And the raw magic contained in this lithe body would be enough. If I manage to harvest it, it would be sufficient to erect mighty protection wards against the Siphons and restore the arcane network fueling our daily lives.
I feel already the magic sparks for the tiny spell gather around my fingers, when a sudden shift in our surroundings alerts all my senses. Something is approaching.
The shadows under the bushes thicken and lengthen. The branches toss about in a powerless rage, and the leaves scream with a thousand voices, a wordless symphony of terror. Darkness creeps up on me, ambushing me while I’m wasting time, drunk on the fleeting charms of this human.
I know this presence. Everyone in Faëheim knows it.
The Dreadful One, the Lord of Darkness, the Prince of the Underworld himself, has joined the hunt. And I know what he’s after—the living, breathing, magical artifact in my hands.
Drawn by my magic like a moth to the flame, he can sniff the trail of my spell across realms.
The Abyss swallow you, Dreadful One!, I curse softly. I need urgently a new plan.
Celeste - The Anchor
A good run to clear my head. This is what I need to filter out the hallucinations, because it’s impossible to see what I saw last night on the train track, right?
Or did a white-haired man, looking like a CrossFit fanatic, save me from getting killed? And what exactly was his sidekick? Was it a machine like those Boston Dynamics robot dogs? Or a clever costume? Was this the most elaborate prank of all time?
I wince when I relive the scene, drenched in the red light of the train track’s emergency lights: the glowing eyes of the stranger who saved me, his angular features, and the chiseled body under the exotic armor.
I decide to take the healthy approach and blame it all on the alcohol, except for the douchebag who pushed me on the tracks. They got him and his friends, the police told me. Godspeed. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of fun in prison.
Telling Sandra how I almost got killed was good enough to obtain permission to work from home in the coming days. It is precisely what I need: to be by myself among my tiny jungle, the soothing fairy lights, my cat, and my amazing espresso machine.
A morning run has always helped to clear my head and re-align myself. I picked up the habit when my mother lost herself to alcohol. I did anything to get away from her and avoid her torturous self-victimization episodes. Matching my breathing to my steps was my meditation, and soon I disappear into the golden oasis of the park next door.
I find my pace, and the world around me blurs into a pale background of leaves rustling, birds chirping, and branches crackling. Then something catches my eye.
Next to the narrow path stands a man, busy warming up. He’s tall, his long blond hair tied in a messy braid that snakes down his broad chest. Azure eyes the color of the summer sky over some tropical island pierce me. He’s the type of handsome that makes you daydream when you see him on social media or in an Avengers suit but makes every girl with a grain of common sense run away, because beauty like this means trouble. It means loads of girls at his feet and stress I don’t need in my life. But looking is allowed, and I appreciate his biceps as they swell and the curl of his sensual lips. The stranger also stares at me, his defined jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, as if waiting for something. His odd fixation on me almost makes me reassess my “not worth the trouble” philosophy, when I feel the ground beneath my feet give in, and I roll on the gravel, the pain in my ankle sharpened by humiliation.
He's suddenly nearly on top of me, making me think I probably blacked out for a few seconds, because no human can move that fast. He helps me sit up and awkwardly holds me against his chest so that I feel the hard contours underneath. I turn to face him and meet his gaze. I am lost, drowning in the alpine lakes of purest cerulean.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low, and he drawls the vowels in a strange way. I can’t look away from his lush, perfectly shaped lips, and I swallow before opening my mouth to answer. No words come out as some odd gust of wind appears from nowhere, whirling the dead leaves into a mini tornado of dread.
A shadow passes over the stranger’s face, and suddenly he lifts me as if I weigh no more than a child. I struggle to catch my breath as the man bolts toward the thicket, pressing me firmly to his chest. Looking back, I see the silhouettes of three enormous black pit bulls, unleashed, growling, and baring their sharp teeth.
The dogs don’t bother to chase us, I notice with relief, and soon we reach the more crowded area of the park. People stare at us, and he gently lowers me to my feet.
“What was that?” I blink, confused, still unable to process what happened. Were we close to being attacked by these vicious dogs?
“Can you walk?” he asks instead of answering. “That fall looked pretty painful. My car is over there; I would be happy to give you a ride home.”
Well, it seems like my savior isn’t from around here, obviously not knowing the most basic safety rule for women—to never get in a car with a stranger.
His arm is still around my waist, and he looks at me with concern. It’s so disarming that I almost consider his offer.
“No need, I live nearby. If you can help me… limp my way home, that would be great,” I mumble instead, wondering what happened to my common sense. Today is obviously about breaking safety rules. At least I have a gorgeous six foot six reason for it.
He nods, and we walk, his arm slung around my waist. Heat flushes my face when I realize that his palm is almost the size of my waist, yet he holds me delicately, as if I might break. Passersby stare at us, probably wondering how a gray mouse like me could get such a specimen.
We chat to smooth the awkwardness, and I learn he is Diaphonus—what an odd name. Definitely a foreigner. He is a painter living nearby, and I seem to be in luck, as he is holding an exhibition this weekend. He gives me a card with an address before I disappear into the entrance of my building, asking me if I would come for the opening.
My heart skips a beat when he looks down at me.
Trouble, I remind myself, yet I take the card and consider what to wear while climbing the stairs to my apartment. Glancing back one last time, I see him still standing beyond the glass door; head cocked, as if listening to something only he can hear.
Tarcyll – The Spymaster
