Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER TWO

The Shifting Sands

A mist appeared, rising from the ground, curling and moving with dark purpose. Gray pulled on his reins, stopping short. The others slowed at his side, tense and wary. Their destination loomed in the distance: Vaster, the city of sun with its golden turrets and glassy spires, but then the mist rolled in and shrouded it from sight.

"What's happening?" Darius asked, his bay charger dancing nervously beneath him. Darius rode at Gray's side. His brown hair was its usual matted mess, though his discerning, tan-colored eyes flicked from left to right, as if creatures were about leap from their ashen surroundings. The rogue's cloak wavered behind him, its shade of green matching the sword on his back: Masamune—the leaf blade and sword of the Ronin of Leaf. Though sheathed in a dull brown scabbard, the steel within pulsed, issuing a soft emerald glow. Ayva was to Gray's left, riding a cormac, and Hannah and Zane—brother and sister—rode close by, near one another as usual.

Luckily the cormacs—elven mounts with silken hair, long necks and sloping backs—that Gray and Ayva rode, merely stamped lightly at the ground with cloven translucent hooves, calm as their elven kin.

Gray reached into his memories as Kirin—his old self.

Heaviness in the air.

Black, anvil-shaped clouds in the sky.

Then he rolled back his sleeve, reaching out. The mist curled about his arm, and he watched as goosebumps trickled up his skin and his hairs stood on end, confirming his fears.

"A storm is coming," Gray announced.

"A sparkstorm?" Darius asked, gulping.

He was rightfully fearful. Sparkstorms were fierce thunderstorms of lightning, rain and lashing wind that lasted for days. They were fueled by the magic of Farhaven, the land itself. In their journey thus far, they'd already been waylaid by them twice. Gray shook his head. Something felt different this time. Each time he'd felt a sparkstorm in their journey, despite the charge in the air, and the heaviness, he'd felt alive with magic—a vibrant sense of urgency, life and power filling his veins. This time, however, he felt a gnawing hole in his chest, as if his energy were being drained, carved away by merely standing in the thickening mist. This time, instead of life, he felt death.

"Something tells me this is different," Gray said simply, making his voice even, not wanting to worry the others.

"Whatever it is, it's magic," Zane said, lip curling in disdain. For a man who threaded the flow, the essence of all magic, Zane had an odd contempt for it, though Gray doubted his spirited friend would see the irony.

"If it's not a sparkstorm, what is it?" Darius asked.

"I'm not sure."

Hannah ushered her steed closer, her shy white mare whinnying as the mist crept closer. "Um, can we talk later and move now? I don't like this place."

Gray nodded. "Best we do."

They continued, Ayva at his side, the others close behind. They rode in silence, Gray watching the mist, his skin prickling at its touch. It wasn't wet or cold, but oddly warm. The mist reminded him far too much of the battle upon the sands. Of Faye. Of Darkwalkers and of death.

Gray glimpsed a gleaming turret of glass in the distance, peaking above the mist, and found a sliver of comfort. At least it's still there. They'd been so close... If he squinted before he almost felt as if he could see guards walking the lacy bridges that spanned between towers. But now? The Great Kingdom of Sun seemed a thousand leagues away.