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DARK. Save for the torch burning miserably on the wall, far out of reach, and nearing its end. Stale air caught in her throat and lungs, smelling of mold and rot. The walls were smooth stone and moss-covered, making them near impossible to climb. Up high, a single window, barely wide enough for a bird to squeeze through, was barred from the outside.

All the trappings of a typical holding cell.

Margo sighed.

Some people went their entire lives without seeing the inside of a cell, but not Margo. As a former spy of Her Radiance, the Dawn Queen, this had been her third time, locked away inside one, not that it was something she typically bragged about.

But still, her experience had its place, and after being held captive so often, she'd mastered the art of the escape.

It's lock would be an easy one to break. After inspecting it in her palm, she realized it was third generation and of copper make. Shoddy work made by factory labor.

A two barrel mechanism, housed inside the casing, would need to be jiggled just right for the lock to release.

Margo slipped a piece of cheese from her pocket into her mouth. She savored it, as its sour flavor burst across her tongue. Then, came the cooler sensation of something thin and hard. Grinning, she spat the lockpick into the dirt and plucked it up.

Magick hadn't been her only skill set.

By their very nature, Cloudians lived in a world of cramped places – having moved from the circular, tunnel-esque homes of the Cloude, into the cavernous hollows hidden beneath the Black Sands- and they knew their fair share about getting into, and out of, tiny spaces.

After The Cloude had been destroyed, magick, in all its forms, had been banned. The practice of it, forbidden. The books written about it, locked up in dirty, rotting crypts where the Cloudian Elders were hopeful they'd disappear, as so much often did once fed to the sands.

Margo had overheard talk of a cache of Wizard Kellog books, not far from her family home. She visited the place extensively, using every excuse she could think of to go – surveying the unique rock formations of the area, meeting Magda, running errands – but really, she just wanted to snag a few minutes to investigate the site.

Her visits led to her learning that the place was under-staffed; only one lone guard patrolled that area and he was often too preoccupied with the pretty Cloudian girl manning the fig cart to pay attention to much anything else.

Margo took that time to get close, to really study the lock - scrutinize the mechanism and analyze its metallic makeup. Then, one night, when the guard was passed out and heavily snoring on the steps of the Sand temple, she tried her hand at breaking and entering.

She failed, the lockpick snapping off inside the lock. She tried again, and again, broken bits of picks littering the ground around her knees like splinters.

Finally, she managed to jimmy the lock correctly. It popped open, and the gate swung back, the cache of magickal books hers to devour. She had read until the strands of dawn lights lit up the caverns.

That had been her introduction to the Wizard Kellog and the limitless possiblities of magick. When she'd returned home, and snuck under the covers of the bed she shared with Magda, she made a promise - to be a great wizardess, the likes of which the worlds had never seen.

So, for the greatest wizardess on this side of the Eridan, what was one rotting lock blocking her escape?

Certainly, it wasn't an obstacle of any real weight; just an annoyance a little patience and the right amount of turning would make disappear.

Hunkered down, knees digging into the dirt floor, Margo got to work. She stuck the pick in the lock, moving it clockwise until the gears caught and a tinny click rang out.

Then, she twisted the pick counterclockwise, her movements slow, precise. The last thing she needed was to move it too far and have to start again. Finally, another click sounded, echoing off the cell's barren walls, and, with a thud, the open lock fell to the ground. The cell door creaked and swung open.

Dusting herself off, she sprung to her feet, and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor, a triumphant smile on her face. The corridor fed into a larger room, rectangular in shape and heavily fortified like a barracks.

Long tables lined the walls, filled with bottles and vials of hissing, smoking, and bubbling concoctions. She recognized a few of the potions by sight and smell alone. A mortar and pestle sat on the floor covered in the thick, distinctive green paste made from the leaves of a Perism plant.

Commonly, the plant was used for medicinal purposes – healing salves and the like.

In the far corner, a fire pit had been dug into the floor. Red and orange flames burned bright as they scaled the walls and licked at the ceiling. A veil of smoke hung in the air. Behind it the green, prudent eyes of her captor peered into her face.

"About time," the Aelurian said, thrusting a metallic tray through the fire. It slammed against the floor, skidding to a stop at Margo's feet. It flashed a bright red from its momentary brush with the fire, but  started cooling instantly. Margo eyed the pool of rotten brown sludge sloshing against its rim with disdain. "Eat."

Her gaze swam back and forth between her captor and the so-called food. "You knew I'd escape?"

"Aye."

She paced the room, one hand on her pendant, her gaze floating about, seeking out potential exits. The room's only window was boarded up, the walls too thick to be blasted through and the only door was the one that led back to her cell.

She frowned. "Why lock me up then, if you expected me to escape?"

The Aelurian shrugged, a shriveled purple tongue slipping between their lips to lick their whiskers. "You expected to be imprisoned, yes?"

Stopping mid-stride, Margo turned toward them. "That's usually how these things go."

The Aelurian's lips curled and fangs the color of obsidian glinted in the fire light. Their gaze trailed down to the necklace hung around Margo's neck. Margo grasped it tighter. "You didn't use your magick." The Aelurian lowered their head for a second before bringing a forkful of the same muckish gruel to their mouth. "Not that you have much left to use."

"Why waste it on something I could, and did, do myself?" Margo snorted indignantly as she kicked the tray of food. The stew-- she used the word loosely as such shapeless slop hardly qualified as food-- jiggled like jelly left to melt in the sun. Her frown worsened, her stomach betraying her with a protracted growl.

The Aelurian lurched forward, a howl of laughter escaping their lips. "You think highly of yourself." Running the sleeve of their robe across their mouth, they continued, "I used to be like that." Their smile was quickly replaced by a cough. The Aelurian's body shuddered as the coughing fit grew more intense. Blood dripped from their nose.

Margo's eyes drifted back toward the potions and piles of dirty rags. The mortar and pestle. She whipped back around, watching as the Aelurian's chest heaved, its tail spasming as it thrashed against the ground. Realization washed over her. "You're dying."

Blood coated the Aelurian's fur. "Aye," they said, dragging their sleeve over their face. "Turns out magick's cost is one that must always be paid." They gave a hoarse, hollow chuckle and heaved their plate into the fire.

"How?"

Their green eyes narrowed. "How what?"

"How did you forfeit payment for so long?"

With a grunt, they pointed at the ground. "Sit. Eat. Maybe I'll tell you want you what to know. Granted, you ask the right questions."

Slumping to the ground, as escape was impossible and with her hunger mounting there wasn't much else to do, Margo took up the tray, and dipped a finger in the gruel. It was gummy, acrid and tangy. A week spoiled, at least. She arched an eyebrow. "You sure this isn't poison?"

"As long as you have a strong constitution, a few weeks gone won't kill you."

Margo took up her fork, digging it through the slop. "I beg to differ." She shoved it in her mouth and swallowed. The stew, hot and lumpy, oozed over her tongue and down her throat, bitter and rancid. She pretended it was cheese – soft curdle, goat's cheese from Sheepshire smeared on a piece of toast with rosemary and pear jam.

"So," Margo said, the stew's aftertaste stinging her throat, "How did you—"

The Aelurian got up and moved around the fire. Their steps were slow, lumbering, like those of a dying predator. In nature, an animal like that would be hunted down and killed, as there was always something stronger lurking in the shadows, ready to prey on the weak.

They took a seat opposite Margo, lowering their hood.

The Aelurian had a slim face, covered in mud-colored fur, dark green eyes, a flattened nose and muzzle. Its head was covered in scratches as if mauled, and one ear had been cleanly ripped from its scalp. And most surprising of all, the Aelurian was female. The almond-shaped eyes and thinner lashes and whiskers made it apparent.

The Aelurian raised her arms out dramatically, before rolling up the sleeves of her robes. Dull green circles covered her fur, running from wrist to elbow. They shimmered as if living, breathing things.

The fork, Margo had been holding, clattered to the floor. She shot up, gathering whatever magick she could to her side. "A mage of the Un." Her voice was pointed, accusatory. Luckily, she managed to hide all traces of her fear.

The Aelurian let her sleeves fall back and cover her markings. "I haven't made up my mind if I'll kill you tonight. For now," she motioned at the ground again, "sit."

Magick wrapped around Margo's body, protectively,  her eyes turning a bright blue. "How'd you manage to stave off magick's cost?"

"I paid the price," the Aelurian growled. Shadows caught in the hollowed pits below her eyes. "Just not with my own."

"By the sands," Margo's voice pitched, her radiance flushing a startled, brownish-yellow. "Blood magick."

"Aye, ratta," the Aelurian said, lazily. They reached up, and wrenched a claw between their teeth, prying something black out of them. "I used blood magick. What with His Highness's fondness for an undead army, an Archmage worthy of Nocturnis would need to be well-versed in the practice."

What energy remained in Margo's body, drained from her. She crumpled to the ground, her legs like sand, crushed beneath the rest of her weight. She blinked, the question she wanted to ask, leaden on her tongue. The words felt too heavy to speak out because if she did, they would change everything.

"Go on," the Aelurian implored, a slight chuckle causing their whiskers to lift.

Margo's gaze fell over the Aelurian. She was there, fully. No transparency. Not a ghost or hallucination. Her green eyes were steadily studying the mouse-woman. The dark brown fur - a few years back under the employ of a king, it would have been washed and brushed until it shone liked polished chestnut shells. Then there were the markings of the Un.

Only one Aelurian ever fit that description and they were supposed to be dead.

"Ask your question, or--" Humor filled the Aelurian's voice as she leaned towards Margo, fangs exposed. "--are you afraid, ratta?"

Margo bristled. She'd be stupid not to be afraid.

A smile erupted over the Aelurian's face, pulling their scarred flesh taut. "That's it, then. So, you're not as stupid as I assumed. You have me figured out." She rested her hands in her lap, extending and retracting large black claws. "Then, I wonder, have you too worked out what it is I want?"

The magick Margo had called forth suddenly vanished. Absent was its warmth. A biting, gnawing chill settled in her bones. Cold sweat rushed down her back, sticking the remains of her tunic to her skin. Her breathing hitched. "You were killed."

"Ignorance and presumption is not the same as truth."

A lump of dread lodged itself in Margo's throat and threatened to choke her to death. "Then how did you—"

"Have you parsed out what it is I want?" the Aelurian repeated, dragging her sharpened claws along the ground. Margo shook her head. With a hiss, the Aelurian sank back, the smile purged from her face. "So you are as stupid as I thought." Her eyes went to Margo's face, void of emotion. "Just another blighted, ratta scum." A thin line of blood dribbled over her chin. "What use to me are you if you—"

"Calleighdia—" The name of Nocturnis's Archmage escaped Margo's mouth as though the lock on her lips had finally been sprung.

At this, the fur over the Aelurian's eyebrows raised and she gave one, resounding clap of their hands.
"My, my. You do have brains inside that rat-shaped skull of yours."

"You worked for our enemy." Margo's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Aye." Calleighdia twirled a whisker between slender fingers, that had, at one time, sentenced hundreds, if not thousands, of Aelurians to a fate worse than death - the Un-making, a ritual where the soul was forcefully expelled from the body, leaving behind an empty vessel that could be used to fulfill any purpose. For Nocturnis, that meant bolstering his army of undead.

"Worked for them, yes. And you defeated us. You, and those mongrel princes and that repulsive hemma kit."

"Why'd you seek me out?"

"Seek you out?" Her eyes widened slightly. "I stumbled across you - a ratta playing at being the worlds' savior, trying to stop magick's inevitable end. Your hopeless little pursuit was amusing. I thought I'd watch you fail."

Margo tsked. "Then you should have left me to it."

"But then," her voice grew distant, "for some reason, I opened the portal back to this gods forsaken place and brought you with me."

Margo found it hard to believe Calleighdia would be compelled into action by impulse alone. Doing so, without foresight or thought to the consequences, meant certain death in the old Aelurian court. "You kidnapped me out of whim?"

She shrugged. "And why not? You and I have both buried loved ones more deserving of this world than either of us. But they are not what remains. You and I are. I thought I could stand by and watch it all end, watch it slowly suffocate without the magick to keep it all afloat, without a care in the world. I wanted to see it all burn—"

"Why then—"

Calleighdia's shoulders slumped, her gaze darting to the window. Along the ground, her tail brushed dirt into the air. "I see them. Blue eyes, their grey fur. Rotting bodies festering with maggots. They speak to me, asking me why; its not a question I can answer. I don't much know myself why, aside from the fear I felt, and the desperation that had coiled around whatever remained of my heart that day. Without them, I'd have been truly alone in this world." Her eyes dropped to her hands, her claws tearing into the skin. Blood blossomed along her palms. "Helping you," she blew out, "maybe it can help us find peace."

Margo snorted, her voice a shout that rattled the boards on the window. "You think peace is afforded to murderers? To necromancers? You have defied the gods and defiled the very flesh they created."

Calleighdia's gaze flew to Margo's face, her lips curled in a sneer. "And I have paid for it, in full, a hundred times over." A low, predatory hiss rumbled in the back of her throat. "I don't need their condemnation, much as I need a ratta's--"

Eyes wide, hand over her mouth, she rocked forward. The coughs started again, ravaging her body. Blood spurted between her fingers.
Margo turned, eyed the tables, and sprinted toward the one on the opposite wall She grabbed two  potions off it– one a murky brown, one a pale blue – and wedging them between her teeth, yanked off the corks.

Calleighdia fell forward and hurled. Black gunge oozed down her robes. Margo poured one of the potions into the other. The mixtures hissed, a thin coil of smoke wafting from the bottle, before settling, the liquid a bright, crystal clear.

She rushed back to Calleighdia's side, and propped the old Aelurian upright. Then, grabbing a fistful of fur, she yanked her head back and thrust the potion bottle between her lips. "Drink."

Calleighdia squirmed, thrashing in Margo's arms, trying to twist herself free. Margo held fast, shoving the bottle further in. The Archmage's eyes bulged, tears wetting the fur on her cheeks. "Swallow it or die. Die and you will never know peace."

Finally, the Archmage relented, her muscles relaxing as she did as Margo instructed. Satisfied Calleighdia wasn't going to cough her way into an early grave, Margo stepped aside.

Huffing and still bent over, Calleighdia asked, "What was that?"

"A temporary fix." She threw her arms over herself, her fingers dappled with blood. "Feel better?"

She nodded, begrudgingly.

"Good." Getting down on her knees, Margo brought her face inches from Calleighdia's. The Archmage scowled. "Now be a dear and make my saving your life worth it."

"How so?" Calleighdia snapped, the fur above her eyes furrowing.

"Tell me," Margo said, her voice humming with determination, "how we're going to save the worlds' magick."