Nayar stared at the world with wide, astonished eyes, his mouth agape. The darkness was receding, giving way to a gray day, as Kaur called it. Eternal night was the norm for the edge, and the chance to glimpse a cloudy sky was a rare luxury. The world was changing, and so was the edge. All that remained was the hope that this wasn’t the end of everything.
The mage knelt beside the girl, grasping her shoulders and forcing her to sit up. Havren gasped, coughing. A warm trickle of blood ran from her nose.
“You…” Nayar couldn’t recover, gulping air like a fish out of water. “How did you do that?”
He shook her, desperate for an answer, but Havren could only groan in exhaustion. Inhuman thirst, hunger, pain… It felt as though every bone in her body had been shattered. A dark indifference pounced on her like a predator.
“And who did you bring here?!” a voice boomed through the space—her father’s.
Thunder rolled, and a bolt of lightning split the sky in two, reflecting the mood with which Kaur appeared. Nayar released the herbalist, stepping in front of her and spreading his arms protectively. She noticed how her old friend struggled to tap into his powers, gathering the abandoned threads and fragments of energy that drifted freely across the edge.
Lightning struck nearby, making the girl flinch. She saw her father soon after, propping herself up on the ash-covered ground with her hands.
The former king of Sharnia stood clad in armor, though he didn’t reach for a weapon. His cloak swayed with each step. He approached with a menacing sneer, his piercing gaze fixed on Nayar, who stood his ground, brandishing a dagger. It was the only weapon he had left, having dropped his sword near the abandoned estate.
“He saved me,” the healer rasped.
Threads of magic swirled around the girl, kicking up dust and ash into the air, revealing the stone-paved ground beneath. The mist made Havren cough. Nayar cursed and warned the unfamiliar Kaur not to come near the herbalist, threatening brutal retribution.
The lord of the edge only laughed loudly, stepping forward with quiet menace.
She couldn’t see her father’s expression, having rolled onto her back. Before her eyes stretched a gray, endless sky without a single cloud, appearing after the mist had settled. She felt like ash herself, a fragment of the edge, someone who would remain here forever and burn to nothing. Her body convulsed, a rasp escaping her throat.
“A fine gift, my dear,” Kaur said. “I’ve been searching for this mysterious mage for a long time, daughter. Once, I even…”
No one heard what Kaur intended to say. The man finally noticed her condition, rushing to her side and dropping to his knees.
“Daughter?!” Nayar’s voice, full of shock, shifted several tones, sounding almost childlike.
“What did you do to her?” the Sharnian roared. “You?! You?!”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Havren whispered, hoping they’d hear her. “He saved me…”
The darkness wasn’t unexpected. Der Narat had simply thought she could hold on longer, but everything has its limit and its time. She felt the threads of the edge envelop her, granting the long-awaited oblivion and energy.
***
The necromancer was too late. Just a few minutes separated him from reclaiming his precious prize, his property… In his mind, he called the royal favorite by many names. He had stopped sensing the countess’s presence only three minutes ago. Elusive and powerful, the precious blood of an ancient lineage had slipped through his fingers, dissolving into the air. Elez felt an inhuman rage as he dismounted and left his horse behind.
The old estate—an abandoned property of a merchant who had faithfully served the inquisitors, and later him—was a relic. The ancient necromancer had awaited the resurgence of magical energy tied to the old imperial world. He had waited for her. Another of the ancient archmages, one who studied the stars, had prophesied doom, migration, and a dynasty that would be hunted. Within it, the white flowers—bearers capable of crossing the thin edge, wielding enchantments. This gift was theirs by birth, unlike him… He had to seize everything with his own hands, clawing his way through thorns to reach the stars.
Elez Esten—son of a petty merchant woman, bastard of Count de Moncar, a cruel old man who only learned of his son’s existence when Elez turned ten, after the boy’s mother, deceived by the aristocrat, died in agony from illness. That’s when the whole truth came to light. Esten—a name, or rather a brand, given to illegitimate children in Rania, a forgotten kingdom whose memory lingered only in the minds of the world’s elders and in dusty, time-worn manuscripts. Elez himself was a memory, preserved in the minds of a few. Several times, the necromancer had vanished from human sight, not leaving his domain for decades, ruthlessly consolidating control over the inquisitorial order. That’s why no one ever saw the Lord of Inquisitors; he was a shadowy figure. The necromancer himself had spun the tale of the council of messers, who supposedly represented his humble persona. It was laughable.
He took his first steps, picking up a sword lying near the sun-bleached stairs. He frowned, deciphering familiar runes.
“So, I wasn’t the only student my teacher had,” he muttered, nearly choking on his fury.
His gloved fingers gripped the hilt, the blade, as if they could snap the weapon in half. It was futile. The necromancer nearly cut himself and tossed the finely crafted sword away with a hiss. Protective runes activated, and glancing at his palm, he saw melted leather and droplets of blood. He spat a curse at the artifact’s creator and ordered a servant to retrieve the lost item and carefully wrap it in cloth.
Elez stepped toward the door, noticing the dead bodies. The emanations of life had left this world; here and there, traces of spells lingered, having snuffed out precious energy. The necromancer clenched his teeth like a rabid dog teased with a bone. Havren Der Narat was his obsession. He had watched her since childhood, having gotten close to her mother. Clever Shana loved her daughter dearly. Well… The necromancer had managed to steal that love from her husband, had reached the royal healer, and now some monster had stolen her away and slaughtered many of his servants. Worst of all, the ritual was disrupted. In three days, the full moon would enter an eclipse, and there wouldn’t be enough energy.
The necromancer moved through familiar corridors, cursing Yestin. The king’s sister, the general’s favorite, who also didn’t shy away from his son, had played her part perfectly. She had lured her brother into a trap, forced him to abandon the girl. Asberga’s daughter knew full well—if Elez didn’t get Countess Der Narat, neither she nor her crowned brother would survive, and Esten would finally release their mother’s soul from his service. That was punishment for Shana’s death, whom the queen had struck with one of the necromancer’s creations and left to die.
The foolish woman didn’t realize it was an artifact meant to sustain life. “What won’t you do when a loyal friend turns against you,” he concluded about those events. “Her attempt to seize power in Sharnia ended in failure. Lenard stole her daughter. The aristocrat, whom Asberga had deliberately drawn close, knowing of her connection to the Sharnian prince, eventually came to her senses and declared she’d tell her husband everything. And she didn’t care about the betrayal with the charming white-haired baron named Nayar.”
Yes, he had used the name of his deceased teacher, into whose heart he had plunged a dagger himself. What a delight! Over his long, in its own way wondrous life, Elez Esten had worn many names and masks.
Now, he paused in the corridor, feeling a tingling sensation. Chills ran through his body. Inky darkness appeared before his eyes, shimmering with violet flashes. It passed through the man, who only had time to duck and shield his eyes. The darkness didn’t harm Elez, nor did the gloom or any other worldly woes—he had become them. The creatures of chaos obeyed him, and that darkness, which had escaped, could take many forms.
He let out a choked rasp, coughing, and immediately ran outside. His cloak billowed behind him, strands of long hair fell into his eyes, and his hand throbbed unbearably from the ancient spell that had wounded his palm.
A black stain spread across the sky, the forest, the roads, the outskirts of Lanveria’s capital, reaching the high castle towers and beyond, enveloping the world, seizing human souls. Elez fell to his knees, breathing heavily. His rage-filled roar echoed over the trees, curses ringing out until a stray bolt of lightning struck the house. The thunder deafened him. Rain raged, driving him to seek shelter, as the estate erupted in flames.
Rarely did the necromancer feel powerless… But now, he could do nothing. The darkness he had nurtured for years had broken free, sowing chaos, and reining it in again was impossible.