The sensation of violently lurching forward subsides before I can stumble forward a step. The even lighting of the penthouse interior is replaced by the stark daylight of the noonday sun. Cold wind whips my hair about, and the thin air tries to labor my breathing. It probably would if my body weren’t as strong as it is. Perhaps that is another reason for people to live so high up the wall, because they can.

  Next to me, Dovik drinks in the air with a sigh. Together, we peer over the edge of the elevated platform the block of extravagant buildings is built upon, staring down at the tumbling view of the city stretched out on a hundred platforms beneath us, and taking in the sight of the forest beyond the city. We are back. This is Grim.

  People churn through the crowded platforms below, moving past each other in an intricate dance of errands, appointments, and social calls that would put an ant colony to shame. More than a dozen flying, circular platforms move between the docks located at various elevations while powerful figures float out to check both the drivers and their cargo. Leaves of impossible color pop contrast into the downward view of the city in parks brought up to the dizzying height of various platforms. Today, I see Grim with new eyes. This is supposed to be the home of humanity, both our cradle and our castle.

  It is the first city that I ever saw, and only now do I understand how absurd that is. It lacks the quiet fortitude of Danfalla, the old and rich history built into the very bones of the buildings. Grim is a place of constant building, of constant repair and maintenance; it is necessary to keep the platforms clinging to the side of the grand wall. The quiet extravagance of Faeth is also absent. Nobody moves about the city on moving platforms powered and enchanted to keep traffic clear, the streets aren’t crowded with blaring advertisements, and even the tallest buildings only reach five or so stories in height. Still, there is something in the piecemeal design of the place, the fact that even after centuries of peace, the city continues to cling to its origins and stays upon the wall. They could build more below, could expand into a sprawl like most cities and towns do, but they don’t. There is something gratifying in that.

  I don’t even notice the Willian Guild Hall until Dovik turns my attention toward it. The building of shining white marble appears more like a cathedral than the offices for one of the greatest magician guilds in the world, but then, maybe it is meant to.

  “She should be in the recovery wing,” Dovik tells me. There is a hesitant smile on his face. “That is what the letter said.”

  “Good,” Corinth answers before I can get a word in. “I might as well take care of some business while I’m here. Charlene, find me when you are done.” Without bothering to wait for my response, the man becomes a streak of scarlet light that vanishes somewhere near the horizon.

  “I can’t tell if he is trying to show off or not,” I say to Dovik.

  “People at that level can’t help it,” he replies.

  Together, we head toward the guild hall. On this platform, one of the highest in the entire city, the great expanse of stone, almost a half-mile across, is given over entirely to the guild hall and the huge courtyard that leads up to the building. A teal carpet rolls across the entirety of the platform, beginning at the mouth of the building and falling off the far end of the platform to hang for more than a hundred feet and flutter in the breeze. Lining either side of the carpet are twelve statues of striking men and women carved from stone darker than obsidian, the least of which are more than forty feet tall. The statues clash beautifully with the white marble of the platform and the guild hall itself. The instant Dovik and I step foot onto the carpet and begin to proceed toward the building, I feel eyes on us, though the only other person I spot on the entire platform is an office worker enjoying her lunch in the shade cast by a stone hammer as big as a house.

  “There’s my father,” Dovik mentions, pointing out one of the statues as we pass beneath its shadow. The man depicted is far thinner than I imagined, almost elven in his build if it weren’t for the huge shoulders. Stabbed into the slab in front of him is the thinnest greatsword I have ever seen; one side of it is a smooth edge, while the other is a barbed monstrosity.

  Dovik laughs when I don’t pick up with the small talk and shakes his head. Silently, we proceed toward the building. The doors open before us as we approach, and a man stands in the shade to greet us. He and Dovik exchange a few words while I look around the entryway of the guild hall. I’m not certain what I expected to find, but the interior of the building is far less striking than the outside. It reminds me a lot of the guild hall in Danfalla, extravagant decor replaced by minimalist efficiency. The man who speaks with Dovik leaves quickly enough after offering my friend a door number. Five minutes later, the knob of the door turns in his hand, opening onto a picturesque scene.

  Jess sits at a table in the curtain of light that spills in from the window. For a moment, she doesn’t notice us, and continues to gaze out of the window she sits near, one hand cupping her chin for support. The red woman is dressed in white silk, her free hand wrapped around a bit of charcoal that hovers over a half-finished sketch on the page. Both of us wait at the door to the suite, unmoving until she turns to us. The smile that comes takes a moment to break, as if she is conflicted about seeing us here, but when it comes, it is a radiant thing.

  Dovik has his arms around her before she can stand all the way from her chair. I can’t help but wince at the way he wraps her in his arms without seemingly any concern for how hurt she might be, but Jess gives no sign of pain. His embrace is a desperate thing, but she reciprocates it. More than half a minute passes before Jess pulls away to embrace me as well. My hands shake when they meet around her back, and I have to gasp back sudden emotion.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The next few minutes pass with all of us trying to play off the fact that tears are close at hand. Dovik can’t keep the smile from his face. Jess assures us she is okay, though I don’t buy that for a second. Her eyes don’t blink at the same time, and her left foot scrapes across the floor when she shifts her weight. Dovik doesn’t miss it either, but he politely ignores it and signals for me to do the same.

  I don’t know what to do with myself as I sit at the table with them. I’ve never been here, sitting with someone covering up their hurt, nodding along, pretending that I can’t see it either. Jess shows off the sketches she has been doodling in her book when Dovik points them out. They are excellent depictions of things she can see from the window rendered in charcoal: the neighboring platform, the forest beyond the city, the mountains, the vase of wilting flowers on the nightstand next to the four-post bed.

  Dovik narrates what we have been doing in Faeth when Jess asks. He describes the city, exaggerating here and there to make the place seem like a wonderland. Jess is immediately entranced, and I can’t bring myself to jump into the middle of Dovik’s story. That isn’t to say that I am a slouch in the conversation; I pick up my end where I need to, but putting myself into it like Dovik does would feel wrong. I think they sense it too.

  “Charlene,” Jess says, reaching out and putting her hand on top of mine. There is a tremor in her fingers, but her voice remains steady. “Can I speak with Dovik alone?”

  “No need to ask me twice,” I say, standing and retreating toward the door. “I’ll be right outside, so try to keep the noise down.” Jess winces at my joke, but Dovik takes it in stride.

  I hate the relief that washes over me as I step into the hallway. The air feels so much lighter out here, and I can’t drink in enough of it. I fall onto one of the benches lining the hallway and set my head back against the wall. It is louder out here, the little voice in the back of my mind whispering truths I don’t want to hear. “It is your fault she is hurt,” the voice says, I say. “If you just hadn’t broken your promise. If you had just stayed.”

  A tear rolls down my cheek before I can catch it. Sniffing, I wipe the wetness off my face and try to get a hold on my mind. It shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. I spent nearly an entire month awake and in pain, maintaining a harsh grip on my will the whole time. Why is it so hard to wrestle now? Why do my own sour thoughts ring so loudly?

  A sketchbook of my own appears in my hand, and I force myself to turn my attention toward it. Galea is next to me in an instant, reciting the text from my Leximagus class, telling me about the detente between Exeter and Corallus that results in the magical language of runes. I scratch at the paper while Galea recites, planning future enchantments, working on a unique etching wand that will operate differently from the standard functionality.

  Since gaining a pure fire affix, my heart has been set on purifying all of my other affixes and potentially gaining more. A day ago, I tested my luck with the land below Faeth. Despite hoping that it not be the case, the shadow hydra showed up again, this time faster than all the previous times. It has my scent, and my continuing to go down to the land would only endanger others. That doesn’t mean that gaining more affixes or purifying those that I already have is impossible. I can do as much with purchased mana as I can with what I secure for myself, but it will be a great deal more expensive.

  Despite the setback, my work on the wand continues. An etching wand is a standard piece of equipment for any enchanter, though the portable ones are only ever needed by enchanters who work in the field. This wand will do more than merely aid me in etching runes into all kinds of surfaces. If I make it correctly, I should be able to get it to create a gel-like substance that I can then use to form temporary arrays with and infuse with my own mana.

  The idea first came to me when I started to look into what could be done with pure fire-affixed mana by itself. Due to the way that runes modify the concepts behind mana and channel it into specific patterns, several rudimentary and simple things can be done with even a single kind of mana. For fire, most of those simple things involve explosives, but that is fine. If I can continue to expand my repertoire of pure mana, which my abilities should allow, I can rectify my inability to use spellcraft in a way by building arrays from my own mana. The thought is completely untested, and there might be several issues along the way, but the idea captures my interest.

  My head snaps up at a sudden sound in the hallway. One second I am alone in the hall, putting all my effort into distracting myself with plans and blueprints, and the next, Dovik is standing there. The scowl on his face stops the question in my throat. His eyes cut sideways, glancing at me for only a second before he braces his hand against the wall. The man glares at a gaudy piece of art installed on the wall, a mask of a human face blowing a raspberry rendered in porcelain. His fist comes up, ready to smash the mask, but he hesitates. He falls forward, his forehead thunking softly against the mask as he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. Then he is gone again, vanished in a flash of blue light.

  I find myself standing from my seat and at the door to Jess’ recovery room before I know it. She is exactly where I left her, sitting at the table and looking out the window. Only this time, when she turns to look at me, there are tears on her face.

  “What happened?” I move closer, pulling a chair away from the table so I can sit right next to her.

  Jess wipes the wetness from her face on her sleeve and nods to herself. When she speaks, her voice is croaky but steady. “I ended things with Dovik,” she says.

  The question of why dies before I can even think to ask it. When I lay my hand on hers, I find her shaking beneath my touch. The next time she speaks, her voice begins to break, a begging plea sitting behind her words.

  “I’ve lost it, Charlene,” she says, a crack breaking up the words. Tears begin to form in her eyes once again. “They said my soul is broken. I feel it, like I am drifting away from myself. The magic is gone. I’m…I’m gone, and I can’t drag him down with me.” Her hand squeezes mine, and she falls into me, burying her face into my shoulder. She squeaks when she tries to speak again, sobs already starting to shake her. Jess’ hand claws tightly onto the fabric of my blouse, bunching it up so much she might rip it apart as she continued to shudder. “I only ever wanted one thing,” she cries. “Only one thing.”

  My arms wrap around her, and I hold her tight. It is nighttime before I leave her again. She doesn’t stop crying until she is asleep.

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