THIRD BOOK OF THE CHRONICLES OF FANTASILIA SERIES
𝘈 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘈 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘺. 𝘈 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳. 𝘈 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴.
Two sides of the same coin are brought to the light...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
2412 Iclis 1, Daleth
The bridge was burning.
That was all that ran in Xanthy's mind while the flames bit at her soles. She couldn't open her mouth to scream. Her knees locked together; arms remained heavy at her sides like a pair of steel bars.
The sky was pale gray; the rain threatened to pour any time soon. Would that quench the flames? Lightning crackled. The planks groaned. A breeze blew by, rocking the bridge harder than Xanthy could balance herself against. Her knees slapped the creaking boards as she braced her fall with her palms. Not even a yelp resounded from her throat. Raging torrents of the river beyond the cracks between the planks screamed below her.
Where was she going? Where had she come from? She looked back to find thick walls of fog eating at everything she tried peering into. The flames chewed on everything they touched—the ropes, the planks, her clothes. Xanthy gritted her teeth. When in doubt, move forward. She crawled along the length of the bridge, clamping her jaw against the burns that formed on her arms.
If she could just reach solid ground.
An arm forward. The other. Next, the legs. Slow.
Something creaked underneath Xanthy's knee. The plank snapped. Air left Xanthy's chest as she clawed at the other planks when the earth's pull gripped her legs. The great river roared below her. Water crashed against pointed rocks, even splattering the tips of her boots dangling in the cold air. Her heart thundered in her ears.
Her nails dug into the burning plank as she hoisted herself up. She grunted, pushing against nature dragging her down. The flames howled. Thunder crunched. The river shrieked. Before her eyes, the planks splintered. No, no. The wood snapped. She fell.
Her eyes flew open, instantly recognizing the bare ceiling of the Temple of Souls. She's not on a bridge. She's safe.
Or at least as safe as she thought she could be.
It's just a dream, nothing more.
Just a week ago, Xanthy found herself in the middle of a siege organized by Carleon's heir, Kymalin. The brownies' shadows got stolen by none other than Jarvik's daughter, Marin. Xanthy also had her head bashed with icicles—a feat she couldn't still wrap her head around. After all that, she's trying to at least have that sense of assurance that as of the moment, she's safe.
Xanthy was, truthfully. Ezril had been gracious enough to let them stay at the Temple for as long as they wanted to. "It's the least I could do after helping us," Ezril had said when Xanthy thanked the High Priestess. Xanthy had only nodded. Perhaps, helping people was her mission.
Back in her given room, she groaned and rubbed her face. Sleep ebbed from her eyes as she stood up. She bathed—a feat she still had a hard time believing she could freely do from now on—and dressed in clothes she requested from the Temple. She slapped her cheeks to give them a bit more color. There. Another day.
