An elf enters a street-race tournament to escape a corrupt city trapped in endless night.
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|| Voltyss is one of the last-standing cities caught in the Evernight, an endless night that spread across the land when the moon and stars fell from the...
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I grind the heel of my boot into the floor and tear myself away from the orc-monster, my arm barely leaving his grasp with the skin still on it. The sleeve of my jacket rips, and I stumble and fall, rolling back out into the aisle and away from the shadow of the crates.
I brace myself, heart in my throat, barely able to keep still. But the darkness between the crates remains still. Unrippling.
"Alyndra," someone whispers.
The scream that didn't come before now bursts from my lips and splits through the silence. I scramble to my feet and face the voice, scanning the shadows for another orc. My fingers tremble against the handles of my knives at my sides. Ready to fight, scared to do it.
It's Macon that rushes toward me, his face serious, his voice low. "Well, there goes my idea of being quiet."
I don't acknowledge the relief that courses through me. Tearing my gaze from Macon, I glance over my shoulder and return my focus to the black space between the crates. The longer I stare, waiting for the orc to pounce on us, the sooner I realize there is really no one there. It's like he disappeared into thin air... or never even existed in the first place. My fingers trace over the mask covering my nose and mouth, checking to make sure I hadn't inhaled any of the Ether.
"I've been trying to reach you on the earpiece," Macon says, pulling me out of my thoughts. He pauses and cocks his head. "You muted my line, didn't you?"
Ignoring his question, I point through the dark. My whisper comes out as a hushed hiss of words. "An orc." I swallow. "He yanked me in there and knew what I was without seeing my ears. He smelled me—my blood."
Macon glances at me, his brow creasing with concern. "There's no one there."
"I know that. But he was, just moments before. I swear it." I don't want to admit that I've seen things in the dark before, letting my fears spill into reality, seeing terrors that are never really there. His judgment is the last thing I need to worry about. The orc was real—my arm still stings from his iron grip.
"And you're sure you didn't inhale any Ether?" Macon asks skeptically.
Proof. I have proof.
I grip the sleeve of my jacket and shake it at him, drawing his attention to the fresh rip on the shoulder seam, but when I look down at my evidence of the attack, there is nothing there. My mouth is suddenly dry of any explanation. Was it all just another hallucination in the dark?
The incoming clomps of multiple pairs of boots cuts off my confusion. I barely have time to react before Macon grabs my wrist and drags me into the same shadows I'd escaped from like I didn't just tell him there was a crazed orc in there. I struggle against him until the darkness between the crates drapes over us and there is no more room for movement in the narrow space.
Macon drops my wrist, but we remain where we stand, his body flush with mine, his warmth beckoning me closer to him in the cold embrace of the dark. My fear threatens to wrench me back into the aisle. Cement, I tell myself. You are cement.
