Darkened Light

Chapter 1

Are you familiar with elven history? We've always excelled at recording the past, but we don't often share it with humans. It's nothing against your race—we're simply a private people. We do not share our failings. If you've heard or read anything at all, it would have been a story of our success or glory.

I'm afraid in this case, however, history has been passed down incorrectly.

You wouldn't have heard this story before, because it highlights our errors.

And this error was all mine.

***

CHAPTER 1

Naavah Ora

Naavah Ora jolted awake from her nightmare. Her heart was racing, the panic made worse by the hooting of an owl outside her window. She cast a tentative glance out into the night and breathed easier. The moon was still in the sky and the stars still accompanied her. She was still in her bed, inside her bedroom of her safe home.

The world wasn't dying; everything was fine.

But this only meant that her world was safe enough for now. What about Dunhă? Was Ithrean's home safe too, or had her nightmare revealed the dark truth?

She slid out of bed and caressed her staff for comfort. Her grandmother had made it just for her, and she loved it like other young elves loved their friends. She treasured the elegant family heirloom hanging around her neck, but it wasn't the same. The blue-and-white calcite amulet was important and marked her as her grandmother's successor, but it wasn't thoughtful or made specifically for her. Every elven clan's heir had one. Her staff, however, had been hers for as long as she'd lived. It had been gifted to her the day she was born, crafted and imbued with her grandmother's magic. It knew her as she knew it. All she had from her parents were her mother's ice-pale hair and her father's winter-blue eyes. They didn't compare to the beauty or the comforting familiarity of her staff.

Naavah Ora slid into slippers and went outside. The cold air traced her skin and nestled into her soul. She wished she'd brought something to keep her warm, but with the memory of the dream burning her veins, the cold temperatures had been the last thing on her mind. She felt foolish now that she was shivering; she didn't have the gift for visions. There was only one way to see into Dunhă, and her dreams had nothing to do with it.

She entered the nearby forest and walked into the clearing, her steps lit by pale moonlight.

Her grandmother took her to the clearing three times a week to train her. The first time had been when Naavah Ora was a child, to show her what was expected of her once she came of age. The rare gift of the Suf'afir wasn't dangerous, but the magic involved was complicated and she was her clan's first Suf'afir in two generations. Her grandmother watched her like she was the most valuable treasure in the world.

But not tonight. Tonight, Naavah Ora was alone.

Don't wander. Don't make contact. Observe, don't interfere.

She'd already broken one of those rules. She had a feeling she'd break the others soon, too, whether she wanted to or not.

But it was too early to worry. For all she knew, her dream had been innocent like every other dream she'd ever had.

Gently, Naavah Ora reached out with one hand and parted the air before her. Nothing happened. She smiled. Only her grandmother could reach from their world into Dunhă, the death goddess Ithrean's home, and allow her access. It wasn't something she could learn from a book or by observation. It was something she had to feel intuitively, and Naavah Ora was grateful she still felt nothing.

The day she inherited the clan would come soon enough. She was in no rush to replace her grandmother.

If her dream had been something more, the disturbance would be visible. The air would shift around her, and slivers of fog would carry the silent cries of the dead into her world. A faint flicker of the city in the distance would entice her to come closer. But neither was the case, and Naavah Ora sighed in relief.

Her world wasn't dying, and neither was Ithrean's.

Naavah Ora gave one last appreciative smile to the spot where the fog usually curled itself around her ankles and wrists, and went back home. Perhaps she still felt unsettled after the nightmare, but she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she'd missed something obvious.