A couple days after arriving in the Doësin capital, Alkara is still wandering the Star Market in Afanen, scowling and muttering to her herself. The Doësin elves are insufferable. She is literally here to give them money and they’d barely give her the time of day. She’d had a hell of a time getting any […]
2 years after a certain little girl meets a certain dark elf… “Come along, Alkara!” Iroshi calls over the din of one of Three Rivers’ marketplaces. Alkara snaps her attention back to her adoptive Uncle. “Coming!” She picks up her pace to catch up, but… There is this boy. She keeps seeing this big boy
Alkara wakes up screaming and flailing for the third day in a row, breathing hard, like she’d just run for miles. Her mind races as she sits on her cot, unsuccessfully trying to calm herself down. She’s exhausted on every level, and she still can’t feel much. She doesn’t even notice the tears that are
It’d been a couple of weeks since Uncle Iro left. Sengmar still won’t tell Alkara about what’s been bothering him, no matter how much she prods him. And now the Waste Walkers are on their way to Charlotte’s office for a debrief on an assignment. Her assistant had seemed quite anxious when she’d summoned them.
I am not fine. Everything is awful. Why did I accept this job? Focus! Uh… patterns. Look for patterns! Alkara reminds herself. Her eyes furiously search the second story floor of the abandoned building for anything that might give her a clue. There are no freaking patterns! It doesn’t help that her vision is blurred
Fifteen years later… “It’s no trouble at all Falora, please.” Alkara smiles as she continues to at least try to reassure the aging farming matron. “You heard what Sengmar said, it’s the least we can do. Now please, go inside and get some rest.” Falora gives her a watery smile. “Bless you both. And that
(250 years after Tharan is named the Ascendant…) Stupid knife. The little human girl thinks. She scowls out with vibrant green eyes. The useless utensil didn’t have an edge. Instead of slitting the rabbit’s neck she’d had to break it. It’d been awful. Tiny droplets of rabbit blood flecked the olive brown skin of her
(270 years before the book starts) As a Doësin, the pure, clean heat of the Forge is what Tharan Dardhä-ek lives for. Though he has not yet mastered his Forger’s Flow, in this moment, he witnesses the infinite potential it offers as he surrenders to the pulse, circling around the abstract metal sculpture with which