Far above, the sun glimmered a weak shade of bronze, struggling to hold its head high beneath the impossible weight of the shadow upon its shoulders. Subdued beneath its wan light, Eoscan was eerily quiet. Not a soul moved through the deserted streets. Tight shutters guarded close the frightened families that lived within their bounds.

“Where is everyone?” Jordan asked, squinting against the strange lighting as they made their way down the high street.

“Hiding,” Norae answered grimly. “Witchkin go to war, common people die. Everyone knows that.”

Calyx scoffed, but did not comment. Furtive, they moved on, heading for the palace proper. It towered above them, dominating the skyline. Spires of black rock and white marble soared, sculpted by an artist’s hand. Malevelyn’s hand. Jordan could feel her presence in the very stone – aeons of World Queens whispered at her passing, their curiosity flitting on the breeze.

“Can you hear them?” she asked quietly, pausing.

“Hear who?” Calyx said, her bright gaze snapping across the surroundings.

“Do not hear anything,” Norae grumbled. “Too quiet.”

Jordan listened to the whispers, like fallen leaves trembling beneath the caress of the wind. She could almost see them, a parade of her ancestors, aligned to welcome her home.

“There’s a strange taint of magic in the air,” Calyx offered, testing it with her tongue, “Like dust motes in sunlight. It’s dampening any other hint of power, but I don’t recognise it.”

“It’s them,” Jordan said with soft resolution.

“Who?” Norae pressed, straining to hear something beyond her ken.

“The World Queens.”

“What?” Calyx and Norae exclaimed.

“I feel them,” Jordan whispered, “All around us.”

“Well… this is the Heart of Andoherra,” Calyx said, “If ever there was a place where the spirits of Worldkin would rest, this would be it. I just hope they’re on our side.”

Jordan shook her head slowly. “I don’t think they take sides. They’re here to observe.”

“Observe what?” Norae asked. Her dark eyes roamed the strangely deserted streets.

“Nothing yet,” Calyx said, “But we’re almost there.”

They turned a corner, and the buildings abruptly fell away. Ahead, a great grass sea, peppered with wildflowers, stretched to lap at the black walls of the Palace. A long curving road, white marble and rose stone, offered passage to impossibly tall gates. They were guarded on either side by immense gryphon statues, carved from cobalt and indigo.

“Wow!” Jordan said, jaw agape, “It’s beautiful!”

Calyx lifted her head, the tips of her fangs showing beneath her curled lip. “Perhaps. But we are not here for the scenery, I’m afraid. Look, there, atop the walls.”

Ranks of Witchkin stood in stony silence upon the battlements. Above them, red pennants snapped in the breeze, the only sound beneath the dying sun. Above the gates themselves, a grand gallery had been erected, bedecked in swathes of red and orange, complete with a large, glamorous Throne.

“Fayne always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Calyx scoffed.

“Making a mockery of this,” Norae agreed, incensed.

Jordan squinted up. “Where is she?”

As if summoned, the Fire Queen appeared in a plume of flame, gloating down at them from her advantageous height.

“What do we do?” Jordan whispered, fists tightening at her sides. A murmur of magic hummed around her, defiance starring her silver eyes.

“Wait,” Calyx warned, “Keep your head. Fayne will have Esadora on a tight leash. Let her make the first move.”

Fayne raised her hand, snapped her fingers. Two Witchkin in chains were thrust roughly into view, and Jordan and Norae yelped at the same time.

“Grandma!”

“Father!”

“Keep your heads,” Calyx repeated, her voice tight in her throat, “Do not let her bait you – either of you. Esadora wears a Mor’Torquem; one wrong move from us, and she dies.”

Jordan glanced at Norae, saw her own horrified, hopeless expression mirrored on her friend’s face.

“That’s your father?” she whispered.

Norae nodded, fiercely blinking tears away. Her knuckles turned white beneath the force of her grip on the glaive. “Thought he was dead.”

Jordan returned her gaze to her grandmother, wounded righteousness rearing within her.

“Fayne!” she called, pushing as much gravity into her tone as she could manage, “Release Esadora and Nalvadian, and no harm shall come to you!”

The Queen looked down, amusement colouring the cocky tilt of her head.

“The hell was that?” Calyx growled, eyeballing Jordan, “I said, nothing stupid!”

Fayne stepped to the edge of the battlements, holding out her hands in a sweeping gesture. Leisurely, she swung her gaze to the captains along the wall in either direction, a silent instruction to await her command. Then, she disappeared.

The font of red smoke had hardly cleared before she materialized again, a hair’s breadth from Jordan. Jordan stepped back, heart racing in fearful surprise, but Fayne simply folded her arms and looked her up and down.

After a moment, she said, “So it’s true. Jordenna bloody Bal’Talanor... How dare you be drawing breath?”

Jordan raised her eyebrows at the ludicrous admonishment. Fayne’s expression changed by degrees from savage to serpentine.

“Well.” With a pointed glance at Calyx, she glided close to whisper in Jordan’s ear, “I have a proposition for you, darling…”

She caught the Lat’Nemele’s eye and held it. Playful, she ran the tip of her tongue down Jordan’s cheek, dipping coyly away before she quite reached her lips. Jordan stood stock still, forcing herself not to retaliate. Fayne stepped back, eyes glinting malevolent mischief. She cocked her head, setting her glittering earrings to dancing, and reached out to cup Jordan’s cheeks. Pouting condescension, she squeezed them between forefinger and thumb as one would a child.

“Surrender now,” she said, releasing one cheek to tap Jordan’s nose, “And I will give you back your grandmother.”

Jordan clenched her teeth. “No.”

Fayne hooted with delighted laughter. She swooped in and kissed her full on the mouth – a theatrical, ostentatious gesture. Pulling away, she clapped her hands together, an infectious smile on her glorious face.

“So be it, darling! Oh, isn’t this fun?”

She twirled on her heel, disappearing once more, and Jordan violently wiped the smear of crimson paint from her lips. Jordan turned to Calyx, but though magic seethed in slow circuits across the Lat’Nemele’s skin, she didn’t move a muscle. Jordan returned her glare to Fire Queen – now safe upon the walls – with murder in her eyes.

As if she had all the time in the world, Fayne sauntered to recline on her throne. She looked down upon them for a long moment, one thoughtful finger pressed against her full lips. High above, the sun shimmered, the sickly shadow spreading merciless across its face.

“What is she waiting for?” Jordan hissed.

“Nothing good,” Calyx growled.

Her attention wasn’t on Fayne – her glare pulled to the left, a little behind, where Nerys stepped out of the shadows. The dark Lat’Nemele dipped her head at her Queen, and then, with a wave of shadowed butterflies, ported down to meet them.

She emerged from Betwixt with placating hands upraised, her gaze locked on the golden Lat’Nemele. “Calyx, wait, I-”

But Calyx cut her off with a savage snarl. She flew at her, and Nerys was forced behind an icy shield to ward off the thunder of her magic. Over the clash of their power, she tried again.

“Calyx! Will you let me explain…?”

Calyx paused, panting with her attempt at control.

“Why?” she bit out, snapping magic, “You left, I’m glad – it was the reminder I needed.”

“But I need to tell you-”

“I have no interest in words!”

Nerys’ expression darkened, hard hurt twisting her expression.

“Fine,” she hissed, “Don’t say I didn’t try, dear.”

She raised her arms, and an explosion of icy flame erupted from her. Living shadow twined through it as her eyes emptied to darkness, bleeding magic. With fangs bared, she pulled a sharp burst of rock up beneath Calyx’s feet, launching her high into the air. With a swing of her magic, Calyx caught a thermal, hovering like a wrathful phoenix. Hot air and lightning swirled around her, and then she dived down on a torrent of glittering fire.

They collided in a brilliant flash; the explosion of their magic shook the palace walls. Fayne clutched at her Throne for balance as the stones groaned. When she righted herself, she was spitting fire.

“Bring me their heads!” she cried.

A legion of Witchkin answered her, pouring down from the battlements in a never-ending wave. Jordan pulled a rush of magic around her, acting on instinct, crushing conscious thought. Norae took to the air with Thallo, swooping down to raise havoc with her glaive. Bolts of magic flashed, blasting craters in the earth, the palace, the combatants. The roar of power rose to monstrous proportions, and soon the spring field was slick with blood.

Nerys and Calyx held centre stage, their devastating magic terrible to behold. Around them, the world burned, torn open, consuming everything. The rest of the battle waged out of their range; any caught in the crossfire met with immediate, horrible death. Nerys launched herself upward, commanding the air, and a snarl of shadow escalated at her fingertips. The primal scream torn from her lips gave the world pause – the fight dimmed to sporadic as time stood still.

Calyx roared up at her, alive with golden flame. Fayne sat forward upon her Throne, white-knuckled. Time seemed to take a breath, and then Nerys unleashed her full potential. A screaming spear of darkness raced down, a blur of shadowed speed. Calyx, fangs bared, braced herself to meet it.

But a wayward stab of magic – an erratic blast from a nearby Airkin – caught her in the back. She faltered, caught by surprise, and her shield hitched. In the split second it dropped, Nerys’ power collided with her.

It hit her full in the chest.

And Nerys’ face crumpled with horror.