Snow. It drifted differently in that frozen wasteland. The breeze that carried the flakes was soft, but nonetheless chilly. Like the calm found in death: peaceful, but cold and heart wrenching. A sole tear fell down Valora’s cheek, her expression unchanged. She was the only lively and bright sight in that white desert, her brown skin the only warmth and her hazel eyes the sun that would never reign over those plains again.
The Lightwielder readjusted her white robes to shield herself from the cold and lifted the hood to cover her shaved head. Not even the golden trims of her garment sparkled there. No life, no hope, no dreams. Before her, half buried in the snow, slept a colossal hand formed by dried roots, the ancient city of Fenirion now but rubble and ruins on its palm. The Hand of the Goddess, that’s how they called the massive vines Queen Dyana had summoned to lift the entirety of the Capital and hold it on the sky in defiance of the Dame, the false ruler of Fenirion. How many aeons had passed since those glorious days? How many Ragnaroks had been brought upon the world? How many futures taken? Her grip on her staff tightened.
“It hurts like it did those hundreds of years ago,” spoke a whispering voice near Valora, “and it shall hurt for a thousand more. My home. My friends.”
Through the corner of her eye, Valora saw that her friend was as unchanged as ever. Her red hair waved long and free with the wind, a fiery contrast with her skin, so pale it could get lost in that desert of ice. Her blue eyes were dry and long lost, but the sorrow in them was everlasting. The Lightwielder shivered at her choice of outfit: a black corset embroidered in violet that partially concealed a broad scar over her heart, and a long skirt of the same colours. Then again, Valora knew. She was the only living being in that place. The Crow was a creature of the night. Never dead, never alive.
“Are there no proper greetings for an old friend, Rhen?”
“It hardly seems appropriate, Alisa,” Valora said to the Crow. Her beauty wasn’t human, her sadness immortal. “Prithee, why have you summoned me?”
The Crow turned her gaze back to the frozen ruins of her homeland.
“Hearsay, mostly. The Dark Coven is back, rumour says, and the spirits have been acting up. You feel it too.”
Valora twisted in her robes. Alisa wouldn’t have called her to that place just for the sake of babblings about a bunch of witches long disbanded, especially when she was already busy with certain matters that could reshape the entire country.
“I feel nothing but silence,” she said, guiding her eyes all over the city.
Alisa nodded. “They quieted down. That foretells ruin.”
“Foretells?” snapped the Lightwielder, tapping the ice with her staff. “Your house’s Legends have caused unspoken damage, Crow. We cannot risk yet another Ragnarok. How many wastelands do you need to stop the madness your forefather brought?”
Alisa’s eyes stabbed through Valora, her gaze now colder even than their surroundings. But even if their unnatural depth terrified her, the Light Mage held her stare, firm.
“Watch your mouth, Lightwielder!” The Crow’s voice was not the only one coming from her throat. “There will be no Gods in this quest for absolution.”
Valora relaxed her poise and looked back to the city.
“Will humanity ever reach such purity?” she wondered, dreading the answer.
“No,” the Crow replied, calm again. “But that has never stopped it from trying.”
She shook her hand to conjure a black portal before them, and forth came the most handsome man —if he could be called man— that Valora had seen in her life.
“Of course, you brought your pet demon,” she spat. She despised the creature, beautiful as it was. The black draconic wings on his back, his purple tail and the horns that poked among his pale brown mane gave away his vile nature: an incubus. That creature alone could twist the minds of hundreds of men and women alike. His sole presence made the Lightwielder want to smite him down with the purest of lights.
“Settle down, Rhen. He likes his leash tight,” the Crow answered dryly, and the demon gave her a teasing low growl. “Kajshsad.”
“My Ladies.” He bowed. “It is as you feared. The Dark Coven has indeed burned one of their hags in sacrifice. And, this time, they got an answer.”
Valora shivered. Those wicked witches gave up their life in exchange of a prophecy from the Fallen Gods. Those heretic fools… That they thought that their deities would favour those who defiled the gift of life made her quiver with rage. Whatever Dark Gods or twisted evil had answered them ages ago had nothing holy to them, and the havoc they wrecked threatened to compete with that brought by the Ragnarok. The last war between the Gods had torn open a rift in the very plains they were standing now, rendering it a lifeless emptiness. The war before that one had thrown the High Dragons into extinction. If their plight had truly been answered, the Dark Coven could cause something similar in the rest of the country.
“We must stop them anon!”
The Crow simply nodded.
“We must. No godly interventions this time.”
Valora weighed her words. One way or another, the deities had played a vital role in the history of Fenirion. On occasion, however, these interventions had brought conflict among themselves, provoking the Ragnaroks that unsettled the balance of the world they had created. They had, however, lain dormant since the last Ragnarok. For the first time, humanity had set forth without their guidance. History had a habit of repeating itself, but she still wanted to break that cycle, whatever the cost.
“Gods aren’t the only ones capable of defying destiny,” the Lightwielder thought aloud. “Long, very long ago, a group of elite soldiers achieved the impossible without any sort of blessings.”
“You speak of the Expeditioners,” Alisa lowered her gaze, pondering. “A political organization above all forms of government ill suits you, Valora. Besides, it is as effective as it is unlikely, I fear, and the Sacro Sanctum would certainly protest.”
“All is pointless if you can’t figure out what the Coven is plotting…” Kajshsad chuckled devilishly, grinning at Valora’s spiteful gaze. “Fear not, my love, I have yet more to report, and you will be delighted in what I have for you: a destination.”
“Speak.”
“One of the crones is set on a mission. The details yet elude me, but her direction was clear. Have you ever been to Nocturna City?”