Flash Fiction: The Dying Isles

“They say magic came over from the Far East with the fire priests, but we were first. We crossed the uncrossable sea, battled the perilous water dragons, traversed the continent from east to west. We settled in this place before the land was rent. Before the mountains were torn from their roots to hang suspended in misty air. Before the plants glowed like light made liquid beneath the moons. The voidmancer took his revenge, shattered our home and our order, but even then we did not cow, because we were first.” She eyed the young boy over her shoulder. Dusk bathed the crumbling black temple in red the color of blood; a tangle of bell-shaped flowers bursting from a crack in the floor had already begun to glimmer violet in the gathering darkness. “Necromancy is the oldest sorcery in Cerulis. The Dying Isles bears scars for it, scars more ancient than any fire priest, so do not speak to me of the rituals of Novis and the Conclave.” She smiled. “You are in the clutches of the void, now.”

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