Three hundred years ago, the Earth split and the sky trembled. And then the monsters came.
The island of Lowynn is cursed. The Veil between worlds has torn, and now, monsters come with vengeance. They can only be placated by the blood of sorcerers...
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Thundering footsteps, screaming arrows, shrieks and songs and shrillness....
Silence.
The Skaara was not used to waiting on the outskirts of danger. Attendants quickly ushered him away from the chaos of battle, and, for the first time in his life, they directed his face away from blood and fire. "You are too important," he was assured, again and again, each word an apology for years of unimportance. The Skaara bucked against them.
He felt Alana's endless power burning the air, crackling with power that left his skin scorched. Her magic was brash and loud and painful, stronger than anything he had felt before. All of his doubt that she would be able to bring down the gates faded. His doubt that she would survive remained.
The Skaara struggled against the grips of the attendants, calling for her in the chaos of the battle, begging them to let her go. They shoved him into his tent, where he would begin his intermitable imprisonment-- waiting.
He felt the moment she shattered.
It was not the battle that was wrong, or the conspicuous absence of death chasing at his heels. Instead there was a deeper burrowing silence within him, a ringing in his ears he had not noticed until it was gone. "Alana," he cried, tearing through the tent. "Where is she?" No one spoke; the Skaara doubted they knew her name. But the words were mere habit.
He did not need help in finding someone.
The Skaara threaded between tents, following the trail of magic he had come to recognize as hers. Ordinarily, her magic burned fiery hot, like the sharp tang of melted iron. Now, it was fragile-- the aftertaste of smoke following a long-extinguished fire.
There she was, nearly drowning in the torn shift she wore, curls always frizzing with summer heat. Despite having fled back to camp, Alana stood facing the destroyed gates. The grass around her was plated with iron, glistening bloodred in the dawn. Alana stood in awe of the yawning chasm where the gates had been.
Soldiers were swarming the entrances, and the clash of steel had begun. But Alana's arms were still spread wide, as if she had stopped moving forever the moment the gates had come thundering down.
"Alana!"
The Skaara's stomach turned at the sight of her. Alana's eyes were so bloodshot he half expected her slow blinks to bring rivulets of blood down her face. A moment before, she blazed with power. But now, she was dazed, weak, and worst of all, quiet. Her deathly-pale body swayed, back and forth and back and forth.
She sank into the grass.
"Alana!" the Skaara cried. He raced to her, stumbling to the ground. His hands fumbled for a moment, closing around her wrist. He knew the answer before his trembling fingers found it. He felt it deep within him. But the exhausted thrumming of her heart still chilled him.
"Sk... Skaara," she stammered. Despite the heat of the morning, she shivered beneath him. Instinctively, the Skaara drew her closer. He realized dimly that he had not held someone so close in many years. Comfort was an old, dead habit with him, one he struggled to remember.
