Imry Mendel prayed under the light of the moon, just as he did every night. He stood with loosely shut eyes, allowing the roar of the Falls to scrape at his skin.

His mind shifted to a trance and his heart drank of the words waiting in the wings of his throat.

"Triumphant Leka," he whispered, "as I wade into the hours where your light lays in wait, ensure I do not forget the dawn. Wise Leka, as I revel in the light within me, ensure I do not misunderstand the purpose of your Blessing. Sweet Leka, as I delight in the taste of choice, ensure I do not indulge the ever-watching dark."

He waited a long moment, listening to the wind breathe through his long hair.

He opened his eyes, tearing his senses back to the Second Ring. The rusty iron railing before him dug into his skin, grinding oxidized flakes into the cracks and leeching the heat from his bones. Beyond the railing raged the unyielding crest of the Falls, dropping a heavenslength toward the oceans of the First Ring. The distant seas soaked up the black of night, melting into the horizon.

He spun on his heels, greeting the audience of his prayers: the moon and a tree. The former guest hung low in the sky, beaming of full body and yellow overtones. The latter guest stood in front of the first, a once great tree, twisting out of the dirt and reaching its barren branches into the cold night air. The tree stood enshrined by a humble stone platform, which in turn stood on a peninsula in the Falls. The winding branches sliced the moonlight with a hazy shadow and sliced the wind with a vacant whistle.

-Excerpt from The Quiet Warmth of Flame

An Epic Fantasy Novel - Svienty - 2023