Thjali Taerfoer stood atop the walls of Hilomnos, watching wind ripple in the tall grass, as prickles of distant gunfire dotted the savanna night ahead. With the sunset minutes dead, darkness spread to cover in whole that new and foreign land.

  It was beyond those walls, she knew. She’d felt it there, somewhere, beyond.

  That beautiful power.

  The power that had come to her only as a distant echo of its true form. As if taunting her, at the very edge of her awareness, when she’d felt it back aboard the landing airship. Just out of reach, beyond.

  But she would have it.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Roskvir had probably felt it as well. He was capable enough, she supposed, though he wouldn’t have had the slightest idea what it was. He was useful in that way, so capable but so naive. She’d rather not have needed to dispose of him. But such was any dancer's step: paces forth, then back, before she could advance once more.

  As darkness deepened, she felt grounded for the first time since embarking on the voyage from Albion. Night fell in that strange land, like anywhere else, it seemed. In the dusk, she found herself ever so slightly more at home.

  But a growing light crept back into the still-darkening night. She turned back to the city.

  Rising towers of fire and smoke clawed at the stars. Beneath, a mighty blaze devoured the great library.

  The sabbaths would be generous, thought Thjali, if the shogun had found what he was looking for.

  In its death throes, the library cast dancing shadows onto the silent city below.

  Plans within plans."

  Lissandra, the Ice Witch