In the upper confines of the Zephyr, beside a broad window overlooking the western side of Viremont, a young woman sat quietly. Below, the city’s lively citizens moved through their day, while far beyond them the mountains rested against the horizon, distant and unmoving.

  She turned the pages of her favorite author’s newest work—tales of recent discoveries and exploits in the far-off dens of Galans. A treacherous place, filled with monsters and abominations, and yet, as the author described it, beautiful.

  She was utterly absorbed by the detail. That was what she loved most about the author’s books: they made one feel as though they were truly there, standing within those distant lands. As she shakily turned another page, she noticed resistance. Her fingers felt weak—barely strong enough to grip the paper.

  It was then she realized how much time had passed.

  Nearly noon.

  She had lost track of it entirely. A slight shift in her posture left her breathing heavily, her limbs trembling as she struggled to remain upright. She cursed herself silently for her carelessness.

  If one were to walk into the room, they would find a beautiful girl with violet hair and deep crimson eyes. Her skin was sickly pale—unnaturally so—yet strangely mesmerizing. Her delicate features, her eyes, her figure were enchanting, and the illness clinging to her only heightened it in the oddest, most unsettling way.

  She was breathtaking.

  The sight of her now—unable to move, lightly panting, a sheen of perspiration on her skin—would stir gentleness even in the vilest of men. Of course, only briefly, before darker instincts took hold.

  As despair began to creep in, the door clicked open.

  Violet rushed in.

  She took only a heartbeat to assess the situation before moving to the shelves. From them she pulled a small wooden box. Inside lay glass vials etched with glowing lines, each filled with a deep red liquid. Violet took one, shook it until the lines pulsed faintly with light, uncorked it, and carefully fed it to the girl.

  By then, the girl had calmed, trusting and patient.

  The moment the liquid passed her lips, her condition began to improve. Her breathing steadied, and color slowly returned to her face. Once she was stable, Violet crossed her arms, irritation flaring.

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  “Really, Astrid?” she snapped. “How irresponsible.”

  “Coming from you?” Astrid replied weakly.

  “Oh, shut it. You could have died!”

  “I wasn’t,” Astrid said calmly. “You or Aunt would have saved me—just like now.”

  She added quickly, a small smile tugging at her lips, “Sorry.”

  Violet sighed, the tension draining from her shoulders.

  “Aunt isn’t here as often anymore, and I… I get busy.”

  “Distracted,” Astrid corrected.

  “With orders, commissions, and manning the store,” Violet continued, pointedly ignoring her.

  “Miss Sandra mans the store,” Astrid added.

  Violet shot her a look. “And you came up here early, didn’t you? You even have your watch—”

  As if summoned by the words, it rang again.

  Groaning, Violet turned it off and adjusted the time. “That was the alarm to come check on you. I didn’t think the effects would wear off so fast. If it weren’t for the reminder I set to prepare for the hall cleaning—which we are not going to now, as your punishment—I might have been late.”

  Her voice softened despite herself, worry slipping through the irritation.

  Astrid’s expression changed instantly. “No—wait. I have to go. It’s the only time I ever leave the store, and it’s the Luminous Hall. I can’t miss it! What if you fail to spot anything good?”

  Violet rolled her eyes. “Is that all you heard from my heartfelt concern?”

  “I have to go,” Astrid pleaded, attempting to rise. “Please, Violet.”

  “Sit down,” Violet snapped. “You’re not fully better yet. Calm down.”

  Astrid froze.

  Violet exhaled slowly. “…Fine. We’ll go.”

  Astrid’s face lit up immediately.

  “But you’re resting first,” Violet added. “Then we’ll prepare and head out in the afternoon.”

  She turned away with a huff, already regretting how easily she gave in to her cousin’s antics.

  Violet found herself back in the backroom, yet she had no desire to continue reading. Her cousin’s condition was getting worse—there was no denying it anymore.

  She collapsed into the chair at her desk and groaned, burying her face in her hands, frustration burning hot in her chest. The helplessness gnawed at her. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way. If her aunt—one of the greatest minds in runesmithing—couldn’t cure Astrid, then what right did Violet have to believe she could?

  Still, the thought did nothing to ease the ache.

  She groaned again, sharper this time, and adjusted her watch, setting it to ring the moment dawn arrived. She refused to let that happen again. She hated seeing Astrid like that—weak, fading, trapped in a body that betrayed her.

  And of course it had to be rare.

  Aether Wasting—formally known as Aetheric Consumption Syndrome. A disease that struck only the magically blessed who lacked the capacity to hold what they were given. Astrid was loved by the runes. Too much so. Her runic synergy surpassed even Violet’s; her mind processed aether at a terrifying speed, faster than her body could ever absorb it.

  The excess had nowhere to go.

  So it turned inward.

  First, it consumed her strength. Then her vitality. Now, slowly and relentlessly, it was consuming her body itself. No known cure existed. The dosage meant to keep the symptoms at bay had only increased since Astrid was twelve.

  Violet let out a long, pent-up sigh.

  She couldn’t afford to drown in it—not now. Not today.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, she straightened and began preparing for the Luminous Event—what the city halls politely referred to as hall cleaning.