Floodbound was everything her Spirit Bar was not. Clean, for one thing.

The elusive city of elves had more canals than she had experimental bottles of mead, counting at least three waterfalls cascading into each other only to evaporate the moment they reached its peak. The long thin jets of water hid meticulously built structures that merged into a strange, mystical barrier which rarely parted for people like her. Nemera suspected she could be one of the only Traited to ever see the Brink on the other side of Neridia.

“Hell’s teeth, if that view ain’t worth the trip then I don’t know what is.”

Despite her late night and earlier reluctance for travel Nemera couldn’t help but admire the beauty and most importantly, the architecture of Neridia’s greatest stronghold. Surrounded by the life-giving water of the Brink it extended its reflections to every building and person around, coating it in a strange gossamer, dream-like hue. Nemera almost regretted the hangover with every bright light and celebratory banner that passed her way.

Distinctly dressed in cloaks of green it was easy to spot the fabled grey skinned Stormspell mages of the Rainfall Brigade. What was less easy to come to terms with was the pale grey, corpse-like skin of Stormspell elves, the vibrant gold of Sunspell elves and what could only be described as a deep lilac colour of…Nightspell elves? Gah, Traited were confusing enough.

The white arkalite arches on the way to the palace glittered with droplets of every weather magic imaginable, the mages here allowing the weather to remain as fluid and carefree as the people around them. All Basra had talked about was the fabled Dropspire Arches that led to the heart of Floodbound but instead of the majestic arrival it tried to keep up instead it had been clouded in an array of Stormspell illusions. Cloudswell, to be more precise.

Nemera had been nervous about crossing through the weather-absorbing stonework, unsure of whether her Shadow Trait was considered among the Forecaster elite. The elves' ancestry had long been intertwined with that of the Traited but not even the permission of two leaders of Opalis and Tarragon could cause them to budge. All because they were a tad concerned about getting ash on their clothes. Or perhaps, The Four Peaks war had made them jittery once the Brink had been parted to let outsiders in.

Hidden by the barrier and the descending blueish grey sky dotted with a little too much cloud cover for sun that bright, Nemera understood the reason for keeping the status quo but with the rumours that it had even withstood dragonflame crumbled under what looked like…a lightning storm.

The cloud she could peer through despite her hazy vision hid most of the blackened stone, some slagged into glass despite the lack of mineral within the stone. Midari’s own Master had allegedly discovered the very rock that gave arkalite its name but despite her Light Trait once helping to imbue it with energy, the strong yet malleable resource had somehow bent to nature's will. 

Nemera tried to piece together the recoil blast from such an effort, the skid marks slipping away in a fraction of a second but instead of pointing towards the arches, they pointed away from it. Towards the horizon. Towards the Brink. No Forecaster elf could do such damage. Which is why they had no choice but to call upon a Traited. A Traited that was now dead and Nemera was left to pick up the pieces.

“Forgive me, but I believe I sent for the Night Rider. Lady Midari, I presume?”

If the elven woman showed any hesitancy towards her Shadow Trait she didn’t show it on her face. The pale, golden skin of the regal Sunspell elf before her almost took her breath away, her tall, willowy figure hid a spine of gold straighter than the Ironwood trees themselves. Her disdain towards the overzealous sprays of water didn’t surprise Nemera in the slightest but the usual white and gold attire of a traditional Sunspell elf was swapped with a deep purple one instead.

She might not know much about Neridia as a whole but what Nemera had been told, very clearly, was that colour coordination between different Forecaster elves was as paramount as a Traited and their grimoire. Something was off and the itch at the back of her head was telling Nemera it was important. But not before she corrected a certain misconception.

“No, she’s dead.”

Nemera occasionally cursed her naturally blunt tone but it certainly helped to damper the snugness pasted across the elves face. The Sunspell elves' intricately coiled hairdo seemed to slip down her shoulder, the familiar spark of sunlight dampening into a dull glow that refused to fade. Nemera winced at the familiar expression of someone unable to process the finality of the Eternal Death, the guilt hitting her harder than she thought.

“I mean, she is with the Laia now.” Nemera added sombrely, deciding on far more practised politeness.

Nemera lowered her head in an awkwardly measured response, her faithful hat covering her eyes and tried not to think about it by looking around at all the people. The elf barely reacted to the crowds, descending the steps of the palace entrance with the grace that years of teaching had conditioned into her, barely sparing a glance towards the hard working Stormspell elves.

Nemera swept away shards of warped glass with her foot, a young green cloaked elf looked at her with a gaping mouth despite his hood. Winking at him, she tipped her hat and pretended not to notice his drooping Cloudswell struggling its way down the edge of a particular large crack in the foundations.

“Then, her dragon. Lady Moonscythe?”

“Also, dead.” Nemera responded automatically, almost missing the butchering of her dragon's name in the same context of her former Master. “Moonshear. Not Moonscythe. Better get it right before the Brink submerges, not after. Otherwise, more than just Neridia will be out of touch with history.”

The Sunspell elf sniffed haughtily, unappreciative of Nemera’s crass reminder of how isolated the towering water barrier made them. Despite their insistence on the excess of water and cleanliness, the Sunspell elf in front of her was anything but. Nemera couldn’t help but be distracted by the trail of ash coming from the Sunspell’s footsteps with all the spotless floors accosting her eyes.

“Soulkeeper Midari, the Night Rider herself respected our rights to protect our realm from outsiders.” Siara insisted, tightening her purple cloak around her as if startled by the sudden sprays of water. “Apprentice or not, you should think twice before-“

“I highly doubt that.”

Nemera flicked the bridge of her hat as if toying with the elven mage, their very shadows cast in aquamarine light began to dwarf them just for a moment until a spark of dark matter emerged from her fingertips. Sun and shadow. One could not exist without the other.

“I should know, I was….I mean, I am her replacement, I guess. Nemera. Nemera Silvercross. The Deathkeeper. And I guess, the eleventh Night Rider. And you are?”

Offering a hand to the elf, she produced a card from thin air, her Shadow Trait adding an extra flourish regardless of whether she intended it or not. Siara gave a short yelp at the puff of black, unused to tangible shadow appearing and disappearing from what seemed like nothing at all. Nemera’s mouth turned upwards at Comet’s trick, spotting her sneaky Agar from one of the glowing windows above them. At least someone was behaving.

Unlike Basra’s thunderbird or Lady Aira’s…thing, Nemera’s choice of…memento was made during a time when her symbol of office depicted her future. A full moon framed the long handle of a scythe, her Trait weapon only for her shadows to burn away the outline of a dragon and replaced it with a burning, silver, cross. Her Memento, much like the rest of her grimoire, had changed, hopefully for the last time.

“Siara Daybreaker. High Sunstress to the Brink and beyond. Then the cycle has begun anew without a dragon? That’s-“

“Unprecedented. I’m aware.”

Her dry tone was normally followed by a sharp scolding from her Master but the hollow silence reminded her of the ache in her chest. Neridia had only just heard of the Four Peaks war and had taken months to allow an audience with the newly appointed border guard: the Sentinel of the Silverwings. Over a year after the main skirmish had ended, her dragon and Master had fallen and Basra had abandoned her path for another country to dictate her every thought.

Cursing inwardly, Nemera kept her thoughts trained on anything but Basra, the bits and pieces of information she had been told still clinging to the fringes of her memory. Perhaps it was a blessing she couldn’t forget anything. Unfortunately, the drawback of her Pulse had meant she’d missed the cliff notes and had half fallen asleep standing up. She couldn’t remember what she hadn’t heard so she’d have to do it the old fashioned way.

“Now, unless you have any more questions for me or my flying sparkler then please, direct me to who is in charge before I have my Agar set this whole place ablaze.”