The day began not with portents, but with pastry. Lys had somehow procured a rare, sweet root from the surface markets, and the aerie was filled with the warm, earthy scent of it baking. Mordecai, now four years old, sat at the obsidian table, kicking his legs impatiently. Kaiphus was playfully attempting to snatch the crumbs from a half-eaten treat on his plate, its edges fluttering with a life of their own. Cassandra, perched on a higher stool, was meticulously arranging a constellation of crumbs into a shape that suspiciously resembled their father's stern face before giggling and smooshing it flat.
The morning was a pocket of fragile, unremarkable joy. The Great Eclipse poured its unwavering teal luminance through the arched window, painting shifting patterns on the black stone. The Spire-City's low, omnipresent thrum wove itself into the comfort of routine. Only Lys's shoulders betrayed the illusion—taut and watchful, as if some silent discordant note threaded the air. Mordecai, in his innocence, thought her furrowed brow was concentration on dough; he did not see her gaze flick repeatedly north, nor the way her head cocked as if parsing a secret transmission from the void."
The wards feel… thin today," she murmured, more to herself than to her children, as she placed a fresh, steaming pastry on Mordecai's plate.He was too young to understand the significance. Wards were things that grumbled or were sad, according to Cassandra. They were not things that could be *thin*.
The first fracture in the morning was not heralded by scream or flame, but by sound—a subterranean resonance that crawled up through the stone, vibrating through soles and bones. The obsidian table thrummed; porcelain teacups jittered in their saucers, composing a fragile, chiming dirge. It was as if the world itself had become a tuning fork, struck by some incomprehensible hand. The timbre was monstrous: the groan of a cosmic threshold being pried apart, the gnashing of iron teeth on the sinews of existence itself.Lys froze, her hand hovering over the teapot. Her face, usually a mask of serene composure, drained of color. Her eyes went wide, not with fear, but with a horrified, dawning recognition.
"No," she breathed. "He said the front was holding. He said…"The grinding hum intensified, resolving into a dissonant chorus of shrieks and a percussive *thump-thump-thump* that could only be the sound of siege spells impacting the city's outermost defensive shields. The light from the Great Eclipse flickered, not like a guttering candle, but like a strobe, casting the room into a frantic, stuttering dance of light and shadow.Then came the smell. The familiar scents of iron, herbs, and baking pastry were swamped by a new, vile odor—ozone, ash, and something metallic and coppery, like blood on the wind."Mama?" Cassandra's small voice was tremulous. Kaiphus had gone utterly still, then tightened around Mordecai like a second skin, its fabric rigid with alarm.
Lys moved swiftly; the gentle mother vanished, and the High Circle sorceress emerged. She swept Cassandra from her stool with one arm and seized Mordecai's hand in the other, her grip iron-strong, as she prepared them for what must come."To the core-room. Now."
The world outside the window was no longer a majestic cityscape. Umbra was bleeding light. From the northern districts, plumes of black and crimson energy roiled into the sky. Figures—too fast, too sleek—darted between the spires. They didn't fly with the graceful currents of Eclipse Sorcerers; they *cut* through the air, moving with a predatory, unnatural efficiency. Ra'Zul's soldiers.
As they ran from the alcove towards the fortified heart of their spire, Mordecai felt it. It was a sensation he would never forget, a feeling that would haunt every nightmare to come: the sudden, violent silencing of the city's song. One by one, the powerful, familiar auras of the elder sorcerers—the comforting, immense presences he'd felt all his life—slammed shut. Like a chorus cut off mid-note. Like doors slamming closed and locking, forever. It was not death as he would later understand it; it was an absence, a void where warmth and power had once been. The city was being systematically extinguished.Their home, once a sanctuary, was now a trap. The elegant corridors were shuddering. A crystal window further down the hall exploded inwards, not from a projectile, but from a wave of pure concussive force that smelled of burnt hair and static.
Lys pushed them into a small, circular chamber lined with dark, rune-etched stone—the core-room, a panic room protected by the strongest familial wards. She pressed her palm firmly against the central sigil on the wall. The door sealed, shutting out the chaos with a grinding of rock and a surge of sealing magic.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the muffled chaos from outside. Cassandra was crying silently, huge tears tracing paths through the dust on her cheeks. Mordecai just stared, his mind unable to process the sensory overload.
Lys fell to her knees before them. Her hands, usually so steady and precise, were trembling. She cupped Mordecai's face, her eyes blazing with a ferocity he had never seen before.
"Listen to me, Mordecai. You must be brave. Braver than you have ever been." Her voice was low, urgent, stripped of all its smoky melody, leaving only raw steel.
From a hidden fold in her robes, she pulled it out. The device. It was smaller than his palm, carved from a single piece of bone that was too white, too smooth, and set with a single, pulsing gem that glowed with a faint, internal light. It was warm, almost hot to the touch.
"This was your grandfather's. It is a Key of Last Resort. It will take you somewhere safe. Somewhere far from here."
"Mama, come with us!" Mordecai pleaded, his own tears starting to fall.A look of unimaginable pain crossed her face. "I cannot, my moon. The spell is keyed to our bloodline, but it is an ancient one. It is for one. Maybe two, if one is very small." Her eyes flicked to Cassandra, then back to him. The unspoken calculation was a knife in his heart. She was choosing. She was saving him and trusting him to save his sister.The door to the core-room groaned. A black, viscous smoke began to seep through the seams, consuming the ancient runes with a sizzling sound.
There was no more time.Lys gathered her power, hands trembling with effort. She cast a final, desperate spell, not at the door but around Mordecai and Cassandra. A circle of pure, silver light flared on the floor, forming a protective barrier, humming with her love, fear, and last strength.She pressed the warm device into his fist, closing his small fingers around it. Her touch was not gentle; it was sharp, desperate, final.
"Run," she said.The word was not a suggestion. It was not a hope. It was a command, a plea, and a goodbye, all torn into a single, ragged syllable.And then the door exploded.
There was no fire, not like he imagined. There was only a wave of absolute nullity, a chilling darkness that snuffed out his mother's silver light like a candle. He had a fragmented, horrifying glimpse of figures outlined in the doorway—tall, armored in shifting, angular shadows. And behind them, a presence. A consciousness so vast and cold it made the air freeze in his lungs. Lord Ra'Zul.
He did not see the blow that struck his mother down. He only saw her form, proud and defiant to the last, be swallowed by the invading darkness.The device in his hand was burning hot. He clutched Cassandra's hand, her tiny fingers icy in his. He didn't think. He didn't understand. He only obeyed the last word his mother would ever say to him.He squeezed the device.
The world folded. It was a nauseating, violent sensation of being turned inside out and pulled through a pinhole. There was a scream—his or Cassandra's, he never knew—and then the sound of tearing silk and shattering crystal.
The last thing he saw of the Eclipse Dimension was not his mother's fall, but the Great Eclipse above, its teal light now stained a bloody crimson, watching, impassive, as his world ended.
Then, nothing.Then, the smell of petrol and rain.