'𝔖𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔰 ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔣 𝔞 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔟𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡. ℑ𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔢𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯, 𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡? ℑ𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔪𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫... 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫.'

~ 𝔉𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔣, 𝔘𝔫𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔫 (𝔓𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔇𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔢𝔯𝔞, 𝔓𝔇)

☩

Hypat, Denea, Day of the Desolation (DD)

Denea was lost. The finality of this burrowed down into the depths of Arkis' being, squirming through his mind, body, and soul, until a wave of vertigo struck him. His broad, age-spotted hands splayed across the rock balustrade of the citadel keep as he balanced himself. He peered down.

The field roiled with tens of thousands of men — a single mass under a haze of smoke and sand. Arkis could discern flashes of Denese indigo between the smothering maroon of Euranese armour and flocks of flaming arrows.

Around them, two arms of steep, craggy limestone reached out from the Hypat's citadel to the azure water of Hypat Bay, cradling the armies in a final embrace. The only ways out were the water, the fortress or death. Standing two hundred feet above, Arkis knew it would be death.

As if in anticipation of this, thousands of cries met in a heart-curdling requiem, and a tingle fluttered across his skin. One voice rose above the rest, followed by a dynamic burst of power, pop and nothing. Another mage, gone.

The crystal on his forehead burned, and smooth granite yielded like soap as his nails dug deep into the stone. A series of spiderweb cracks rippled outwards from the tips of his fingers. Dust tickled his nose. It came with the scents of the hanging gardens: the deep, heady fragrance of climbing rose and oleander.

He shivered as a tremor licked up his spine.

The world pulsed. Lines of energy streaked through the land, air, and between writhing bodies. Their life force, their élan vital, called to him.

A new flicker sparked — down this time — and his breath hitched. Seductive heat throbbed in his loins and the air grew so thick he could barely breathe.

He could eat it, though.

The flavour of potential hung about him. A lifetime of discipline held him back: to act on his impulses would be a profanity — and his death. Yet ...

Smoke drifted into his nose and settled in an acrid fog across his tongue. The aroma of pork turned over a bed of coals. The burning of flesh. Against his will, saliva pooled in his mouth. He shut his eyes. This was wrong. But he'd done much wrong in his life.

He shoved the urge down and forced his attention to strategy.

The evacuation of Hypat had begun the week before — after the council learned of the impending attack from Eurora. Twelve mages had been spared to lead their most gifted youth, trailed by a straggle of commoners who were unwilling or unable to fight, into the desert to a hidden temple. The remainder of Denea fought with their small army. Had they bought enough time?

Another cry, another pop. He flinched.

The mages most precious spells lay in the temple. Few knew of it. Not even Denea's last king, Raia. Nor would his half-blood son, Mai. He sneered. Their secrets belonged to those pure of blood.

The Denese were not a militant people. Until Raia's treachery, when he impregnated a foreigner and betrayed their secrets to his mongrel son, their magic had been too valuable a commodity for any kingdom to dare attack them. Now, they were not only expendable but sitting on a mine of carnelian crystal.

A gleam of gold flashed in the sun and caught Arkis' eye. King Hellador moved at the head of the Euranese horde with fluid movements, hacking and slashing at the stream of Denese his personal guard filtered into his presence, while the rest of his men fanned out in a devastating red arch.

The Denese army couldn't win. Not today. But he could destroy what the bastard, Mai, sought, make him believe there was nothing left, and so buy time for the refugees to escape, rebuild and plan their revenge. However long it took.

Arkis centred his attention on the sounds of slicing skin and snapping bones. He needed sufficient motive and justification for the next step — something more than the desire humming across his body like a lover's touch. Sure enough, the sound triggered a spark in his chest. He would not let Mai have this land.

He gritted his teeth. The keep atop the citadel vibrated.

Another shriek sounded. The air reverberated, popped and then faded into a vacuum of nothing. One more mage gone — there wasn't much time. He needed all those left.

His fingers itched, and his stomach growled. An erotic pulse thumped through him. He bit his lips to stifle a smile. What he was about to do had haunted his darkest, most secret dreams. Perhaps it did them all.

More bursts. He had to act.

His hands squeezed tighter, and the balustrade creaked, then crumbled on a low rumble. He turned his palms skyward. The floor gave way as the keep collapsed. Boulders and rubble pounded down the thick walls, bounced off the castle terraces and smashed against red-plate armour. Platoons of enemy soldiers dropped.

Ignoring this, he hovered in the air, mouth open, and ate.

The life force of Denea tasted sweet. A forbidden fruit denied to him, until now. Knowing it was profane — or perhaps because of this — his senses devoured everything.

The remaining mages looked up. Sixty-six sets of hungry eyes. They upheld their palms and left the earth, mouths open.

Arkis descended in a flurry of night-blue robes and stopped in their centre. The wind whipped about them, gaining momentum with each second until it became a static tornado. Their voices raised in a hollow call.

Lightning flashed, and the earth trembled as the world answered. Everything within six miles bent towards the unholy circle: men, trees, grass, rocks, the armada of ships in the bay.

Arkis had been told leeching, taking élan vital, corrupted men. It was restricted to the preservation of life and only done with the permission of the supplicant. Never was it done to the land itself — until today.

His body pulsated, and he moaned with pleasure, taking everything. Today, he broke a sacrosanct mandate and lost his soul. He didn't care.

His fingers twisted into claws. Ship beams splintered, loamy soil cracked, the grass turned to straw, the armies shrivelled and fell into a pile of bones. Still, he sucked, until only his acolytes remained, floating beside him, a bobbing flock of succulent energy. He licked his lips as he turned his glowing eyes upon them, and fed.

They fell, one by one until the one survived.

"Father," the mage said. "Enough — it is time. Do it."

Arkis lips curled in a snarl. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to feed.

Light-yellow eyes under a candescent crystal pinned him. "Please, Father, you cannot take any more — you must do this now before you lose focus."

Arkis blinked and shadowed his son's gaze. A jagged line of black grew on the horizon: another, though much smaller, flotilla. Mai had come. He knew it was a matter of time. But perhaps he might reach him as well. Unlikely, their magic was weak in water, but still worth a try. A leer lifted one corner of his mouth. Better to kill the bastard than leave him nothing.

He turned and opened his mouth to speak. A roar of power escaped and engulfed his son. The beloved form exploded into a million tiny, shimmering carbon particles. They floated a moment like the stars across the night sky until they were swept away by the tunnelling wind.

Arkis' heart folded. The euphoria of a moment before compressed into a heavy lump of cold rage and pounded against the barriers of his soul, demanding to be released. He felt the seams breaking. The smell of pork, returned as his crystal flamed and sunk into his flesh.

So be it.

He narrowed his eyes and released a primal scream as he plummeted, a shining pebble darting to earth. He hit it with a boom. The ground buckled, rippling out in waves of devastation.

He fell beyond, into blackness.