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"Oh, Nerric, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

A calm fell over the literature class. The students were as silent as the stately bookcases against the back wall—but with far fewer words. The light of the late afternoon streamed through the classroom windows; stray fibers at the back of the teacher’s pastel green bodice glowed like gold in the sunbeams.

Nerric Togaroff looked up from his book to his teacher. Her imperious stance and long, curly brown tresses cast a shadow over him as all eyes converged.

“What?” The young man feigned ignorance.

That might have worked with almost any other instructor: it was near the end of a long school-day, and it would have been easy to simply not bother. But bothering was Mrs. Melina Baryesh’s specialty—and Mrs. B was intent on keeping that title. Presently, she was in the middle of presiding over her students’ discussion of the third chapter of the venerable Cidney Cartwright—in which Cid arrives at the legendary Bastion of Leonera-in-the-Hills.

She reached for the book in Nerric’s hands. By all appearances, it was just another old copy from the school library, its ratty cover and binding long-since replaced with one of fabric and smooth blue. But she knew better, and—worse—Nerric knew that she knew. His sham book-cover came right off in her fingers. The book in his hands was anything but Cidney Cartwright. Its cover depicted turquoise creatures similar to sea-serpents, entwined in combat on what appeared to be—and which the title confirmed as being—the surface of the Lesser Moon. She read it aloud:

“The Wyrms of Seladrel,” It triggered many a snigger. Mrs. Baryesh was not amused; her light sepia face furrowed into a frown—and Nerric knew quite well that it was directed at him.

There were many disadvantages that came with having a family friend (and former neighbor) as one’s Literature teacher in secondary school. For one, they knew all your best tricks.

Nerric set the phantasy story down on his desk.

“Do you even have a copy of Cidney Cartwright with you?” she asked.

Yet another disadvantage: they had no fear of confronting you—especially particularly when you deserved it.

Nerric paused for dramatic effect before delivering his answer.

“Maybe…”

“Oh, don’t give me any of that nonsense, Mr. Togaroff.”

“We’re wasting class time right now, remember?” Nerric said.

“Actually…” Mrs. B retorted, “We’re not. I’ve been meaning to discuss genres in greater detail.” She grinned. “And now, I have the perfect pretext.”

Nerric groaned. He asked himself a question; he asked himself a lot of question. {She’s going to find a way to make me participate, no matter what, isn’t she?}

But he already knew the answer.

Mrs. B looked over the rest of the class. Her gazed roved from head to head as she decided upon her chosen victim.

“Ah, yes—Willick.”

The blonde youth’s eyes fluttered awake, and to attention.

“Y-Yes, ma’am?”

“The setting of Chapter Three—the ancient castle… in Pavingtom’s descriptions of it, what significant literary style is he engaging in? I’ll give you a hint: Think about the villagers’ superstitious tales about the Bastion that Cid and his new friends mull over, and remember our earlier discussion about the usage of folklore and storytelling in recent literature.”

At this point, a volley of raising arms stabbed at the air. Nerric was not one of them; neither was Willick.

“Uh…” Willick droned…

Mrs. B rested her fingers in her bangs for a moment.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t remember.”

“Romanticism, Willick.” She looked over the class. “Everyone remember now?” Most of the students nodded.

Mrs. B turned back to Nerric. “I’m going to have to ask you to give me that book of yours.”

Nerric frowned. “But, I—”

“—Come on, give it here.” She outstretched her hand; reluctantly, Nerric complied. “You can get it back later, after class,” she said. “In a couple of days.”

Mrs. B raised The Wyrms of Seladrel up into the air, letting everyone get a good glimpse of the image on the cover.

“What genre of fiction is this?”

“Phantasy,” the class replied.

“And a work of the Wilder movement,” a young boy said.

The teacher glanced across the room. “Now, now, Tristopher, no need to show off.”

Tristopher nodded, and willed himself quiet.

Mrs. B took a breath. “But, yes—that’s right. Phantasy. Phantasy is a modern nephew of the approach and attitude pervading Pavingtom’s passages about the Bastion, and its relation to the surrounding community.” She turned back to Nerric.

“Now, Nerric, would you mind telling us why we don’t generally study phantasy—except, maybe, in a university seminar, hmm?”

Nerric propped his elbow on his desk, letting his cheek come to rest upon his curled fist. He sighed. He knew the answer by heart; they’d had this conversation many times before. “Because it’s not applicable to real life. It mostly engages tropes, and it rarely has something meaningful to say.” He spoke the words with the kind of lack of enthusiasm that he generally reserved for singing hymns during liturgy.

“Quite right.” The teacher nodded.

That struck a chord with Nerric: an angry one. He lightly slapped his varnished desk.

“Better that than being boring,” he muttered.

Quietly, some of the students gasped. They scented the imminent blood.

“What was that, Nerric?” Mrs. B turned to face him.

Seizing the moment, Nerric decided to take a stand for what he believed in—but not actually standing up, of course. “I’m tired of reading stories about young people getting sent away to a Wizarding School, or an Engineering Academy, or whatever. They’re all the same. And”—he dared go further—“they’re demeaning.”

Mrs. Baryesh straightened her back, pursed her lips, and pretended to be offended. “How in the world could they be demeaning? They teach us valuable life lessons, and give us something to talk about in literature class.”

“For starters?” Nerric cocked his head. “The way those stories put rich nats, their kids, and their preppy boarding schools all up on a pedestal. Going to a posh and pricy Wizarding School doesn’t somehow make you a better person than everyone else who didn’t get to go. And neither does having a kid who went to one. I’d like to think a public school like ours could produce mages just as good as any one of those gits, anyhow.”

Mrs. B glared at him. “Speak for yourself, Mister Togaroff,” she said. “Oh, the things that Kenry Prinkle has told me about your… escapades in Enchantment Lab.” ” She smirked.

There were snickers from further back in the room, mostly from those students those who had the fortune of being in that very same. It was a well-known fact that Nerric was by no means talented with magic. Not in the least. Togaroff’s embarrassing difficulties with fireballs were the stuff of legend, spoken of in the hallways with whispers and chortles.

{At least I don’t have an older sibling to lord it over me,} Nerric thought. {Or a younger sibling, to make me look bad.}

No, he already had his parents and their worried nagging—and even that was more than he would have liked.

“As far as I’m was concerned,” he said—grumpy, but a little more humbly—“All writers are phantasists, it’s just that most of them have locked their imaginations up in the basement, and are perfectly willing to let them starve to death.”

{Sad, but true,} he thought.

Mrs. Baryesh looked up at the clock on the wall, above the slateboard. The pendulum swung with a tick, to and fro.

“Time’s up already? I swear, it feels like it’s been barely more than a mode.” She shrugged. “Ah, well.”

The students began to pack their things, stuffing their notebooks, pens and pencils into their schooling-sacks.

“Ah-ah-ah—hold on a minute,” Mrs. Baryesh said. “In light of today’s discussion, I’d like everyone to write up an essay on the topics we touched upon today.”

Notebooks and spare sheets of paper fluttered back onto the long desk-tops, ready to record,

“I would like you to take the romantic, religious, or supernatural elements of chapter three—whichever ones you prefer—and analyze how they relate to, and reflect upon, the issues and events of Cid’s life, so far. If you’ve read ahead, feel free to talk about connections between those elements and what happens in subsequent chapters. Finally, I want to hear your opinion of it. Do you think those elements are effective at doing what you, in your analyses, claim that they are doing? And do you think they’re doing too much, or not enough?”

The clock-tower struck eight.

“Very good then. Class dismissed.”

Belongings rustled as they were packed away.

Then—suddenly—Mrs. B remembered. “Oh, yes—”

—Everyone froze.

“I want those essays turned in no later than class after next.”

And with that, they were free.

Nerric lingered at his seat for a moment, watching Mrs. B’s actions with great care. She approached her desk and stashed his book in one of the drawers.

{Dammit. Not that one.}

It didn’t matter whether he knew a spell to open it up (he didn’t). The drawer had a null engraved into its lock, and Nerric didn’t know enough to be able to shred the fields himself.

“See you day next class, Nerric,” Mrs. B said. “If you’re good, you can get your book back early.”

She opened the door of wood and frosted glass, and disappeared down the hall. He got up, slung his schooling-sack over his
shoulder, and exited the room. With a sighed, he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Damn. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Nerric didn’t like the unexpected.

Memorial Park: one of many oases of green that spotted the city of Eyton. It was a double memorial, of sorts—not just for the fallen of the Neverwar, but for the core of old city, itself. There was always construction going on in Eyton, especially near the city’s heart. Some said that it would reach the stars, one day. And many believed it. The sky-scrapers and spires of Skytown towered at the north end of the park, like a wall. Invigorating winds dashed down the building corridors, carrying with them the echoes of chisels and hammers, and of the magics that wrought the stone—shaping it, and lifting it high. Even on such a bright, cloudless day—the streets warmed by the late-afternoon sun—the breeze was still enough to make a person shiver. And Nerric was no exception.

Most of Nerric’s life up to this point had consisted of shuttling to and from Memorial Park and his home out in [place] day after day. First, to Memorial Park South School—his primary education—then up two blocks to the hallowed halls of Memorial Park North at the opposite end of the green. Like all state schools, Memorial North had the distinction of being extremely pleasing to the eye: it was a big U of a building, covering three of its corner lot’s four sides, with a little plaza in the middle, accented by flowerbeds and some simple water works, beneath the aromatic shade of a painted bladewood. The school’s three main halls were adorned with all the usual arch-work, inner atria, and ornate fineries. As per tradition, each grade entered and exited through its own wide wooden doors beneath the contiguous arched portico; it helped that the classrooms themselves were distributed throughout the building in a similar manner. The tradition had its downs and ups: it made it difficult to rendezvous with an older or younger sibling or friend, but it also reduced the chance of getting accosted by someone large and nasty—and that was a plus.

Vehicles flocked to curb like birds to a waterfront. Cars and omnibuses (always motored) waited school-side. Students with vehicles of their own parked park-side. Richer upperclassman opened their monocycles’ chassis doors and switched on the control crystals; the less-rich rode away on their vélos, the fairings shielding them from the wind. In either case, the cycles darted out like fish, weaving their ways into the flow of traffic.

Nerric was neither rich enough to afford his own monocycle, nor poor enough to have to pedal home on a vélo. Instead, he went by way of the Underway. He’d ride to school every morning with his father; Mr. Togaroff’s job as a city court official in the Halls of Justice took him down the same route as his son. The family had gotten an excellent deal for monthly transit costs, and would hold to it until they had saved up enough to buy a new car.

At the corner of the street, the school’s tall, pointed clock-tower rang its sonorous bells. As usual, the signaling of the hour was something of a mêlée; every bell in Eyton, it seemed, entered the fray, hoping to emerge as champion. The sound shivered down Nerric’s spine. All over the city—all the way to the suburbs—the eighth-hour bell was the student’s cry of freedom, save for those unfortunate few who suffered through an after-school extracurricular. Barely a day went by that Nerric didn’t pray for them. Today, however, was an exception. Today was for him, and it was going to be wonderful.

Nerric walked down the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd like a hunter through woodland. The Memorial Park underway station came up half-way down the length of the park. That was where most of the students were headed.

But not him.

{I’ve got everything I need.} Nerric made the list in his thoughts. {Allowance money, minimal homework, and a bloody brilliant excuse for not coming home ‘till late.}

Nerric was very proud of the excuse—it was two-thirds true! He could picture it now: him, telling his mother and father: “I had to stay at school to work with my partner on our enchantment project.”

He did have an enchantment project to work on, and, even a partner, too! The lie was that he was going to work on it. As far as lies came, it was minuscule—but potent, all the same.

No: today Nerric was going to treat himself. To a book.

A phantasy book.

Most of the crowd funneled into the prettily-tiled stairwell of the Memorial Park underway station. Somewhere down below, breaks squeezed against the monorail track; their squeals echoed up onto the street. That would be the train, right on schedule for the school’s-end rush. Normally, it was at this time that Nerric would dash down the stairs, like everyone else—shoving if necessary. But, today, he was in no rush. He continued on without the hustle and bustle, down to the end of the park where he made a right. He knew his way around; he’d gone down this route so many times before. It took about a quarter hour before he finally arrived at his destination. He would have whistled, but he wasn’t good at that.

To Nerric, Mr. Orbelthwerp’s Literary Emporium was as grand as its name: a moulding of luxurious wood that covered half of the street-front of the castle of an apartment building at [address]. In a rush of excitement, he ran past the shop’s windows altogether and darted right through the door. Nerric prided himself on having visit a sizable number of bookstores over the course of his life, but, of all of them, Orbelthwerp’s was far and away his favorite. It had all the essential features. It was more “book” than “store”: any and every exposed surface that wasn’t the ground (or a step, or a seat) was either a bookshelf containing books, or a table covered in the same—or thereabouts. Equally important, everything that wasn’t books was either sumptuous red carpeting, or rich deep-hued wood—like the storefront, but probably even more expensive. It certainly looked that way. The bookshelves on the walls went all the way up to the ceiling, and all the staircases were grand: spiraling or sprawling, and always with balustrades. The frosted glass of wall sconces and hanging fixtures glowed with enchanted light—tuned to the golden aura of a sleepy weekend afternoon.

On a prayer, Nerric looked over to the pair of maroon leather sit-around couches located by the big windows. He sighed, disappointed—as he had expected. They were filled to capacity. People stood at nearby bookshelves, sampling the inventories. But that was a lie. Nerric knew that each and every one of them was just pretending. They were all watchmen; the only thought in their mind was of being the first to score an empty seat the instant a bottom rose.

An elderly lady in grayish brown with a feathered hat shifted about in her seat. Watching eyes risked furtive glanced at her, fearing they might later others to their intent. They waited; they prayed.

The woman straightened her blouse and hat—tidying the corsage—and went back to reading. Nerric could taste the envy in the air as we walked passed. He smiled broadly, smug and satisfied. He had no such troubles. He had secret reading places scattered here and there, in or near the school or underway stations, usually in places visit only by the curious, or the strange. Looking over to the front desk by the support-pillar beside the grand staircase, however, dampened Nerric’s good spirits: Orbelthwerp was not at his usual post.

Nerric had never been comfortable with sad status of phantasy in the minds of everyday folk. To them, it was a “guilty pleasure” at best; “silly” or “weird” on most days; and, at worst, a “vile medium of corruption and nonsense”—to quote his neighborhood pastor. Nerric liked Orbelthwerp for his balance: he was not prone to giving long lectures, and—equally importantly—he, himself, was not frighteningly devoted to the genre. Mr. Orbelthwerp handed Nerric his merchandise and left him in peace, except for an inevitable little blip here or there that Nerric had begun to suspect was somehow contractually obligated—but as to how, and by whom, he had no idea.

{He’s probably up in the mezzanine.}

Nerric walked up the staircase. The carpeted steps cushioned his every foot-fall. His hand slid across the wooden balustrade—his fingers barely touching it.

{Speaking of frightening genre devotees…} Nerric’s thoughts drifted back.

He had been to a phantasy specialty store once—and only once—before. It was an indescribable experience. It was a tiny shop with drowsy lights, tucked away into a building that the march of progress had stuffed down an alley’s alley in a moment of panic and had soon forgotten about it altogether. Nerric was almost certain that he would be a regular customer if he could only figure out a way to go to the shop and survey its titles without having to deal with the feeling of soul-crushing embarrassment. That, and a way to get those strange people in even stranger clothing to stop looking at him like a splinter in the ankle.

Standing on the mezzanine landing, Nerric looked around, nodding in delight as he caught eye of the shop-owner—like a prow above the bookshelf sea—descending a sliding ladder on the back wall’s shelves with a stack of books clutched tightly under his arm. The sight made the boy’s heart skip a beat. Nerric dashed through the aisles all the way to the other side—and with only one almost-collision happening in between.

Mr. Orbelthwerp placed the stack on the rolling dolly, panting slightly. “Ah, Nerric! Back so soon? Don’t tell me you’ve already—”

“—Yep,” the young man nodded, smiling broadly.

Orbelthwerp shook his head, his jaw slightly ajar. “But it…” he blinked. “That was just two days ago. And that book had to weigh at least—”

“—Yeah, it was fantastic! I’ve been itching to read the sequel all day long!”

The bookkeeper rolled his eyes. “I can only imagine….” Then he shook his head and smiled politely. “Is there any chance I can get you to read the classics?”

Nerric answered with a smile. It meant “no”.

“Regrettable as always,” Orbelthwerp said. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting any paintings of vessel wandering through the celestial void.”

“If only I had the quoin!” Nerric beamed, utterly genuine.

The bookkeeper sighed and nodded. “Come along, then.” He climbed halfway up the ladder, and reached for the speaking horn on the wall—one of several in the store. “Sasha, would you mind finishing up in scientific literature for me. Nerric’s back.”

The voice echoed out from the speaking horns scattered all across the store. Readers in the building looked up from their books for a moment, and then quickly returned to their previous business.

{And that’s the other reason why I don’t read in here.}

Nerric hated those kinds of interruptions. For him, it was a matter of principle. It was the first tenet of the Readers’ Code of Chivalry: don’t bother me when I’m reading. He followed Mr. Orbelthwerp back to the main desk. A young scamandrit passed them on the stairs, her tail thwacking behind. By her dress, she was female—wearing a librarian’s robe and a napron.

“She’s new,” Nerric said.

“That she is.”

Nerric walked around to the front of the main desk, while the storeowner took his usual position behind it. Set his schooling-sack down on the carpet, Nerric plunged his hand in and fished out the money stashed in the inner pocket. He slung the sack over his back and stood back up again, planting both his hands on the countertop. Meanwhile, Mr. Orbelthwerp had slipped a key off the ring at his belt, and was presently bent over, fussing to insert the little thing in the lock of a drawer beneath the counter. The drawer’s sole distinguishing feature—and the only one it needed—was a small white card in its label slot with the name “Nerric” inked upon it. The two of them had a standing arrangement: Nerric told Orbelthwerp which books he wanted to read, and the man kept copies of each in the drawer for Nerric as reserve.

“How are your studies going?”

“Well…” Nerric let his voice trail off. It wasn’t a question he liked answering.

The lock clicked open; the draw slid smoothly out. Orbelthwerp leaned against the counter, shifting his weight to his elbow. He shook his head, and sighed.

“Have you told your mum and pop?”

Nerric stared. {Something’s not right. He’s asking more questions than usual…}

Nerric braced for impact—and just in time.

“Come now, Nerric,” Orbelthwerp said, “You have to start thinking eventually. You can’t live simply dreaming each day away.”

Nerric looked the wiry man in the eye for a moment, before pressing his bills onto the countertop. He was all of a sneeze away from saying “Just take my money already!”

With a sigh, Orbelthwerp bent and reached down, groaning slightly as he lifted the next tome on Nerric’s list up out of the drawer. The volume slipped out of his clammy hands in the last second or two, slamming down against the countertop loud and hard.

Heads looked up all around, looking this way and that like a flock of curious birds. Nerric glanced about nervously for a moment, covering his embarrassment with a smile. He slid the cash one way and the book in the other.

“Thanks!” he grinned.

Resting his schooling-sack on the counter Nerric stuffed the book in, closed the sack up, heaved a sigh, turned around, and then went on his way. Orbelthwerp watched him walk out through the door, sack at his back.

{I’m worried about that kid…}

Aside from a good book in a quiet place, few things gave Nerric as much of a thrill as the big sights and bustling streets of the City of Bells. He didn’t know it all—no one could (not even the mayors!)—but, when it came to the parts that he did know, his familiarity bordered on the intimate. Nooks and crannies and little courtyards were at his fingertips. He had places for the summer rains; places for when the Memorial line experienced delays. The seats under the columned portico of the Gladwyck & Co. Bank Building made for the perfect refuge from a windy day. And—unlike many a tourist—he remembered never to sit on a street-side table at the Fogbound Café unless Ygodekk happened to be working as the doorman. He was the only one that thought it reasonable for passerby to sit down and rest without having to purchase premium refreshments and imported cuisine from the Corshalls and the Darhton Province coast. Today, however, Nerric felt like doing something more Romantic.

{Maybe that classroom discussion rubbed off on me more than I thought…}

He stopped in his tracks, and looked up. From where he was on the sidewalk, the tall, alabaster walls of the church of St. Rendrick’s-of-the-Noble-Sword were as stalwart as the Savior of Terothan, himself. Nerric thought it was one of the more inspiring of the saint’s many churches in the City, what with its spiraling columns, windowed towers, and its sighing roof of polished blue tile. He wondered if St. Rendrick really had been born on that very spot. There was substantial evidence in favor of that proposition.

{But, then again, that’s what all the St. Rendricks in the City claim.}

A gust of wind blew down the street, carrying the scents of bladewood, pine nuts, and fried rice. Nerric shivered in the shadow of the Encyclopaedian Church, and then walked inside. Light and dappled shadow played within the great nave of Noble Sword. It always took Nerric’s breath away, even though it couldn’t be more different from the stained glass with which he was familiar. A few worshippers were in the aisles, on their knees, beseeching the Saints, the Spirits, and the Force itself. From the looks of it, the cantors were getting the incense set up.

{Good, I’m right on time.}

Once the afternoon services were underway, no self-respecting parishioner would ever consider wandering around on the upper floors, where they might then pester certain persons for whom the church—with all its solemnity—provided the ideal reading environment. Nerric passed into the tower and quietly clambered up the agèd stairway, the wrought iron railing cool to the touch as his hand slid past. His footsteps echoed softly up and down the shaft. Light from the windows filtered down in dappled streams. He went up two flights, just to be safe, ending up in a lovely hallway. He took a seat on the cushioned, carved-wood bench, and set his schooling sack down upon the smooth stone floor, but not before extracting his newest treasure. He didn’t even bother with appreciating the cover, or the frontispiece. He was too… hungry.

{Eh, close enough.}

He flipped to the title page, and began.

“The Infinity Codex — Book the Second: The Kiss of Night,” it read, “By Quilbert Strandsom.”

Nerric turned the page; such a crisp sound. For a moment, everything seemed to flash orange. Blinking, Nerric rubbed his eyes, and then went back to reading.

“My life did not truly begin until the day I agreed to help assassinate the king. I am Egrimm, the dweller in the dark; the maw in the night. I am Egrimm, the dwelle i… I girm all… alon agrim amgr lont mawimralonrlrigmaima nana na nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“What…?”

The words blurred, letters seeming to re-arrange before his eyes.

The letters lifted off the page, one by one, marching like ants. Climbing up the air. The text hovered above him in a quivering shroud. It thickened and thickened.

Nerric tried to scream—but his mouth wouldn’t open. He tried to get up—but he couldn’t move. Invisible fingertips grabbed his eyeballs and held them firmly in place.

Half the swarm of letters slithered up his arm like worms. The other half remained in mid-air, coalescing into a black mass, bulging with growths and sharp protrusions.

Legs. Feet. Talons.

They stomped down on Nerric’s legs before his heart could even skip a beat. A reptilian head burst out from the bass. Its blunt-ended snout gnashed and bit, full of rows of serrated teeth.

A beast crawled out of the book.

The back of Nerric’s head bashed against the resilient tile floor with a dull thud. The beast brought the weight of its body to bear down upon him. And suddenly, Nerric could move again. He thrashed and flailed and screamed his heart out.

“Help! Help!! Get this—”

The dull green beast shifted about, flitting its membranous wings in the open space of the corridor. It pressed a taloned foon down on Nerric’s belly, squeezing the breath out of his guts.

“—Be silent.” It spoke. The beast’s voice was a primal growl; rough, masculine, and loud. It echoed through the hallowed corridors, and no one else heard.

Nerric flailed his arms. The talons on his belly pressed down once more. They sunk into his flesh; blood bubbled up. Nerric froze stiff, and screamed. The monster folded its wings and shifted in place. It hunched over him, pressing its wing-claws down onto his arms.

“There we go,” it said. Pushing down hard, it shook him. “See how easy it is when you obey?”

The monster brought its snout close to Nerric’s face, and let its jaws sag open. Rancid breath wafted right at Nerric’s nostrils. He would have hurled if the creature hadn’t been holding it in for him.

“Know that I am Egrimm, human. Wyverm, and Shadow-walker. Faithful servant of his majesty, the Night King.”

Nerric tried to kick, only for its prehensile tail to coil around his legs. It held them stiff, and squeezed. Nerric struggled and screamed.

“It is by His will that you have arisen to the realms of the Unreal, in this, the first of His harvests. And it is by His will that you are to be an agent of His glory. Surrender unto Him your body and your soul, so that they may serve Him, for ever and ever.”

Thick gobs of saliva dripped from the wyverm’s jaws. They splattered onto Nerric’s cheeks, oozing down his face, all gooey and warm.

“No!” Nerric twisted his head from side to side. “Let go of me! Let g—”

“—Bah! Be silent.” It spat out the words. “You have no say in the matter. Here, you are but a thought.”

An indescribable roar sounded from somewhere distant. It sent terror dancing all the way down Nerric’s spine.

Egrimm looked up and stared at a wall, as if watching through a window.

“Ha-ha! I can hear the master’s reveille!” His teeth gnashed with every word.

He looked back down to Nerric. “I must hurry, human. The leftenant is calling, and I shan’t disappoint him.”

Egrimm jabbed his wing-claws into the tile floor. His entire body shuddered and seized, every muscle and joint locking in place. Then, like a drill, his head began to spin—all the way around. The jaws bounced open and shut in hearty laughter. The spinning went faster and faster, blurring to a whirl, then suddenly halting with a terrible crack.

And all the while, the laughter echoed and echoed, the sound now divorced from the body.

Crack!—the monster’s jaws opened wide—crack!—then wider still. Tendons tore; skull-bones crunched. Crack!—the head ripped itself in half. The tear grew, traveling down past the neck. Black blood spilled and spurt; the creature rumbled and thrashed.

A black tongue of darkness shot out from its mouth in a stream, splattering Nerric’s face—blisteringly cold. He screamed and twisted, but the wyverm held him tight. The torrent spilled out, more and more. The writhing ooze pried its way into Nerric’s mouth and nostrils and shot their way in.

Crack!—the wyverm split in half like a cork-remover folding back. Liquefying, it spewed into Nerric’s throat, laughing all the way down. The taste was rot and death. It was like poison boiling in his belly; it made his every breath burn.

Nerric wanted to heave and wretch and spit—but he couldn’t move. His body no longer obeyed his commands. He tried to get up—to writhe and sprint and shudder and flail. But he couldn’t. Not even his eyes listened. He could only feel—and the feelings were locked in there with him. He couldn’t vent his fear; His lips wouldn’t pull back; his eyebrows wouldn’t bend. His eyes forced him to watch.

The burning sensation moved quickly, and with precision. It trickled down to his stomach, and then spread throughout his torso like a slowly-growing flame. It itched and stung. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt it wriggling up his arms and legs, like blood crawling out from his veins.

«Yes… » the wyverm cackled. «Yes!—an excellent body. Now, to make haste. The Night King awaits!»

This time, the voice came from within, Nerric screamed and roared in the stillness of his mind. He begged his body to listen. Or even just to rebel. But Egrimm was in control.

«You’re not alone anymore!»

The creature rolled Neric’s body onto its belly. Nerric felt his slender arms being pressed against the cold tile. He felt his fingers curl into fists, his wrists flex and arms bend. The invader pushed his chest up off the floor. The body flopped like a fish.

Egrimm had no experience with “hands”.

{No! Stop! Get out! Get out!}

«You are no longer your own, worm. My lord will soon make you into an obedient soldier. A merchant of death.»

Egrimm pushed the knees forward, folded them, and kneeled.

{Stop!}

«Enjoy these, your last moments of mind. You are about to savor wonders that your kind rarely knows!»

With the legs, Egrimm pushed; the body rose into a squat. He let Nerric’s arms hang limply at his sides. He turned the head from side to side, surveying his surroundings.

Then, forcing air out of the soft, supple lungs, Egrimm made the vocal chords trembled. It was a throaty laugh, almost like a growl. He fumbled with the tongue as he made the mortal speak. The words came out gargled and bestial.

“Such paltry things, these mortal eyes.”

Through Nerric’s eyes, the wyverm saw a spot on the far end of the hall: blocks of grey stone draped in shadow, out of the reach of the windows and the light.

”That will do.”

{What—what are you doing?!}

“Your struggles are as worthless as this feeble body, human!”

Pushing open mouth and lungs, Egrimm, sucked in breath, and then launched Nerric into a sprint. Nerric’s body tottered like a stack of books about to fall, stuck on a cart racing right for a wall.

{You’re gonna—}

—The shadows trembled. A ripple spread across the shaded part of the wall. His body leapt into the center. For an instant, Nerric saw nothing but strange swirls of dark colors and mist in violet blues and blacks. It was like thick syrup, but dry and slick. There was no pressure; no feeling of breath. His heart ceased to beat.

In the void, Egrimm whispered. «And now… we fly.»

A force like a spell launched his body forward out of the void, leaving the mists behind him. He passed into the daylight outside of the temple, shooting out a ripple in the other side of the [five-foot]-thick wall. He soared through the air. Rooftops and treetops spread out beneath him. Out of the corners of eyes he saw that his hands had transformed into wings. Leathery, like a dragon’s, but more supple—like a bat’s.

{What?! How?!}

Egrimm rowed the body’s new wings up and down. He banked a curve, gliding over blocks and alleyways. Nerric’s mind whiz by at a million [distance-unit]s a minute. Every sight sent his thoughts reeling.

A magenta sky spread out over things plucked from nightmares and dreams. It was too fantastical to believe; too much to take in, or to describe all at once. Here, there were monsters; there machines. Here, a giant being standing in an intersection. There, a throng of demons crowding into a theatre. Here a furred serpent, entwined around a winged galleon. There, glowing gardens hanging off a floating isle.

The sight was haunted by phantoms of familiar things. He saw ordinary cars in ordinary traffic, and ordinary people walking about—but their forms flickered and blurred, as if made of mists, and seen through tears—and all in monochrome shades. If he didn’t concentrate, the ghosts would vanish entirely. They phased through the fantasies, indifferent and unaware.

The streets were packed with phantasmagoria: a city of creatures, both humanoid and not. Most common were enigmatic humans, dressed in masks and pale fineries, as if in a masquerade.

“Masques, the lot of them—bland and brainless. The Night King will make quick work of them!”

Little wings beat fast and loud. Nerric’s head turned—a flock of paper birds flew right at him. Egrimm flapped and swerved, rising above them.

“Here, there are no laws but the whims of the strong,” Egrimm said. He was beginning to master the art of the voice.

Nerric felt something pushing at his back—a quivering fluid, filling the wings like bowls. Egrimm cocked the head back, glancing up at the sun. He made the tongue hiss.

“Gah! Curse that shining orb!”

Light weighed down by the wings, turning altitude to momentum. He plunged down; rooftop shingles grazed against his feet.

«Hmph.» The sound echoed in Nerric’s mind. «By earth or by sky—it matters not.»

Aiming for a nearby street, Egrimm tensed the legs. Spreading the wings wide, he struck against the air and the light. His descent slowed; the winds calmed.

Nerric pounced down in the middle of the road. His legs should have snapped and broken, but they felt like springs, compressing against the force of the pavement.

All around, the monochrome forms moved on by. Without a sound, an omnibus drove down the street. It misty form plowed through Nerric, scattering around him in a spray of black and white. He could smell the colours as he breathed them in.

“What are you doing?”

Egrimm turned the head toward the voice. It came from a woman with a golden glow. Her tresses floated behind her, swirling with all the colours of sunset.

Egrimm made Nerric snarl and growl. He lunged forward, and reached out with a massive, black hand—

{What!?}

Nerric’s hand grabbed the woman’s head and squeezed. It felt like paper in his grip. She crunched like a candy; caramel fluid spewed out. Egrimm threw her corpse to the ground, turned away. Laughing like a demon, he ran like the wind.

Nerric couldn’t believe his speed. Each stride was like a long leap. Sights rushed passed, too fast for him to count. Anything in his way was leapt over or bashed. Skulls crushed; fantastical bodies torn open. Strange colours oozed out. Egrimm jumped onto the walls of buildings covered in shade, anchoring Nerric’s feet in the darkness. He raced along the walls, leaping off at thes shadows’ end and hitting the street, running.

At an intersection up ahead, Egrimm made a sharp turn. Beneath a metal archway with the title “Marketplace”, the street widened out into a square. Kiosks, poles, tents and trees filled the open space. Rope were strung between them all, with coluored lanterns hanging down. It was a lovely scene, filled with marvelous things almost defying description. And Egrimm tore through it like a hurricane. He made a beeline for the restaurant near the gate, ripping up everything in his path. Tables were upturned along with their patrons. Food on platters and plates launched, and flew far. Waves of debris shot through the air. Egrimm leapt onto the pastry table, and then again, up onto the kitchen rooftop. The table was sent spinning; a volley of musical pastries smacked into the crowds. Pies sang arias and charming tunes, ending in ugly splats on a face or the pavement.

Nerric’s body leapt from the rooftop to a nearby kiosk, then to a tent, and then a rooftop again. Structures gave way. Merchants dove away from their stalls with shouts and screams. Tables and carts laden with wares spilled their contents onto the ground. A wire cage of captive puns fell over and broke open. The mischievous word-play was set loose. The puns scrambled and ran, pouncing toward the nearest victims in a flurry of tooth and claw. A man in red watched, flabbergasted, as Nerric leaping by; immediately, he was overrun by the swarm. Creatures of all sorts ran and screamed. Octopuses panicked. Dictionaries went to war.

Leaping from a tall tent, Nerric felt his feet snag against something: a lantern-bearing rope. It plucked him from his path and sent him careening toward the gazebo at the center of the square. The rope snapped and came undone. Lanterns shattered upon old cobblestone in splashes of metal and coloured glass. Nerric’s body crashed through the gazebo’s roof. The structure collapsed on a quartet of gargoyles and their paintings and their easels. Egrimm clawed and roared. Art ended with the tears of canvases, manly shrieks, and wings of frightened stone, fluttering away. Egrimm grabbed one of the painters to bring Nerric back to his feet. He tossed the gargoyle onto the ground and set off running. The artist shattered into a thousand screaming pieces..

The man in red staggered out from the chaos as Egrimm rushed away. He pulled himself free of the last pun’s grip—crushing the squealing, scampering thing with the heel of his boot. He bent to the ground—picked up his pointed, red, wide-brimmed hat— and then set off running.

Up ahead, Egrimm cackled and grinned. “Yes!” he hissed. “My contact! He is near!”

He turned down a dark alley.

“Leftenant!” Nerric’s voice barked. “The recruit, for our lord!”

A massive hand reached around and grabbed the corner of a wall up ahead. Talons like swords scraped into the brick. Sparks flew. Through them, the Night King’s officer came into view. It was an abyssal horror: blue flames smoldered in place of eyes, between wicked horns enshrouded in black smog. Long locks draped down the sides of its head, matted like wet reeds and stained with the stench of mildew.

The man in red turned down the alley, panting—breathless. He locked eyes with the creature.

“Holy…”

Egrimm turned Nerric’s head around, all the way back. It should have broken bone. Both host and hostage-taker saw their pursuer: the man in red—a black silhouette against the sun-lit street at his back.

With Nerric’s lips and throat, Egrimm snarled. He turned the boy’s head to face forward again. The fire-eyed horror reached out with the palm of its hand. It clenched its fingers into fists, and then slowly drew its arm back in. Nerric felt an unseen force gripped him with an irresistible might. Beckoning, it pulled him—his body, his soul. He didn’t even notice the slime crawling toward him on the ground. He couldn’t see it until it had crawled all the way up to his chest.

It was a moving skin of ink-black darkness. He felt it harden and crackle, thickening into something like a cocoon. It climbed up his neck, rising like the tide. A feeling of fire seared all over his body.

It covered his mouth. It covered his eyes.

Outside, the shell of darkness began to bulge and swell.

“An offering, my lord!” Nerric felt his mouth say, even as the darkness poured down. “An offering, for thee!” He heard his voice stretch and warp.

Breath by breath Nerric lost touch with his body. The transformation progressed. The lights in the house of his mind were put out, one by one. The last of his sensations faded into blackness, leaving him in a void filled with naught but burning, disembodied pain. Then he consciousness, and knew no more.

“No!” yelled the mysterious stranger.

He pulled out a magnificent feathered quill. It sparkled with an otherworldly radiance. And then, upon the air, he began to write. Letters of glowing light materialized beneath the quill’s tip. He wrote of many things. He wrote of the peculiar feeling watching and waiting for clock to change hand. He wrote of the music of the sky on a perfect afternoon. He wrote of the wings of love, soaring at first sight. He wrote of heroes and daring and villains and vengeance and the labyrinthine intricacies of intellectual property law.

“Die, fell beast—die!” yelled the brave man in red.

The recorded light collapsed to a single point, and then burst forth in a blinding stream. Fulgent paragraphs blasted down the alleyway—and struck. Each phrase had a purpose; every word a power all its own. Words to work and to state; words to mean, and to imply.

Like living chains, they coiled tight around the creature and Nerric’s shell of darkness. The creature recoiled in horror, but too late. The words wove their way around its body and being. They seared against its hide, sending up smoke and a stench of melting flesh.

There was a sound like shattering glass; like a field spiking, and bursting asunder.

The monster fell forward, and dissolved. It disintegrated into specks of dark colors—tiny bubbles that burst in an instant. The writing of light snaked onto the ground; the light seemed to hiss

The man in red drew a circle with his quill. The writhing words converged around Nerric’s dark cocoon. The mysterious strange traced round and round, whipping the words into a whirlwind. They lashed out at the viscous shell, searing into it like branding irons. Nerric’s body screamed; Egrimm was aware, even if his host was not. Ropes and chains of tautest rhetoric tightened and squeezed the mass that bulged beneath the dark. With venting steam, the shell shrank and shriveled, dying away along with Egrimm’s cries. The words’ light shifted through all the hues of the spectrum, until—dulled to a heatless red—the dark shell finally fractured.

Nerric, revealed, collapsed to the ground unconscious. The words burned into his limbs, slowly fading to the black of simple ink. The radiance of the mystic quill flickered, fading in tandem. The man in red fell to his knees, ravenous for breath. He reached out for the alley wall to keep himself from falling flat upon his face. Gradually, his breaths relaxed.

“That was close.” He sighed—exhausted, but relieved. He slid the feather into a pocket in his coat.

He looked around, and then raised his hand to his chin.

“Now… where did I park my car?”

Description
"Oh, Nerric, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

A calm fell over the literature class. The students were as silent as the stately bookcases against the back wall—but with far fewer words. The light of the late afternoon streamed through the classroom windows; stray fibers at the back of the teacher’s pastel green bodice glowed like gold in the sunbeams.

Nerric Togaroff looked up from his book to his teacher. Her imperious stance and long, curly brown tresses cast a shadow over him as all eyes converged.

“What?” The young man feigned ignorance.

That might have worked with almost any other instructor: it was near the end of a long school-day, and it would have been easy to simply not bother. But bothering was Mrs. Melina Baryesh’s specialty—and Mrs. B was intent on keeping that title. Presently, she was in the middle of presiding over her students’ discussion of the third chapter of the venerable Cidney Cartwright—in which Cid arrives at the legendary Bastion of Leonera-in-the-Hills.

She reached for the book in Nerric’s hands. By all appearances, it was just another old copy from the school library, its ratty cover and binding long-since replaced with one of fabric and smooth blue. But she knew better, and—worse—Nerric knew that she knew. His sham book-cover came right off in her fingers. The book in his hands was anything but Cidney Cartwright. Its cover depicted turquoise creatures similar to sea-serpents, entwined in combat on what appeared to be—and which the title confirmed as being—the surface of the Lesser Moon. She read it aloud:

“The Wyrms of Seladrel,” It triggered many a snigger. Mrs. Baryesh was not amused; her light sepia face furrowed into a frown—and Nerric knew quite well that it was directed at him.

There were many disadvantages that came with having a family friend (and former neighbor) as one’s Literature teacher in secondary school. For one, they knew all your best tricks.

Nerric set the phantasy story down on his desk.

“Do you even have a copy of Cidney Cartwright with you?” she asked.

Yet another disadvantage: they had no fear of confronting you—especially particularly when you deserved it.

Nerric paused for dramatic effect before delivering his answer.

“Maybe…”

“Oh, don’t give me any of that nonsense, Mr. Togaroff.”

“We’re wasting class time right now, remember?” Nerric said.

“Actually…” Mrs. B retorted, “We’re not. I’ve been meaning to discuss genres in greater detail.” She grinned. “And now, I have the perfect pretext.”

Nerric groaned. He asked himself a question; he asked himself a lot of question. {She’s going to find a way to make me participate, no matter what, isn’t she?}

But he already knew the answer.

Mrs. B looked over the rest of the class. Her gazed roved from head to head as she decided upon her chosen victim.

“Ah, yes—Willick.”

The blonde youth’s eyes fluttered awake, and to attention.

“Y-Yes, ma’am?”

“The setting of Chapter Three—the ancient castle… in Pavingtom’s descriptions of it, what significant literary style is he engaging in? I’ll give you a hint: Think about the villagers’ superstitious tales about the Bastion that Cid and his new friends mull over, and remember our earlier discussion about the usage of folklore and storytelling in recent literature.”

At this point, a volley of raising arms stabbed at the air. Nerric was not one of them; neither was Willick.

“Uh…” Willick droned…

Mrs. B rested her fingers in her bangs for a moment.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t remember.”

“Romanticism, Willick.” She looked over the class. “Everyone remember now?” Most of the students nodded.

Mrs. B turned back to Nerric. “I’m going to have to ask you to give me that book of yours.”

Nerric frowned. “But, I—”

“—Come on, give it here.” She outstretched her hand; reluctantly, Nerric complied. “You can get it back later, after class,” she said. “In a couple of days.”

Mrs. B raised The Wyrms of Seladrel up into the air, letting everyone get a good glimpse of the image on the cover.

“What genre of fiction is this?”

“Phantasy,” the class replied.

“And a work of the Wilder movement,” a young boy said.

The teacher glanced across the room. “Now, now, Tristopher, no need to show off.”

Tristopher nodded, and willed himself quiet.

Mrs. B took a breath. “But, yes—that’s right. Phantasy. Phantasy is a modern nephew of the approach and attitude pervading Pavingtom’s passages about the Bastion, and its relation to the surrounding community.” She turned back to Nerric.

“Now, Nerric, would you mind telling us why we don’t generally study phantasy—except, maybe, in a university seminar, hmm?”

Nerric propped his elbow on his desk, letting his cheek come to rest upon his curled fist. He sighed. He knew the answer by heart; they’d had this conversation many times before. “Because it’s not applicable to real life. It mostly engages tropes, and it rarely has something meaningful to say.” He spoke the words with the kind of lack of enthusiasm that he generally reserved for singing hymns during liturgy.

“Quite right.” The teacher nodded.

That struck a chord with Nerric: an angry one. He lightly slapped his varnished desk.

“Better that than being boring,” he muttered.

Quietly, some of the students gasped. They scented the imminent blood.

“What was that, Nerric?” Mrs. B turned to face him.

Seizing the moment, Nerric decided to take a stand for what he believed in—but not actually standing up, of course. “I’m tired of reading stories about young people getting sent away to a Wizarding School, or an Engineering Academy, or whatever. They’re all the same. And”—he dared go further—“they’re demeaning.”

Mrs. Baryesh straightened her back, pursed her lips, and pretended to be offended. “How in the world could they be demeaning? They teach us valuable life lessons, and give us something to talk about in literature class.”

“For starters?” Nerric cocked his head. “The way those stories put rich nats, their kids, and their preppy boarding schools all up on a pedestal. Going to a posh and pricy Wizarding School doesn’t somehow make you a better person than everyone else who didn’t get to go. And neither does having a kid who went to one. I’d like to think a public school like ours could produce mages just as good as any one of those gits, anyhow.”

Mrs. B glared at him. “Speak for yourself, Mister Togaroff,” she said. “Oh, the things that Kenry Prinkle has told me about your… escapades in Enchantment Lab.” ” She smirked.

There were snickers from further back in the room, mostly from those students those who had the fortune of being in that very same. It was a well-known fact that Nerric was by no means talented with magic. Not in the least. Togaroff’s embarrassing difficulties with fireballs were the stuff of legend, spoken of in the hallways with whispers and chortles.

{At least I don’t have an older sibling to lord it over me,} Nerric thought. {Or a younger sibling, to make me look bad.}

No, he already had his parents and their worried nagging—and even that was more than he would have liked.

“As far as I’m was concerned,” he said—grumpy, but a little more humbly—“All writers are phantasists, it’s just that most of them have locked their imaginations up in the basement, and are perfectly willing to let them starve to death.”

{Sad, but true,} he thought.

Mrs. Baryesh looked up at the clock on the wall, above the slateboard. The pendulum swung with a tick, to and fro.

“Time’s up already? I swear, it feels like it’s been barely more than a mode.” She shrugged. “Ah, well.”

The students began to pack their things, stuffing their notebooks, pens and pencils into their schooling-sacks.

“Ah-ah-ah—hold on a minute,” Mrs. Baryesh said. “In light of today’s discussion, I’d like everyone to write up an essay on the topics we touched upon today.”

Notebooks and spare sheets of paper fluttered back onto the long desk-tops, ready to record,

“I would like you to take the romantic, religious, or supernatural elements of chapter three—whichever ones you prefer—and analyze how they relate to, and reflect upon, the issues and events of Cid’s life, so far. If you’ve read ahead, feel free to talk about connections between those elements and what happens in subsequent chapters. Finally, I want to hear your opinion of it. Do you think those elements are effective at doing what you, in your analyses, claim that they are doing? And do you think they’re doing too much, or not enough?”

The clock-tower struck eight.

“Very good then. Class dismissed.”

Belongings rustled as they were packed away.

Then—suddenly—Mrs. B remembered. “Oh, yes—”

—Everyone froze.

“I want those essays turned in no later than class after next.”

And with that, they were free.

Nerric lingered at his seat for a moment, watching Mrs. B’s actions with great care. She approached her desk and stashed his book in one of the drawers.

{Dammit. Not that one.}

It didn’t matter whether he knew a spell to open it up (he didn’t). The drawer had a null engraved into its lock, and Nerric didn’t know enough to be able to shred the fields himself.

“See you day next class, Nerric,” Mrs. B said. “If you’re good, you can get your book back early.”

She opened the door of wood and frosted glass, and disappeared down the hall. He got up, slung his schooling-sack over his
shoulder, and exited the room. With a sighed, he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Damn. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Nerric didn’t like the unexpected.

Memorial Park: one of many oases of green that spotted the city of Eyton. It was a double memorial, of sorts—not just for the fallen of the Neverwar, but for the core of old city, itself. There was always construction going on in Eyton, especially near the city’s heart. Some said that it would reach the stars, one day. And many believed it. The sky-scrapers and spires of Skytown towered at the north end of the park, like a wall. Invigorating winds dashed down the building corridors, carrying with them the echoes of chisels and hammers, and of the magics that wrought the stone—shaping it, and lifting it high. Even on such a bright, cloudless day—the streets warmed by the late-afternoon sun—the breeze was still enough to make a person shiver. And Nerric was no exception.

Most of Nerric’s life up to this point had consisted of shuttling to and from Memorial Park and his home out in [place] day after day. First, to Memorial Park South School—his primary education—then up two blocks to the hallowed halls of Memorial Park North at the opposite end of the green. Like all state schools, Memorial North had the distinction of being extremely pleasing to the eye: it was a big U of a building, covering three of its corner lot’s four sides, with a little plaza in the middle, accented by flowerbeds and some simple water works, beneath the aromatic shade of a painted bladewood. The school’s three main halls were adorned with all the usual arch-work, inner atria, and ornate fineries. As per tradition, each grade entered and exited through its own wide wooden doors beneath the contiguous arched portico; it helped that the classrooms themselves were distributed throughout the building in a similar manner. The tradition had its downs and ups: it made it difficult to rendezvous with an older or younger sibling or friend, but it also reduced the chance of getting accosted by someone large and nasty—and that was a plus.

Vehicles flocked to curb like birds to a waterfront. Cars and omnibuses (always motored) waited school-side. Students with vehicles of their own parked park-side. Richer upperclassman opened their monocycles’ chassis doors and switched on the control crystals; the less-rich rode away on their vélos, the fairings shielding them from the wind. In either case, the cycles darted out like fish, weaving their ways into the flow of traffic.

Nerric was neither rich enough to afford his own monocycle, nor poor enough to have to pedal home on a vélo. Instead, he went by way of the Underway. He’d ride to school every morning with his father; Mr. Togaroff’s job as a city court official in the Halls of Justice took him down the same route as his son. The family had gotten an excellent deal for monthly transit costs, and would hold to it until they had saved up enough to buy a new car.

At the corner of the street, the school’s tall, pointed clock-tower rang its sonorous bells. As usual, the signaling of the hour was something of a mêlée; every bell in Eyton, it seemed, entered the fray, hoping to emerge as champion. The sound shivered down Nerric’s spine. All over the city—all the way to the suburbs—the eighth-hour bell was the student’s cry of freedom, save for those unfortunate few who suffered through an after-school extracurricular. Barely a day went by that Nerric didn’t pray for them. Today, however, was an exception. Today was for him, and it was going to be wonderful.

Nerric walked down the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd like a hunter through woodland. The Memorial Park underway station came up half-way down the length of the park. That was where most of the students were headed.

But not him.

{I’ve got everything I need.} Nerric made the list in his thoughts. {Allowance money, minimal homework, and a bloody brilliant excuse for not coming home ‘till late.}

Nerric was very proud of the excuse—it was two-thirds true! He could picture it now: him, telling his mother and father: “I had to stay at school to work with my partner on our enchantment project.”

He did have an enchantment project to work on, and, even a partner, too! The lie was that he was going to work on it. As far as lies came, it was minuscule—but potent, all the same.

No: today Nerric was going to treat himself. To a book.

A phantasy book.

Most of the crowd funneled into the prettily-tiled stairwell of the Memorial Park underway station. Somewhere down below, breaks squeezed against the monorail track; their squeals echoed up onto the street. That would be the train, right on schedule for the school’s-end rush. Normally, it was at this time that Nerric would dash down the stairs, like everyone else—shoving if necessary. But, today, he was in no rush. He continued on without the hustle and bustle, down to the end of the park where he made a right. He knew his way around; he’d gone down this route so many times before. It took about a quarter hour before he finally arrived at his destination. He would have whistled, but he wasn’t good at that.

To Nerric, Mr. Orbelthwerp’s Literary Emporium was as grand as its name: a moulding of luxurious wood that covered half of the street-front of the castle of an apartment building at [address]. In a rush of excitement, he ran past the shop’s windows altogether and darted right through the door. Nerric prided himself on having visit a sizable number of bookstores over the course of his life, but, of all of them, Orbelthwerp’s was far and away his favorite. It had all the essential features. It was more “book” than “store”: any and every exposed surface that wasn’t the ground (or a step, or a seat) was either a bookshelf containing books, or a table covered in the same—or thereabouts. Equally important, everything that wasn’t books was either sumptuous red carpeting, or rich deep-hued wood—like the storefront, but probably even more expensive. It certainly looked that way. The bookshelves on the walls went all the way up to the ceiling, and all the staircases were grand: spiraling or sprawling, and always with balustrades. The frosted glass of wall sconces and hanging fixtures glowed with enchanted light—tuned to the golden aura of a sleepy weekend afternoon.

On a prayer, Nerric looked over to the pair of maroon leather sit-around couches located by the big windows. He sighed, disappointed—as he had expected. They were filled to capacity. People stood at nearby bookshelves, sampling the inventories. But that was a lie. Nerric knew that each and every one of them was just pretending. They were all watchmen; the only thought in their mind was of being the first to score an empty seat the instant a bottom rose.

An elderly lady in grayish brown with a feathered hat shifted about in her seat. Watching eyes risked furtive glanced at her, fearing they might later others to their intent. They waited; they prayed.

The woman straightened her blouse and hat—tidying the corsage—and went back to reading. Nerric could taste the envy in the air as we walked passed. He smiled broadly, smug and satisfied. He had no such troubles. He had secret reading places scattered here and there, in or near the school or underway stations, usually in places visit only by the curious, or the strange. Looking over to the front desk by the support-pillar beside the grand staircase, however, dampened Nerric’s good spirits: Orbelthwerp was not at his usual post.

Nerric had never been comfortable with sad status of phantasy in the minds of everyday folk. To them, it was a “guilty pleasure” at best; “silly” or “weird” on most days; and, at worst, a “vile medium of corruption and nonsense”—to quote his neighborhood pastor. Nerric liked Orbelthwerp for his balance: he was not prone to giving long lectures, and—equally importantly—he, himself, was not frighteningly devoted to the genre. Mr. Orbelthwerp handed Nerric his merchandise and left him in peace, except for an inevitable little blip here or there that Nerric had begun to suspect was somehow contractually obligated—but as to how, and by whom, he had no idea.

{He’s probably up in the mezzanine.}

Nerric walked up the staircase. The carpeted steps cushioned his every foot-fall. His hand slid across the wooden balustrade—his fingers barely touching it.

{Speaking of frightening genre devotees…} Nerric’s thoughts drifted back.

He had been to a phantasy specialty store once—and only once—before. It was an indescribable experience. It was a tiny shop with drowsy lights, tucked away into a building that the march of progress had stuffed down an alley’s alley in a moment of panic and had soon forgotten about it altogether. Nerric was almost certain that he would be a regular customer if he could only figure out a way to go to the shop and survey its titles without having to deal with the feeling of soul-crushing embarrassment. That, and a way to get those strange people in even stranger clothing to stop looking at him like a splinter in the ankle.

Standing on the mezzanine landing, Nerric looked around, nodding in delight as he caught eye of the shop-owner—like a prow above the bookshelf sea—descending a sliding ladder on the back wall’s shelves with a stack of books clutched tightly under his arm. The sight made the boy’s heart skip a beat. Nerric dashed through the aisles all the way to the other side—and with only one almost-collision happening in between.

Mr. Orbelthwerp placed the stack on the rolling dolly, panting slightly. “Ah, Nerric! Back so soon? Don’t tell me you’ve already—”

“—Yep,” the young man nodded, smiling broadly.

Orbelthwerp shook his head, his jaw slightly ajar. “But it…” he blinked. “That was just two days ago. And that book had to weigh at least—”

“—Yeah, it was fantastic! I’ve been itching to read the sequel all day long!”

The bookkeeper rolled his eyes. “I can only imagine….” Then he shook his head and smiled politely. “Is there any chance I can get you to read the classics?”

Nerric answered with a smile. It meant “no”.

“Regrettable as always,” Orbelthwerp said. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting any paintings of vessel wandering through the celestial void.”

“If only I had the quoin!” Nerric beamed, utterly genuine.

The bookkeeper sighed and nodded. “Come along, then.” He climbed halfway up the ladder, and reached for the speaking horn on the wall—one of several in the store. “Sasha, would you mind finishing up in scientific literature for me. Nerric’s back.”

The voice echoed out from the speaking horns scattered all across the store. Readers in the building looked up from their books for a moment, and then quickly returned to their previous business.

{And that’s the other reason why I don’t read in here.}

Nerric hated those kinds of interruptions. For him, it was a matter of principle. It was the first tenet of the Readers’ Code of Chivalry: don’t bother me when I’m reading. He followed Mr. Orbelthwerp back to the main desk. A young scamandrit passed them on the stairs, her tail thwacking behind. By her dress, she was female—wearing a librarian’s robe and a napron.

“She’s new,” Nerric said.

“That she is.”

Nerric walked around to the front of the main desk, while the storeowner took his usual position behind it. Set his schooling-sack down on the carpet, Nerric plunged his hand in and fished out the money stashed in the inner pocket. He slung the sack over his back and stood back up again, planting both his hands on the countertop. Meanwhile, Mr. Orbelthwerp had slipped a key off the ring at his belt, and was presently bent over, fussing to insert the little thing in the lock of a drawer beneath the counter. The drawer’s sole distinguishing feature—and the only one it needed—was a small white card in its label slot with the name “Nerric” inked upon it. The two of them had a standing arrangement: Nerric told Orbelthwerp which books he wanted to read, and the man kept copies of each in the drawer for Nerric as reserve.

“How are your studies going?”

“Well…” Nerric let his voice trail off. It wasn’t a question he liked answering.

The lock clicked open; the draw slid smoothly out. Orbelthwerp leaned against the counter, shifting his weight to his elbow. He shook his head, and sighed.

“Have you told your mum and pop?”

Nerric stared. {Something’s not right. He’s asking more questions than usual…}

Nerric braced for impact—and just in time.

“Come now, Nerric,” Orbelthwerp said, “You have to start thinking eventually. You can’t live simply dreaming each day away.”

Nerric looked the wiry man in the eye for a moment, before pressing his bills onto the countertop. He was all of a sneeze away from saying “Just take my money already!”

With a sigh, Orbelthwerp bent and reached down, groaning slightly as he lifted the next tome on Nerric’s list up out of the drawer. The volume slipped out of his clammy hands in the last second or two, slamming down against the countertop loud and hard.

Heads looked up all around, looking this way and that like a flock of curious birds. Nerric glanced about nervously for a moment, covering his embarrassment with a smile. He slid the cash one way and the book in the other.

“Thanks!” he grinned.

Resting his schooling-sack on the counter Nerric stuffed the book in, closed the sack up, heaved a sigh, turned around, and then went on his way. Orbelthwerp watched him walk out through the door, sack at his back.

{I’m worried about that kid…}

Aside from a good book in a quiet place, few things gave Nerric as much of a thrill as the big sights and bustling streets of the City of Bells. He didn’t know it all—no one could (not even the mayors!)—but, when it came to the parts that he did know, his familiarity bordered on the intimate. Nooks and crannies and little courtyards were at his fingertips. He had places for the summer rains; places for when the Memorial line experienced delays. The seats under the columned portico of the Gladwyck & Co. Bank Building made for the perfect refuge from a windy day. And—unlike many a tourist—he remembered never to sit on a street-side table at the Fogbound Café unless Ygodekk happened to be working as the doorman. He was the only one that thought it reasonable for passerby to sit down and rest without having to purchase premium refreshments and imported cuisine from the Corshalls and the Darhton Province coast. Today, however, Nerric felt like doing something more Romantic.

{Maybe that classroom discussion rubbed off on me more than I thought…}

He stopped in his tracks, and looked up. From where he was on the sidewalk, the tall, alabaster walls of the church of St. Rendrick’s-of-the-Noble-Sword were as stalwart as the Savior of Terothan, himself. Nerric thought it was one of the more inspiring of the saint’s many churches in the City, what with its spiraling columns, windowed towers, and its sighing roof of polished blue tile. He wondered if St. Rendrick really had been born on that very spot. There was substantial evidence in favor of that proposition.

{But, then again, that’s what all the St. Rendricks in the City claim.}

A gust of wind blew down the street, carrying the scents of bladewood, pine nuts, and fried rice. Nerric shivered in the shadow of the Encyclopaedian Church, and then walked inside. Light and dappled shadow played within the great nave of Noble Sword. It always took Nerric’s breath away, even though it couldn’t be more different from the stained glass with which he was familiar. A few worshippers were in the aisles, on their knees, beseeching the Saints, the Spirits, and the Force itself. From the looks of it, the cantors were getting the incense set up.

{Good, I’m right on time.}

Once the afternoon services were underway, no self-respecting parishioner would ever consider wandering around on the upper floors, where they might then pester certain persons for whom the church—with all its solemnity—provided the ideal reading environment. Nerric passed into the tower and quietly clambered up the agèd stairway, the wrought iron railing cool to the touch as his hand slid past. His footsteps echoed softly up and down the shaft. Light from the windows filtered down in dappled streams. He went up two flights, just to be safe, ending up in a lovely hallway. He took a seat on the cushioned, carved-wood bench, and set his schooling sack down upon the smooth stone floor, but not before extracting his newest treasure. He didn’t even bother with appreciating the cover, or the frontispiece. He was too… hungry.

{Eh, close enough.}

He flipped to the title page, and began.

“The Infinity Codex — Book the Second: The Kiss of Night,” it read, “By Quilbert Strandsom.”

Nerric turned the page; such a crisp sound. For a moment, everything seemed to flash orange. Blinking, Nerric rubbed his eyes, and then went back to reading.

“My life did not truly begin until the day I agreed to help assassinate the king. I am Egrimm, the dweller in the dark; the maw in the night. I am Egrimm, the dwelle i… I girm all… alon agrim amgr lont mawimralonrlrigmaima nana na nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“What…?”

The words blurred, letters seeming to re-arrange before his eyes.

The letters lifted off the page, one by one, marching like ants. Climbing up the air. The text hovered above him in a quivering shroud. It thickened and thickened.

Nerric tried to scream—but his mouth wouldn’t open. He tried to get up—but he couldn’t move. Invisible fingertips grabbed his eyeballs and held them firmly in place.

Half the swarm of letters slithered up his arm like worms. The other half remained in mid-air, coalescing into a black mass, bulging with growths and sharp protrusions.

Legs. Feet. Talons.

They stomped down on Nerric’s legs before his heart could even skip a beat. A reptilian head burst out from the bass. Its blunt-ended snout gnashed and bit, full of rows of serrated teeth.

A beast crawled out of the book.

The back of Nerric’s head bashed against the resilient tile floor with a dull thud. The beast brought the weight of its body to bear down upon him. And suddenly, Nerric could move again. He thrashed and flailed and screamed his heart out.

“Help! Help!! Get this—”

The dull green beast shifted about, flitting its membranous wings in the open space of the corridor. It pressed a taloned foon down on Nerric’s belly, squeezing the breath out of his guts.

“—Be silent.” It spoke. The beast’s voice was a primal growl; rough, masculine, and loud. It echoed through the hallowed corridors, and no one else heard.

Nerric flailed his arms. The talons on his belly pressed down once more. They sunk into his flesh; blood bubbled up. Nerric froze stiff, and screamed. The monster folded its wings and shifted in place. It hunched over him, pressing its wing-claws down onto his arms.

“There we go,” it said. Pushing down hard, it shook him. “See how easy it is when you obey?”

The monster brought its snout close to Nerric’s face, and let its jaws sag open. Rancid breath wafted right at Nerric’s nostrils. He would have hurled if the creature hadn’t been holding it in for him.

“Know that I am Egrimm, human. Wyverm, and Shadow-walker. Faithful servant of his majesty, the Night King.”

Nerric tried to kick, only for its prehensile tail to coil around his legs. It held them stiff, and squeezed. Nerric struggled and screamed.

“It is by His will that you have arisen to the realms of the Unreal, in this, the first of His harvests. And it is by His will that you are to be an agent of His glory. Surrender unto Him your body and your soul, so that they may serve Him, for ever and ever.”

Thick gobs of saliva dripped from the wyverm’s jaws. They splattered onto Nerric’s cheeks, oozing down his face, all gooey and warm.

“No!” Nerric twisted his head from side to side. “Let go of me! Let g—”

“—Bah! Be silent.” It spat out the words. “You have no say in the matter. Here, you are but a thought.”

An indescribable roar sounded from somewhere distant. It sent terror dancing all the way down Nerric’s spine.

Egrimm looked up and stared at a wall, as if watching through a window.

“Ha-ha! I can hear the master’s reveille!” His teeth gnashed with every word.

He looked back down to Nerric. “I must hurry, human. The leftenant is calling, and I shan’t disappoint him.”

Egrimm jabbed his wing-claws into the tile floor. His entire body shuddered and seized, every muscle and joint locking in place. Then, like a drill, his head began to spin—all the way around. The jaws bounced open and shut in hearty laughter. The spinning went faster and faster, blurring to a whirl, then suddenly halting with a terrible crack.

And all the while, the laughter echoed and echoed, the sound now divorced from the body.

Crack!—the monster’s jaws opened wide—crack!—then wider still. Tendons tore; skull-bones crunched. Crack!—the head ripped itself in half. The tear grew, traveling down past the neck. Black blood spilled and spurt; the creature rumbled and thrashed.

A black tongue of darkness shot out from its mouth in a stream, splattering Nerric’s face—blisteringly cold. He screamed and twisted, but the wyverm held him tight. The torrent spilled out, more and more. The writhing ooze pried its way into Nerric’s mouth and nostrils and shot their way in.

Crack!—the wyverm split in half like a cork-remover folding back. Liquefying, it spewed into Nerric’s throat, laughing all the way down. The taste was rot and death. It was like poison boiling in his belly; it made his every breath burn.

Nerric wanted to heave and wretch and spit—but he couldn’t move. His body no longer obeyed his commands. He tried to get up—to writhe and sprint and shudder and flail. But he couldn’t. Not even his eyes listened. He could only feel—and the feelings were locked in there with him. He couldn’t vent his fear; His lips wouldn’t pull back; his eyebrows wouldn’t bend. His eyes forced him to watch.

The burning sensation moved quickly, and with precision. It trickled down to his stomach, and then spread throughout his torso like a slowly-growing flame. It itched and stung. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt it wriggling up his arms and legs, like blood crawling out from his veins.

«Yes… » the wyverm cackled. «Yes!—an excellent body. Now, to make haste. The Night King awaits!»

This time, the voice came from within, Nerric screamed and roared in the stillness of his mind. He begged his body to listen. Or even just to rebel. But Egrimm was in control.

«You’re not alone anymore!»

The creature rolled Neric’s body onto its belly. Nerric felt his slender arms being pressed against the cold tile. He felt his fingers curl into fists, his wrists flex and arms bend. The invader pushed his chest up off the floor. The body flopped like a fish.

Egrimm had no experience with “hands”.

{No! Stop! Get out! Get out!}

«You are no longer your own, worm. My lord will soon make you into an obedient soldier. A merchant of death.»

Egrimm pushed the knees forward, folded them, and kneeled.

{Stop!}

«Enjoy these, your last moments of mind. You are about to savor wonders that your kind rarely knows!»

With the legs, Egrimm pushed; the body rose into a squat. He let Nerric’s arms hang limply at his sides. He turned the head from side to side, surveying his surroundings.

Then, forcing air out of the soft, supple lungs, Egrimm made the vocal chords trembled. It was a throaty laugh, almost like a growl. He fumbled with the tongue as he made the mortal speak. The words came out gargled and bestial.

“Such paltry things, these mortal eyes.”

Through Nerric’s eyes, the wyverm saw a spot on the far end of the hall: blocks of grey stone draped in shadow, out of the reach of the windows and the light.

”That will do.”

{What—what are you doing?!}

“Your struggles are as worthless as this feeble body, human!”

Pushing open mouth and lungs, Egrimm, sucked in breath, and then launched Nerric into a sprint. Nerric’s body tottered like a stack of books about to fall, stuck on a cart racing right for a wall.

{You’re gonna—}

—The shadows trembled. A ripple spread across the shaded part of the wall. His body leapt into the center. For an instant, Nerric saw nothing but strange swirls of dark colors and mist in violet blues and blacks. It was like thick syrup, but dry and slick. There was no pressure; no feeling of breath. His heart ceased to beat.

In the void, Egrimm whispered. «And now… we fly.»

A force like a spell launched his body forward out of the void, leaving the mists behind him. He passed into the daylight outside of the temple, shooting out a ripple in the other side of the [five-foot]-thick wall. He soared through the air. Rooftops and treetops spread out beneath him. Out of the corners of eyes he saw that his hands had transformed into wings. Leathery, like a dragon’s, but more supple—like a bat’s.

{What?! How?!}

Egrimm rowed the body’s new wings up and down. He banked a curve, gliding over blocks and alleyways. Nerric’s mind whiz by at a million [distance-unit]s a minute. Every sight sent his thoughts reeling.

A magenta sky spread out over things plucked from nightmares and dreams. It was too fantastical to believe; too much to take in, or to describe all at once. Here, there were monsters; there machines. Here, a giant being standing in an intersection. There, a throng of demons crowding into a theatre. Here a furred serpent, entwined around a winged galleon. There, glowing gardens hanging off a floating isle.

The sight was haunted by phantoms of familiar things. He saw ordinary cars in ordinary traffic, and ordinary people walking about—but their forms flickered and blurred, as if made of mists, and seen through tears—and all in monochrome shades. If he didn’t concentrate, the ghosts would vanish entirely. They phased through the fantasies, indifferent and unaware.

The streets were packed with phantasmagoria: a city of creatures, both humanoid and not. Most common were enigmatic humans, dressed in masks and pale fineries, as if in a masquerade.

“Masques, the lot of them—bland and brainless. The Night King will make quick work of them!”

Little wings beat fast and loud. Nerric’s head turned—a flock of paper birds flew right at him. Egrimm flapped and swerved, rising above them.

“Here, there are no laws but the whims of the strong,” Egrimm said. He was beginning to master the art of the voice.

Nerric felt something pushing at his back—a quivering fluid, filling the wings like bowls. Egrimm cocked the head back, glancing up at the sun. He made the tongue hiss.

“Gah! Curse that shining orb!”

Light weighed down by the wings, turning altitude to momentum. He plunged down; rooftop shingles grazed against his feet.

«Hmph.» The sound echoed in Nerric’s mind. «By earth or by sky—it matters not.»

Aiming for a nearby street, Egrimm tensed the legs. Spreading the wings wide, he struck against the air and the light. His descent slowed; the winds calmed.

Nerric pounced down in the middle of the road. His legs should have snapped and broken, but they felt like springs, compressing against the force of the pavement.

All around, the monochrome forms moved on by. Without a sound, an omnibus drove down the street. It misty form plowed through Nerric, scattering around him in a spray of black and white. He could smell the colours as he breathed them in.

“What are you doing?”

Egrimm turned the head toward the voice. It came from a woman with a golden glow. Her tresses floated behind her, swirling with all the colours of sunset.

Egrimm made Nerric snarl and growl. He lunged forward, and reached out with a massive, black hand—

{What!?}

Nerric’s hand grabbed the woman’s head and squeezed. It felt like paper in his grip. She crunched like a candy; caramel fluid spewed out. Egrimm threw her corpse to the ground, turned away. Laughing like a demon, he ran like the wind.

Nerric couldn’t believe his speed. Each stride was like a long leap. Sights rushed passed, too fast for him to count. Anything in his way was leapt over or bashed. Skulls crushed; fantastical bodies torn open. Strange colours oozed out. Egrimm jumped onto the walls of buildings covered in shade, anchoring Nerric’s feet in the darkness. He raced along the walls, leaping off at thes shadows’ end and hitting the street, running.

At an intersection up ahead, Egrimm made a sharp turn. Beneath a metal archway with the title “Marketplace”, the street widened out into a square. Kiosks, poles, tents and trees filled the open space. Rope were strung between them all, with coluored lanterns hanging down. It was a lovely scene, filled with marvelous things almost defying description. And Egrimm tore through it like a hurricane. He made a beeline for the restaurant near the gate, ripping up everything in his path. Tables were upturned along with their patrons. Food on platters and plates launched, and flew far. Waves of debris shot through the air. Egrimm leapt onto the pastry table, and then again, up onto the kitchen rooftop. The table was sent spinning; a volley of musical pastries smacked into the crowds. Pies sang arias and charming tunes, ending in ugly splats on a face or the pavement.

Nerric’s body leapt from the rooftop to a nearby kiosk, then to a tent, and then a rooftop again. Structures gave way. Merchants dove away from their stalls with shouts and screams. Tables and carts laden with wares spilled their contents onto the ground. A wire cage of captive puns fell over and broke open. The mischievous word-play was set loose. The puns scrambled and ran, pouncing toward the nearest victims in a flurry of tooth and claw. A man in red watched, flabbergasted, as Nerric leaping by; immediately, he was overrun by the swarm. Creatures of all sorts ran and screamed. Octopuses panicked. Dictionaries went to war.

Leaping from a tall tent, Nerric felt his feet snag against something: a lantern-bearing rope. It plucked him from his path and sent him careening toward the gazebo at the center of the square. The rope snapped and came undone. Lanterns shattered upon old cobblestone in splashes of metal and coloured glass. Nerric’s body crashed through the gazebo’s roof. The structure collapsed on a quartet of gargoyles and their paintings and their easels. Egrimm clawed and roared. Art ended with the tears of canvases, manly shrieks, and wings of frightened stone, fluttering away. Egrimm grabbed one of the painters to bring Nerric back to his feet. He tossed the gargoyle onto the ground and set off running. The artist shattered into a thousand screaming pieces..

The man in red staggered out from the chaos as Egrimm rushed away. He pulled himself free of the last pun’s grip—crushing the squealing, scampering thing with the heel of his boot. He bent to the ground—picked up his pointed, red, wide-brimmed hat— and then set off running.

Up ahead, Egrimm cackled and grinned. “Yes!” he hissed. “My contact! He is near!”

He turned down a dark alley.

“Leftenant!” Nerric’s voice barked. “The recruit, for our lord!”

A massive hand reached around and grabbed the corner of a wall up ahead. Talons like swords scraped into the brick. Sparks flew. Through them, the Night King’s officer came into view. It was an abyssal horror: blue flames smoldered in place of eyes, between wicked horns enshrouded in black smog. Long locks draped down the sides of its head, matted like wet reeds and stained with the stench of mildew.

The man in red turned down the alley, panting—breathless. He locked eyes with the creature.

“Holy…”

Egrimm turned Nerric’s head around, all the way back. It should have broken bone. Both host and hostage-taker saw their pursuer: the man in red—a black silhouette against the sun-lit street at his back.

With Nerric’s lips and throat, Egrimm snarled. He turned the boy’s head to face forward again. The fire-eyed horror reached out with the palm of its hand. It clenched its fingers into fists, and then slowly drew its arm back in. Nerric felt an unseen force gripped him with an irresistible might. Beckoning, it pulled him—his body, his soul. He didn’t even notice the slime crawling toward him on the ground. He couldn’t see it until it had crawled all the way up to his chest.

It was a moving skin of ink-black darkness. He felt it harden and crackle, thickening into something like a cocoon. It climbed up his neck, rising like the tide. A feeling of fire seared all over his body.

It covered his mouth. It covered his eyes.

Outside, the shell of darkness began to bulge and swell.

“An offering, my lord!” Nerric felt his mouth say, even as the darkness poured down. “An offering, for thee!” He heard his voice stretch and warp.

Breath by breath Nerric lost touch with his body. The transformation progressed. The lights in the house of his mind were put out, one by one. The last of his sensations faded into blackness, leaving him in a void filled with naught but burning, disembodied pain. Then he consciousness, and knew no more.

“No!” yelled the mysterious stranger.

He pulled out a magnificent feathered quill. It sparkled with an otherworldly radiance. And then, upon the air, he began to write. Letters of glowing light materialized beneath the quill’s tip. He wrote of many things. He wrote of the peculiar feeling watching and waiting for clock to change hand. He wrote of the music of the sky on a perfect afternoon. He wrote of the wings of love, soaring at first sight. He wrote of heroes and daring and villains and vengeance and the labyrinthine intricacies of intellectual property law.

“Die, fell beast—die!” yelled the brave man in red.

The recorded light collapsed to a single point, and then burst forth in a blinding stream. Fulgent paragraphs blasted down the alleyway—and struck. Each phrase had a purpose; every word a power all its own. Words to work and to state; words to mean, and to imply.

Like living chains, they coiled tight around the creature and Nerric’s shell of darkness. The creature recoiled in horror, but too late. The words wove their way around its body and being. They seared against its hide, sending up smoke and a stench of melting flesh.

There was a sound like shattering glass; like a field spiking, and bursting asunder.

The monster fell forward, and dissolved. It disintegrated into specks of dark colors—tiny bubbles that burst in an instant. The writing of light snaked onto the ground; the light seemed to hiss

The man in red drew a circle with his quill. The writhing words converged around Nerric’s dark cocoon. The mysterious strange traced round and round, whipping the words into a whirlwind. They lashed out at the viscous shell, searing into it like branding irons. Nerric’s body screamed; Egrimm was aware, even if his host was not. Ropes and chains of tautest rhetoric tightened and squeezed the mass that bulged beneath the dark. With venting steam, the shell shrank and shriveled, dying away along with Egrimm’s cries. The words’ light shifted through all the hues of the spectrum, until—dulled to a heatless red—the dark shell finally fractured.

Nerric, revealed, collapsed to the ground unconscious. The words burned into his limbs, slowly fading to the black of simple ink. The radiance of the mystic quill flickered, fading in tandem. The man in red fell to his knees, ravenous for breath. He reached out for the alley wall to keep himself from falling flat upon his face. Gradually, his breaths relaxed.

“That was close.” He sighed—exhausted, but relieved. He slid the feather into a pocket in his coat.

He looked around, and then raised his hand to his chin.

“Now… where did I park my car?”