at her enemy, her longsword glinting crimson in the blazing heat of the midday sun. Steel ripped into yielding flesh, and her bulky foe stumbled back before collapsing, his wounds gushing scarlet.
Zana took a moment to glance around. Her father, King of Arinta, fought a few feet away, roaring at the Titans who besieged his castle. The smell of blood and steel, mixed with the stench of sweat, permeated the grassy battlefield.
Zana…
She squinted, shaking her head. The multitude of whispering voices had appeared the day her mother had died, five months ago. They never uttered their purpose, only saying her name. As she leapt at another foe, the voices called to her again, lighting a flame within her soul that itched to break through her mortal body.
Zana…
King Tarin shouted, and Zana’s head whipped to the side to see him stumble backward as a Titan brought down his blade. Zana sucked in a breath and leaped toward him. She had already lost her mother—she would not lose another parent.
“Father!”
King Tarin roared and swung his axe at the foe, and Zana hissed, lashing out at the Titan’s legs. Together, they slew the giant, offering each other a grin of triumph. King Tarin’s brow was slick with sweat, but otherwise he bore no signs of fatigue.
“We’re winning the battle, Father. The Titans are almost defeated!”
“Do not rest,” said King Tarin, hefting his axe. “There are far greater enemies of Arinta than the Titans.”
As if his words were ones of summoning, the wind carried shrill screams to Zana’s ears. She whirled around, looking west—to the mountains separating Arinta and Kalakan. Specks on the horizon grew larger, gleaming brown and russet red. Rocs, hailing from Angalnar.
Zana shuddered and bit the inside of her cheek in worry. Rocs were the Titans’ allies, both races bearing bloodlust and craving man-flesh.
Zana!
The voices boomed throughout the battlefield, yet the expressions of those around her stated that only she could hear them. In her heart, Zana knew who the voices belonged to.
The Wyrms of Avasal.
“Zana, the enemy grows stronger! You must command the Wyrms to rise from the Gate!” boomed the king as he struck down another Titan.
“But…” The thought of her mother sent twinges of pain through her heart. The queen had been the Wyrmskeeper once—now it was up to Zana to follow in her footsteps, however difficult.
“You must take up her duty, for the sake of the kingdom! Go!”
Her mother’s duty had been noble—commanding the Wyrms to protect Arinta. But the thought of forcing them—or any being, for that matter—to obey her will made Zana want to retch. On one hand, she wanted to save Arinta, but on the other, she wanted to be kind.
She shook her head, chasing away her doubts. Arinta was in trouble.
Zana leaped away, toward the soaring grey walls of the castle she and her comrades defended. She whirled past trembling soldiers with wide eyes and fearful grimaces, over the wooden bridge, past steadfast stone walls that hosted white banners with the Arintan sunflower. Flying up stone stairs that were rarely stepped on, her legs and lungs burned, sweat dripping down her temple. She took a moment to catch her breath when she reached a pair of looming black doors, serpentine creatures depicted on the glinting iron. Zana raised a hand to stroke the intricate embellishment, the cool metal a reprieve from the heat of summer and battle.
&nbs
p; Wyrm’s Gate, it read. Within lay the Dragonspool.
She pushed open the doors, stepping into an enormous chamber that opened to the cloudless blue sky, a massive circular pool of inky water in the center. The water was still and did not tremble as Zana stepped her way to the edge. She sniffed, unable to make out the subtle scent that lingered in the chamber. Curious if the scent was coming from the water, she knelt, lowering her face so her nose almost touched the liquid. It smelled of brimstone and smouldering wood.
“Zana,” whispered voices emanating from the pool. “You have finally come, Littler One.”
Zana shivered, raising her head. So the voices truly did belong to the Wyrms. Why had they been calling to her? How could they have spoken within her mind? Why could no one else hear them as she did?
“Y-yes, I have come. I have come to ask you to help us. Our people face the might of the Titans of Kalakan and the Rocs of Angalnar.”
“Ask us?” the Wyrms said, their voices slithering across Zana’s skin.
The pool entertained a small wave that lazily spread from its midpoint to the outer edges. The water slopped as the wave bounced off the stone and returned to the center, then fell still once more.
“Yes. I will not force you to help should you not wish to. I am not unkind.”
“Little One spoke the same way. But Little One feared the true monster of this castle more than she longed to be kind to us.”
“The true monster?” Zana tilted her head to the side. The ‘little one’ must be her mother. But who was the monster?
The sound of chains jingled throughout the chamber, though no metal was to be seen. “We are prisoners in your castle, Littler One. We hail from Avasal, the Everland.”