Page 77 of The Book of Legends
He nods curtly. “Excellent. Even if the gods themselves visit us, you are safer by his side.”
I turn to see Kainen stroking Malachi's muzzle across the courtyard, silhouetted in firelight.
Going back is not possible.
As we approach the border, the wind stings fiercer.
Malachi’s wings stretch wide, gliding over the frigid air as if the storm whirling around us is a whisper instead of a warning. My hands tighten around the saddle straps, knuckles bone-white as I press my body into Kainen’s back. The air here is thinner, colder. It smells different—like long-dead flames and blood that never quite dried.
I didn’t know what to expect at the border, but it wasn’t this.
The ground below is scorched from some ancient war, burned black and lifeless. Rivers slice through the earth like open wounds. The trees stand brittle and skeletal. No sun breaks through the clouds—only a dim gray glow casting the entire world in ash.
“You see that?” Kainen yells over the wind, nodding toward the horizon. His voice vibrates through his back into my bones. “That wasteland? That’s Therion’s legacy.”
It’s silent. Maybe too silent.
“Is it always like this?” I lean in and ask against his ear.
He doesn’t answer. Not with words. His mouth sets in a grim line. One hand shifts on the reins.
Malachi growls, low and deep, and it shakes something in my chest. He senses it—what waits for us.
This boundary isn’t just a line on a map. It’s written in blood and bone. And we’re right on the edge of it.
Kainen stiffens. His eyes narrow, scanning the horizon. “We’re not alone.”
“What is it?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
He exhales slowly, controlled. “Nightfallen.”
That single word sends cold rushing down my spine.
“Hold on to me,” he says.
I don’t hesitate. Malachi dives sharply, wind howling past as I wrap my arms tighter around Kainen. My face buries against his back. We plummet into the heart of the storm.
The ground trembles the second we land.
Kainen dismounts in one fluid movement. His hands are already on my waist before I can slide down, setting me gently on the scorched earth like I’m something fragile. There’s no time to speak before he draws his blade—its whispering hiss sounds like a warning of its own.
Malachi growls again, wings fanning outward in a protective arc.
I look around.
Shadows move beyond the line of dead trees.
Figures take shape—nothing and everything at once. Made of dust and magic older than language. Bone and void.
Nightfallen.
Their eyes glow silver, molten and searing. They step out of the fog, horrors dragged from forgotten nightmares. One slinks forward, humanoid but wrong—its limbs stretched unnaturally long, joints bending in places that shouldn’t exist.
“She shouldn’t be here,” it hisses. Its voice scrapes across my mind like broken glass.
My blood runs cold.
“She belongs to no one,” Kainen growls.
