Lukas groans, sweat breaking out over his back as slim Shadow trees rise up from the fastlines on both his palms, the sting agonizing as their roots punch into his veins, threads of dark smoke branching out.

Elloren... Lukas breathes, feeling as if he’s being rolled into an abyss. His vision sputters, tinting a darker gray.

Vogel sheathes his Wand and holds his palms above the tree forms. An enraptured smile touches his lips as the undulating canopy brushes his skin. The smoky branches twine around his hands, his smile widening as Lukas sinks further into the Void, mentally calling Elloren’s name over and over as the many-eyed bird watches and waits.

CHAPTER FIVE

NIGHTMARE

Elloren Grey

Voloi, Noilaan
Eastern Realm
The night before Xishlon

The rune ship’s kitchen is a purple Xishlon world.

A string of violet-flower-decorated runic orbs wash the cramped evening space in a lavender glow as I sprinkle luminous violet sugar crystals over the traditional heart-shaped cookies for tomorrow’s festival, feeling tense and restless. Busy yourself, I urge. Your allies will be here for you soon enough.

Petals of iridescent purple flowers simmer in a large copper pot beside me to make more Xishlon rose tea, its floral scent heavy on the air, the steam glowing an ethereal lilac.

I anxiously glance out the sliver of open door that affords me a view of the ship’s riverside deck and scan the pitch-dark Vo River for some sign of runic flight toward me. Turning, I peer out the window of the ship’s starboard side, which is closed and locked for the night, searching for friends and family coming in on foot. Purple flower-and-heart-decorated runic orbs are strung across the main thoroughfare and hung from the violet-leafed Xishlon Plum and Mountain Pear trees, casting a soft lavender glow over the steady street traffic.

The clink of porcelain sounds on the port side deck and I turn toward it. Half of Mora’lee’s slender frame is visible through the slice of open door as she pours herself tea, then leans against the walkway’s railing as she sips it, a green leatherbound book in her hand. She seems lost in her thoughts, glowing violet steam rising from her cup, the effect full of a melancholy beauty against the dark of night.

Rubbing my weary eyes, I move to stir the floral tea as a sharp sting slashes over my hands. My fingers flinch open, the wooden spoon dropping from my hand as a dart of alarm shocks through me. I splay my palms out, silver sparks igniting against my vision, the sting burning through my glamoured fastlines with an impaling sizzle. Panicked, I flex my hands, the sensation abruptly diminishing then vanishing. What magic is this?

“Hello, Fee,” Mora says, and I freeze, heart racing.