ELRED VALKALIN IS ON THE RUN. After narrowly escaping the Synketros prison, she finds herself in the scent trail of two notorious communities miles below the island's surface. When she stumbles upon a hidden gathering of fairies from different races...
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Crintine's fancy socks. Elred cursed, ducking under her arms. Her legs sputtered to action, pumping her entire form forward. She stuck to the walls, sensing where the next turn would come. Where was she going? Which direction? One of the things that didn't matter. Run. It's what she needed to do. And for the first time, she was glad she had gotten good at it.
The rigid breaths, the silent swish of cloaks, the stringent rush of metal swords being pulled out of scabbards, the heavy footfalls of thick soles—all of it echoed and bounced across the walls and the inky darkness. Elred bunched her skirts in her bloodied fingers and got them out of the way of her legs' motions. The throwing knife glinted with every bright spark coming her way for the entire journey.
It's not just her who's being affected by this darkness. As much as it was her doom, it was also her cloak. As long as she made no noise, she'd make it. But...make it to where? She turned this way and that, eyes scanning the horizon in desperation. Some incline, a flash of outside light—anything. Show her any sign this hell would be ending.
The ceiling shook at another collision with a spell. It wasn't to hit her. They were to see her. These lackeys. They always wanted to be flashy. If she was their general, she would have whacked their heads from behind. It's not the way of Synketros. Their goal was to become one with the shadows, not to be at war with it.
A bend signaled by the wall came up. She came towards a wider corridor. Alley was a closer word for it. This new path was wide enough for a two-lane road back in Helinfirth. Which could only mean one thing—she wasn't in the Synketrian dungeons anymore. She was somewhere else. Had she really run all the way? What's the plan from here?
Nothing.
There was no plan.
Elred's chest heaved like a labored kraejen. Sweat rushed down the side of her face and doused her stained dress from the back to her legs. She looked back. No one pursued her. Not a drop of shadow. She froze.
Why was it brighter?
True enough, when she looked down at her feet, she saw everything as well as she could in daylight. A hesitant breath of disbelief filtered past her lips. She brought her hands in front of her. The bright red stain of freshly-spilt blood mixed with the mud, caking in her nail beds and her knuckles. There's no way to know which flecks belonged to her.
She looked down to see her clothes in their real condition. The sleeves had long fallen into strips of cloth barely tied from the front of her bodice to the back. The hem had long been eaten by the growing tatters, climbing up the length until such time there was not a shock of fabric left. This wouldn't do. As a shard fairy, she still had dignity to protect.
She sighed and ran a hand down her form. Nothing happened. Not a flicker light to signal her magic being cast, not a faint and comforting tingle of glamour spreading over her skin. Her eyebrows creased. What's going on? She ground her teeth and tried again, drawing magic from the air around her. Nothing happened.
