1st chapter from Echoes of the Arcane Sisterhood

[Paul]

Chapter 1: From The Ashes

The sound of a knock on the door reverberated through the foyer of Sister Hall. Grinning at the blossoming moonpetals in her basket, Willanaome wiped her dirt-stained hands on a rag that hung from her belt before walking to the door and opening it.

In the last of the evening light, a woman was standing outside. Bright against silk wraps the color of flame and embers, her hair spilled past her waist in a fiery red. Freckles sprinkled cinnamon on her cheeks and nose. A silver chain around her neck held a pendant shaped like a crescent moon wrapped in ivy. She said, "Mouraine D'Lana," in a smoky but urgent voice. "I'm looking for Ilvaria Vel`Dynn."

The breath left Willanaome's throat. *The Arcane Sisterhood.* Ilvaria's tale unspooled in her mind: the massacre seven winters past and the pyres Ilvaria had lit alone. Mouraine's green eyes scanned the hall's rafters, lingering on the empty hearth where arcane sigils glowed. Her fingers twisted a silver chain at her hip.

"Please," said Willanaome, moving to the side. As she pointed inward, the smell of moist earth clung to her sleeves. "Come inside from the chill."

Mouraine Her movement across the threshold was fluid and silent, like smoke curling beneath a door. Her gaze swept the vaulted ceilings where dust motes danced in the fading light. Willanaome led her down a corridor lined with bright tapestries depicting forgotten rituals, their footsteps echoing on cold stone. In the lounge, velvet-upholstered chairs hugged a hearth laid with unlit logs. Willanaome touched the shoulder of a passing servant. "Fetch Ilvaria," she whispered. "Bring honey cakes and lavender tea to the lounge. With wide eyes, the girl nodded and went off on her errands.

The halfling indicated a low table that soon had a steaming pot on a tray with four cups and a plate of golden cakes dusted with crystallized sugar. With silk whispering against leather, Mouraine sank into a chair. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted a cake. "Seven years," she exhaled, the pastry crumbling and falling like ash. "I sensed their demise. There was a scream in the magic currents, but I couldn't identify it. The door opened before Willanaome could respond.

With her forest-green robes twirling around her ankles, Marial Shadowbane stepped inside. An infant, wrapped in soft wool, slept cradled against her shoulder, thumb firmly tucked in its tiny mouth. A somber-eyed boy with hair like spun moonlight toddled behind her, clinging to her skirts. Eiluned buried his face timidly against his mother's leg after blinking at the stranger. With a tired smile, Marial said. "Forgive the intrusion. The nursery echoes today." Her eyes strayed to the chilly fireplace. A sphere of pure, blue-white flame formed above her palm as she muttered a few words and flicked her wrist. It pulsed once, warm but not hot, and then she threw it gently onto the logs that were stacked. Instantly the fire roared to life, casting long, swaying shadows up the stone walls and filling the room with sudden, dancing warmth and light.
Volodar materialized silently beside her, a towering pillar of shifting mist, his blue eyes fixed protectively on the children.

A few moments later, Ilvaria entered the lounge like a piece of twilight transformed into a shape. Her indigo skin absorbed the firelight, making her seem almost part of the deepening shadows. Her iridescent robes whispered against the stone floor as she moved with effortless grace. Asashi followed closely, fists clenched around Ilvaria's robe. The dark elf child, barely a year old, had her mother's bright violet eyes and a shock of shockingly white hair that curled gently around her ears. Her movements were shaky explorations, interspersed with gentle, inquisitive chirps, each one a little adventure. Her wide eyes immediately focused on Mouraine's fiery hair as she looked around Ilvaria's legs in rapt fascination.

With a gentle chime from the silver chains at her hip, Mouraine got up from her chair. Her own movements were a controlled glide that reflected Ilvaria's ethereal grace as she approached the Dark Elf enchantress. Unspoken tension permeated the air, as thick as the aroma of lavender tea. Mouraine's smoky voice was surprisingly steady, despite the tremor Willanaome had noticed earlier. "Ilvaria Vel'Dynn," she said. With her palm facing up, she extended her hand in a gesture of acknowledgment, possibly even surrender, rather than greeting. Without flinching, her light green eyes, which were shifting like sea glass tossed by a storm, held Ilvaria's violet gaze at dawn. "I am Mouraine D'Lana of the Arcane Sisterhood and apparently the last member." The title hung heavy in the suddenly silent room, broken only by Asashi's gentle gurgle as she pointed a tiny finger at Mouraine's hair and the crackle of Marial's summoned fire.

Ilvaria froze. Shadows seemed to envelop her like a protective cloak, as her indigo skin seemed to absorb the firelight more deeply. A shocked disbelief that verged on pain replaced the playful curiosity that usually danced in her eyes. A breath caught in her throat as her lips slightly parted. "The Sisterhood?" Almost inaudible over the roar of the hearth, the words were a whisper. She glanced over Mouraine's face, maybe looking for scars or evidence of the shared horror she had seen by herself. "From the ridge, I could see the devastation at Lake Amesston. The Sanctum... it was dust and silence." Even after seven winters, the memory was still raw, and her voice tightened. "I lighted your dead Sisters' pyres." She hadn't shifted to accept Mouraine's hand. Asashi felt the change behind her and pressed her tiny face to Ilvaria's leg, murmuring inquisitively. "Where were you?" The question cut through the brittle silence like a sudden, sharp blade. Her eyes, which were typically warm amethyst, became as hard as violet ice chips. "When the bodies of your Sisters were consumed by my flames? Where were you when I walked alone through the ash and carnage of the destroyed Sanctum? When I was crying by myself over the loss of the Sisterhood I was seeking, where were you? Asashi sank farther into her mother's robe and let out a quiet whimper. Mouraine winced as though she had been hit... Her blazing hair appeared to fade, the vivid copper temporarily becoming duller. Her fingers curled into a loose fist at her side as she slowly lowered her hand.

Mouraine bowed her head, her face momentarily obscured by a veil of red hair. She raised her face, and tears caught the firelight like liquid amber as they made shimmering trails through the dust on her freckled cheeks. She rasped, "I was away," her rich, smoky voice tattered with pain. "With another Sister, Eleara, on a journey... In search of knowledge... old writings hinted at... in the Sunken Archives." She swallowed hard, the sound thick. "Seven years ago... we felt it. A tear... a scream... in the magical currents." Her breath caught. "We were unable to identify it and didn't understand. We believed there might have been a ley line rupture. She looked past Ilvaria and into the flames, as though she could see ghosts dancing there. "We came back a week ago." She shuddered. To... nothing. Just silence and scorched earth. A ragged whisper replaced her voice. "Eleara... it was too much for her. The void... the loss." Mouraine's fist clenched, and her knuckles turned white. "She... killed herself... by the ruins of the Sanctum." She raised her quivering hand a little and gazed at her palm. "I lit her pyre... now alone." The aroma of lavender tea felt cloying and oppressive against the raw grief that permeated the air.

Ilvaria loosened her stiff stance slightly. Her eyes' violet ice melted, giving way to a deep sadness that reflected Mouraine's. Her indigo cheeks were streaked with glistening tears that muddled the piercing amethyst light. The Dark Elf's skin glistened like wet obsidian as the moisture was captured by the firelight. "Oh, Mouraine..." The name was breathed out, heavy with shared pain. Her hand, which had been held rigidly by her side, raised a little in a hesitant motion toward the woman in mourning. She whispered, "Come," her voice heavy with her own grief. "Take a seat by the fire." She indicated the velvet chairs by the roaring fireplace. Let us hear your story. The invitation was gentle, a pledge of protection in the midst of their shared past destruction.

Willanaome's halfling grace was unaffected by the oppressive atmosphere, and she moved with quiet efficiency. Lightly, she touched Marial's arm and whispered, "I will give you all some space," her eyes warm with comprehension. She immediately lifted the sleepy baby from Marial's shoulder and held the tiny bundle firmly to her chest. Then she smiled softly and held out a hand to Eiluned. Sensing the change, the young boy let go of his mother's skirts and put his small, trusting hand in Willanaome's. Still holding onto Ilvaria's robe, Asashi peered up inquisitively. Willanaome knelt down and spoke in a calming whisper. "Come, little star. Let's look for the wooden horses. After a brief moment of hesitation, the dark elf child detached herself and walked toward Eiluned's extended hand. Willanaome took the three children out, the door clicking softly shut behind them, leaving the crackle of the fire and the weight of memory.

Mouraine followed Ilvaria to the plush velvet chairs closest to the fireplace. The fatigue etched around Mouraine's storm-green eyes was accentuated by the firelight dancing across her tear-streaked face. The iridescent folds of Ilvaria's robe pooled around her like liquid shadow as she sank into her own chair. She motioned to Marial, who was standing close to the mantelpiece, with Volodar standing nearby as a silent, mist-covered guardian. Ilvaria said, "Mouraine," her voice getting back some of its melodic poise, but the sadness was still there. "This is Grand Arch Mage Marial Shadowbane and her loyal companion, Volodar." With a kind but serious expression, Marial nodded solemnly. Volodar bowed his head, a ripple running through his hazy body, a sign of deep reverence.

Marial moved silently, settling into the third chair opposite Mouraine. Her forest-green robes whispered against the velvet upholstery. As she sat, two attendants clad in simple gray tunics appeared from a side door. With practiced efficiency, they lifted the low table laden with the untouched tea service, steaming pot, delicate cups, and plates of honey cakes, and carried it smoothly across the rug. They placed it squarely between the three women, the porcelain cups rattling softly against their saucers. The scent of lavender bloomed anew in the space between them. Marial reached for the teapot, her movements precise. "May I pour?" she asked softly, her gaze shifting between Ilvaria and Mouraine. The simple act felt grounding, a small anchor in the sea of grief.