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The memory released her as softly as a sigh. Elira was back in the ring of firs, the fallen beech, the damp leaf-moss clinging to her boots. The scent of oak char was stronger here, threaded with hot iron and something sour beneath. Kieran had moved around the fallen trunk and now stood very still, shoulders squared—a boy doing a man’s work without complaint. “What do you see?” Elira asked. Kieran didn’t answer at once. He touched the splintered heartwood the way he had touch

Night folded over the palace like a cloak. They rode through alleys that had been streets, past doors barred with planks, past windows that watched with candle eyes. Elira felt the city recognizing her without naming her, as a body might recognize its own blood in a stranger’s face. She did not look back; to look back is to turn pillars of salt out of those who must go on living. At the eastern gate, a final detachment stood under Maera’s command. They had piled pitch and oil

The council chamber had been built to steady hearts: high windows, long banners, a hearth guarded by saints cut in cedar. On the night it fell, the banners hung limp, the hearth burned low, and the saints threw long, uneasy shadows. The Sunring outside should have gleamed a clear circlet. Instead it guttered on the clouds like a lamp starved of oil. “The omens are not omens,” said Scholar Aram, voice raw. “They are measurements. The Spire’s current is interrupted. The Thread

Dusk bled through the forest like watered ink, turning trunks to pillars and leaves to stained glass. The wind had gone thin and cold, and with it the birds; even the insects kept their counsel. The only sound was the hush of boots over fallen oak, and the soft chime of Myla’s pendant when it brushed the buckle of her satchel. They were traveling light—bedrolls lashed tight, waterskins half-full, rations counted like prayers. North and east, always toward the high country whe

The echo of “Come” still clung to the air when the ground shuddered again. Small stones skittered down the pass, clinking like bones against the path. Kieran’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of his mother’s blade. “It’s below us,” he said, voice low. “No,” Myla whispered, closing her journal. “It’s beneath everything.” A fissure split across the trail ahead, thin at first, then widening. From the crack, a draft of air exhaled—warm, metallic, tinged with ash. Elira knelt, h

The sound didn’t fade. It lingered in the stone, reverberating through marrow, as if the mountain itself had been hollow all along. Kieran steadied his grip on the blade, but Myla pressed her hand to the earth. Her eyes widened. “It’s not echo,” she whispered. “It’s breathing.” Elira’s jaw tightened. “Then the legends were true. The Pass was never just a road.” Before they could move, the rock beneath their boots trembled. Dust rained from the cliffs. Far below, chains groane

A weekly fantasy blog series set in a magical, fractured world. Continue the journey through the Broken Pass as danger awakens beneath our heroes' feet.

Northridge Province – The Borderlands of Varrador The mountain winds howled across the crags of Varrador, tugging at Myla’s cloak as she stood at the cliff’s edge. Below, a sea of shifting fog crawled between broken ridges, hiding what once was the great city of Astrenval. "How much do you remember from before the fall?" she asked, her voice barely above the wind. Kieran, behind her, hesitated. "Enough to know it wasn’t just war that destroyed this place. Something ancient wo

A weekly fantasy blog series set in a magical, fractured world. Follow Kieran, Myla, and Elira as destiny stirs in the ruins of Elarion.