A bleeding stain on reality. Vision’s edge cracked back into shattered light. Dancing script and fiery beings ascendant. Bee gasped, her plated feet scraping against the fractured floor as she was dragged, arm slung over a shoulder, from the rubble. The world swam in and out of focus, colours bleeding into one another like wet ink on parchment.


    The old bone monk, Yonmar Free, struggled for breath as he pulled the godsborn free from the collapsed structure. His frail frame belied a desperate strength, taxed as he was by the effort. His robes were torn and dust-covered, the intricate patterns of his order obscured by grime. He wheezed from beneath his mask, looking up from the ground.


    “Hold on, child,” Yonmar rasped. “We’re almost clear.”


    Bee’s senses gradually sharpened, the cacophony in her mind settling into a dissonant hum. The worm was silent now, a void where its incessant presence had been. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision. The scent of ozone and burnt metal filled the air, mingling with the acrid tang of smoke.


    They emerged from the shadow of the ruined building into a courtyard of Ymmngorad bathed in an eerie, unnatural light. The sky above was a pallid expanse, the bone sky casting a muted glow over the devastation below. Bee’s gaze swept across the scene, and her breath caught in her throat.


    Bodies lay strewn across the courtyard, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Freaks and chimaeras—beings of every conceivable amalgamation—were frozen in final, grotesque poses. Some clutched at their heads, mouths open in silent screams. Others lay face down, fingers clawing at the ground as if trying to escape an unseen horror. Their eyes stared vacantly, glassy orbs reflecting the desolation around them as they died in the throes of terrible seizures.


    Bee’s heart pounded in her chest, a cold dread settling in her stomach. The sight was hauntingly familiar, a stark mirror of the aftermath in Sestchek. Streets lined with the lifeless forms of those fallen, the pervasive silence of a city snuffed out in an instant. The weight of that loss pressed upon her anew.


    “No…” she gasped.


    Yonmar eased her to the ground, having exhausted himself in her rescue.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    She pulled away from him, stumbling forward a few steps. “What happened?” she demanded, though the answer was already forming in the recesses of her mind.


    The monk’s eyes were filled with sorrow beneath his cragged mask. “A great calamity,” he said. “I was hoping you would have the answer.”


    Bee sank to her knees amidst the fallen, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch the nearest figure—a young chimaera with feathered antennae and slender limbs. The warmth had already left his body. She recoiled, a sob catching in her throat.


    “It was me,” she choked out. “I did this.”


    Yonmar knelt beside her.


    “I used some witchcraft.” Bee grabbed at her own face, trembling, clawing at herself as if it could extricate the answers from her distressed memory. “Some… Thing that Slashex gave me. I couldn’t see what I was aiming at. I had to stop them from fighting!”


    “Bee…” He touched her shoulder, but she pulled away, shaking her head vehemently.


    “No. It was the weapon—the viral code Slashex implanted.” Her mind raced, piecing together fragmented memories: the activation, the rush of alien script flooding her consciousness, the momentary surge of power followed by darkness.


    “It was supposed to stop them,” she continued, tears blurring her vision. “But I didn’t know... I didn’t think…”


    The monk bowed his head.


    She turned to face him, anguish clear in her eyes. “This is just like Sestchek. The Wire-Witch used the same kind of weapon to destroy my home, and now I’ve become... I’ve become like her. She’s turned me into her!”


    Yonmar’s gaze was steady, compassion in his eyes as he listened and waited for the chance to speak.


    “You are not like her,” he said softly. “Your heart is different. You feel the weight of your actions.”


    She looked around once more, the enormity of the devastation pressing down upon her. The silent city seemed to shudder with its own sickened regard. It was not the same here, now. She had touched it with a terrible art that had forever altered the state of the realm.


    “What about the Eidolon? Jhedothar?” she asked, her voice small and frail.


    Yonmar sighed, sparing a glance at the innocent dead who had come to witness the deciding fate of their home and fallen victim to bleak happenstance. “They were too heavy for me to carry, and besides, my concern was for you. I think they may live, still.”


    Bee nodded slowly, wiping away the tears streaking her cheeks. The monk rose to his feet and extended a hand to help her up.


    “Let us see if we can help them.”


    Blinking to clear her eyes, Bee looked up to the old bone monk. She managed the barest of nods before taking his hand and rising once more.