The world within the pages was beautiful and cruel, and the world of Daer was shown to them, the only way they could understand. Of towering castles, born from rock and gems, hidden in forests so ancient Roque couldn’t fathom their timeline. The rivers ran black, the intricate flowers blooming to ash. Of a tale of a court that had once ruled within the kingdom, breathing life into magic, breathing hope and truth into its people.
Only to be destroyed.
The imagery flashed, turning cold. The emerald haze of the paradise vanishing in a pull of smoke, and the very lights within the room seemed to dim. Black roses ruled over the once majestic castle, and the crumbling brick showed the weathering of time. Where once beauty flourished, a harshness had fallen over the world and the fey that lived there.
Roque cringed as the echo of screams resonated within his mind and looking more closely at the book, he saw that timeless world burn, the faeries churning and changing into something else entirely. With smooth inky hair and empty eyes, the four women bowed before the King sitting on the throne of carved bone. It was peerless white, the contrast so great it was like the last star in a blackened night.
The courtroom was empty, besides them. The king wore thick armored plates, his blade glistening as he spun it rhythmically in his palm, his eyes sharp and golden, scar tissue roping around his neck in silver webs.
“For years, we have lived in this shell of a world. It is time to change that,” the king said.
Bowing their heads in unison, their whispers overlapped in haunting tones, “We will not fail you, our King.”
Standing, they clasped dark green emerald gems and, forming a circle, started chanting in the same sharp guttural tones, their plain white robes fluttering around their bony knees. In a flash of emerald light, they were gone, leaving a scorched ground in their wake.
The king started to chuckle at first, then rolled into a deep laugh. The Oilean were born from the heart of darkness itself, and as his trained assassins, they would rid this new-found world of everyone in it, leaving the magic for their own taking.
Just as they did with this one.
The King of Daer looked to the crumbling ceiling and dreamt of the carnage they would make, and he knew he would wait until the day came that the Oilean would connect their worlds. And finally, he would be able to scrounge new lands, filling his starving soul, feeding his magic. He would be able to get his revenge.
Until that day came, he would wait. And he would be ready.
Gripping the blade, the King of Daer, also known as Declan, sent it soaring to the opposite wall, the hilt thrumming with magic. It collided with the stone and exploded, the sword vanishing with the impact in a cloud of smoke, the debris crashing around the room.
The king smiled as the sword materialized back into his palm, fresh and glinting, as he stared at the absent space where the wall was. Beyond that, the roars of his kingdom beckoned to him. Where the rolling forests once stood, a sea of white greeted him, and the hollowed-out bones of the previous fey staked in the ground like delicate art.
Smoke churned in the shadows, and he knew his people could taste the longing of magic lingering in the air, on the tip of the scales.
And so, Declan sat back and waited.
The vision disappeared, and Roque gagged from the backlash, their magic having pulled each of them into the memory. He looked up slowly, his pulse stuttering.
The book was pulsing, and a deep humming filled the room. Looking up, the moment hung in between them like an eternity. Where once sat the exotic fey, now sat demons with empty eye sockets, long ebony hair framing their pale skin. Their lips were pulled and pinned back, revealing sharpened teeth. Tilting their heads in unison, a giggle escaped their lips before the room exploded in a fury of chaos.
The lights flickered, sending the room in a disarray of splintered movement. The Oilean stood, their facades gone, their magic exploding from them. The very shadows seemed to deepen, whispering dark terrible things as cracks of ability filtered around them. Damien roared forward, his blinding light raging against the night.
“Damien, NO!”
But he looked back to the group, just as the Oilean multiplied, the four of them circling around him, and he whispered, “The channels are closed. They cannot get back.”
Screams met with the guttural sounds of the fight as the creatures sunk their teeth into his neck, and the darkness overtook him, leaving nothing but ash. Screams multiplied around the room, and he looked to Nei, her panicked eyes searching his own, both thinking the same thing.
What could they—a desolate and a healer from the Shattered Isles—do?
Giggles filled the room, bouncing around them and their consciousness. Hands found his in the darkness, warm and strong as Aine’s voice tickled against his ear. “My daughter has removed the seals on the door and is gone. Do not let me down, Roque.”
Brilliant ice blue light filled the room as Aine stepped forward, the Queen of the Windwalkers said, “You want them? You will have to get through me first.”
The Oileans’ joints popped sickeningly as they scrambled forward. “Ah yes, Witch Queen. Witch Queen.”
The explosion threw them back, Roque’s head cracking against the wall with a sickening thud. Spots danced in front of his eyes, and in the flickering lights, Roque watched as Aine became the very substance of her power, colliding with the smoky darkness of the Oilean. Squeezing his eyes shut, tears burned beneath his lids at the sudden blinding flare of light.
Heat scorched his skin, becoming too
