The Obsidian Tower

[IsabellaRose]

The wind spoke in whistles over the glass plains, dragging long silver reeds into gentle bows as it passed. Light shimmered across the crystalline surface of the land. Shards of ancient seabeds, smooth as melted quartz, stretched for miles until they vanished beneath the bruised horizon. Here, nothing grew tall. The sky reigned absolute, wide and endless, painted with the slow swirl of dusk and the distant glow of floating cities that hovered like faded memories above the rim of the world.

This was the province of Isareth, one of the last places untouched by the war of the Ascendancy. The sky-ships did not come here, nor the marching engines. There were no longer any spires. Just wind, and light, and silence... and Elenya.

She stood alone in the doorway of her tower, carved from the obsidian ribstone of Vareth-Kai, the last of the dread leviathans who once roamed these lands. It was said their breath could melt stone and that their carcasses created the mountain ranges. Now all that was left of them were rows of obsidian ribstones, and this one was the furthest north. It had stood for centuries, the end of a row of towers long razed by the marching engines. This one was all that remained, and it was now half-swallowed by flowering vines that shimmered pale blue in the night. It was a forgotten place, a sanctuary by name, but a prison by function.

Once, she had been spoken of in court poetry. Elenya of the Starlit Veil, who turned eyes with a glance and made ministers falter with a smile. Her beauty hadn’t left her... her skin still caught the glow of lantern-flame like moonlight, her dark hair was luminous in the glow, braided with leather thongs and pieces of silver. But time had stilled her, and the tower had quieted her. Now, she spent her evenings watching the empty plains, breathing the hush of forgotten wind. 

She had been sent here to watch the skies for enemy movement. The tower was the last listening post, its mirrors tuned to reflect the signals of Ascendant fire. But the war had passed over her, around her, or perhaps beneath her. She had received no replies for many months, no visitors for much longer. No one came now... not enemies, not friends, not even messengers. 

And gods, how she missed touch. More than words, more than diplomacy, more than the brittle ceremonies of power for which she once lived. She missed skin, breath, heat... the feeling of someone close enough to steal warmth from, close enough to forget the ache between her legs or the silence in her bed. She could conjure fire from the sky and command light from darkness, but not flesh, not the press of another body against hers, the weight of arms that meant it, the hungry curve of a mouth that wasn’t made of memory.

Her fingers curled into the folds of her robe. She was tired.

But just now, there had been a sound... a crack of stone, a rush of air. The mirrors had begun to hum, as if something had stepped into their path, but there had been nothing. She looked again now, past the silver reeds, peering into the dusk.

Someone was coming.