SHE HAD BEEN through hell. This would not be it.

Kynes had just crossed over from the Gate in London. According to lore the Unnamed Planes should be connected to the Omega, but no living soul ( not even the immortal ones of the gods and Weavers ) was permitted to traverse the afterlife before their time.

Everything had a time.

The Wytch had once yearned for hers daily.

Now she did anything to delay it.

The flat desert expanse before her was what could be referred to as the Fringes —the welcome. The last thing that Kynes would see before the Beyond. Yet she had even heard stories about this ringed 'oasis'; of monsters and warriors and toothpicks made from femurs.

How much worse was it at the heart?

Thankfully, it seemed as though that torture had been avoided and left some hundreds of miles to the east of her if north was straight ahead; out of the way of the great tree structure of the Gate. It was an old and twisted baobab —the archway an indistinct mesh of root and branch between stretches of characteristic straightened wood, and far larger than any of the doors on Earth.

No familiar magic existed past this point. The Unnamed Planes had to be crossed into by one's own means. Assuming this was not a horrendous mistake, and one actually had the intention of living.

Kynes unzipped the tote bag at her side and reached in for a smuggled surveillance drone —a light, wider model than those which ordinarily flew in the cities. She laid it on the sand before switching on the power.

The machinery whirred to life, the rotor blades picking up their speed as the drone hovered at her feet. It had been a mission in itself to find a fool to reprogram it to do the Wytch's bidding, and she had paid a hefty fee too. All of her funds for the remaining month —gone. But she was capable of limiting meals.

And she could fabricate her own emergency water.

In hindsight the Wytch should have gutted the shapely Beta-born Elf engineer and avoided thinning her resources. She could no longer survive by being picky about what species she culled.

The Elf had turned reluctant at the sight of Kynes' severed coven Marks —understandably so, but not to the Wytch's disadvantage. It had been to her absolute luck that charm could still be used for currency.

She smiled at the wickedly wild memory of the night before spent with the beautiful engineer anyway, as if she had not been able to help herself. Kynes' body shifted and her nerves tingled pleasantly at the mere recollection of the depraved sex, knowing she had never had at as good with another female before.

She had barely been able to stand that morning.

Those warm, pink Elven lips truly would live on another day, to receive another bribe.

Kynes now glanced down at the drone, awaiting her command. It had cost her extra to fit the equipment with somewhat of a platform fit for standing upon. But it would be worth every penny.

She slipped her weathered boots under the makeshift buckled straps and tugged them tight. Then she stood. And swayed, and keeled.

The Wytch might have fallen right onto her back if she had not secured herself first. After regaining control over her centre of gravity, she lowered down to her haunches. It felt exhilarating, standing there on the hovering drone. As if it had never been done before.

The machine seemed adequately obedient —it did not abruptly jerk aside at the introduction to her mass ( not that there was much of that to begin with ). It then levelled at a metre above the ground, rumbling softly.

"Forward," Kynes ordered. "Slowly."

The drone hummed, before rearing.

The Wytch cursed and was thrown backwards over her head. She hung upside down for an embarrassing moment, in disbelief. Then she found the sense to bend upwards into her original position.

She held her arms out at either side, reorienting her stance. She tried again —the simple command then accompanied with a small lean in the direction she wanted to go. The surveillance drone sputtered, but inched westwards towards the setting red giant that all creatures of magic called Sol.

Kynes affectionately patted the metal shell. "Should have fitted you with a steering wheel," she muttered.

Kynes reached for and hefted the tote bag over her shoulder, then pulled her hooded cloak over her braided coils of raven hair. She covered her nose and mouth too, to keep out the airborne sand. The heat was sweltering —she could feel it radiating in violent waves towards her from the dunes beyond the cracked earth at her feet.

Only the Unnamed Planes could survive a sun like Sol.

At the least, the wind would bring some semblance and trickery of coolness. She would be inclined to use her frost, but that would only unnecessarily drain her.

"Onward," said the Wytch.

The drone hummed, and Kynes kept her body low as she sped across the edges of the wasteland.

She thought a great deal about sanity as what could be referred to as night fell on the blurring sandy mounds. About whether she had any left.

Sol still peaked over the horizon, too large to ever fully set. The sky was smudged dark red and indigo, which would perhaps be beautiful if there were other stars to shine in it. Sol was a jealous sun —it allowed nothing to shine brighter and dominate the vast expanse.

The crushing, unnerving blanket of bloody death.

She should not he out here.

But she thought about the victim too, and not only of her potential victory.

Kynes had hurled again when she had visited the Faerie called Luci. It was far more uncomfortable without the human soldier Adam there to ease the tension. But the Faerie had cooperated with her and provided her with the samples she had needed.

Separate viles of blood; plants fabricated from Luci's magic; and saliva. And she had found them still tainted, even after those few days after the Faerie had been freed from the miniature curse.

The Wytch had already tested the samples for the traces which the Outlander had left when it had attacked. The results were just as she had projected: salt water, wraith magic and the stench of squid ink and seaweed.

That narrowed it down to the wetlands of the Unnamed Planes, at least. She had that much to go on.

Kynes definitely lacked judgement for this —for all of it.

And she was well aware of the dangers. She had grown up hearing those stories —tales meant to deter and frighten children and those not yet at maturity from going too far to the edge of the Beta Plane. To keep them from disappearing.

Will I disappear? the Wytch wondered. Will no one remember me?

That was what she truly craved: to go down in history, and have her story become legend. It had been that way since she had been a child; naïve and inept with magic.

She now saw childhood as a distant and separate event; like it was some other little boy, some other soul. A stranger.

The child of a flaky Warlocke and a runaway Wytch had donned his hand-me-down cloak and paraded up and down the halls of his mother's wooden house one Winter Solstice, with rogue frost caking over every passing window and sill. Rum and honey cake crumbs fell from his lips as he declared that he would be the most powerful Warlocke who had ever lived.

His mother had smiled, braided his inky black hair and prayed that it would be so. He settled into her arms in the early hours when day broke through the revered longest night, and slept to the soft words of a lullaby.

The mother Wytch had been taken by Fae guards later that very morning.

The little boy remembered the face of their captain —a female with bright silver eyes like a chilly dawn. Her skin, almost as pale, and her hair the softest blue. He remembered the contrasting merciless expression on her face; the frigidity, and what she had said when he had begged for his mother to be spared.

'Pity that you were born to a stray.
Fortunate that you are just a boy.'

His magic had flared at that —wild and free. At that age all he could accomplish was cutting shards of ice; like glass. The guards threatened him with their spears and swords, but the young Warlocke had not cowered. He stared back at them with dark blue fury, promising that Hekate would bring judgement and blood.

The goddess of wytchcraft had still not shown Kynes favour to this day. No matter how much she sacrificed and honoured Her; no matter how many wicked lives she claimed in Her name.

The higher Fae had laughed at the swearing of vengeance too; jeered and kicked the Warlocke aside. Deemed him not worth their time.

The little boy had then been left alone amongst the Solstice gifts and modest feast —and the magic circle that decorated the front living room floor in honour of Hekate, Vesta and Diana.

Where had the goddesses been that night, at least, Kynes wondered. And why had they not merely saved their daughter —the coven-less mother Wytch?

The young Warlocke had known that Hekate was partial to Her devout female followers, but he had thought that he had prayed hard enough. Sacrificed more than most. Given even that which he had not had.

Kynes blinked rapidly and shuddered despite the heat, choosing to ignore the streaks of tears she knew were now staining her face.

The memory was so vivid —even not viewed from her own eyes —and it seemed that the emotion tethered to it was still yet to fade after all of these years.

She had sworn to hunt down that Faerie knight and inflict injury tenfold. She was strong enough now. That was...if the Fae had survived the war and the revolt of the Faerie Courts. That knight would be so lucky.

The Wytch remembered that part of history vaguely, as she had still been in hiding. After the abolishment of the High King Yestrick of the sandy Seherra, all of the Courts broke away to reestablish themselves. The Winter Fae confined themselves to Winfrost; the Desert to Seherra and Eyj; while the mild Fae dwelled in the forests of the Spring Woods. Those wishing for the total overthrow of royalty fled to the Gamma Plane to live amongst the humans.

The Earth had not been enthusiastic to receive them. Politics from one land had bled into another, so war and bloodshed had too, followed.

Kynes wondered if the Winfrost knight had fought. A part of her hoped that the Faerie had been killed.

Another part knew that she would not be satisfied with that. She then found herself growling.

Why did things hardly go to plan? She made sure to be precise even in her improvised situations, and take every outcome into account. Yet as of late, her carefully constructed world was unravelling.

"It is not my time," the Wytch reminded herself as bits of sand cut across her temples.

Every Wytch and Warlocke knew that much. A set date that had the narrow room to fluctuate depending on every decision one made. It was difficult to manipulate even then, because Fate still entwined itself with high ranking immortal influence and the gods.

One's lifespan could indeed be shortened, but for every decision made towards early demise, another convenient occurrence would set them back on their intended path. It was easier not to fight it:

The natural order of things.

Sometimes she wondered what precisely that was. Were the gods part of that natural order? Were the Weavers? The immortals? Was...she?

No matter how existential the questions became, Kynes could not bring herself to relinquish the faith —though she would press on in the reality of the present. There was another plane to unfold. Hekate could reveal Herself is she wished at any point, but Kynes would not stop.

She would earn her rightful place.

No deity —not even those of humans or Fae or Dreamcatchers —could take that away from her.

Sol began to rise again a few minutes before the Wytch felt drowsiness weigh down on her shoulders and eyelids. She knew that rest was necessary, but the Unnamed Planes were unforgiving. She was not so stupid as to stop for a break. Prowling monsters would rip her to shreds faster than she could spy them.

Kynes had to keep going. Keep moving.

Meticulously and with enough speed to be overtaken by a garden slug, the Wytch reached into her tote bag for a herbal remedy —a potion which would dissipate fatigue when gently applied over the eyelids.

She did that far more quickly; a rough smudge over each closed eye one at a time so as to maintain a visual on her surroundings. The effects kicked in as soon as the remedy had been tucked away.

It felt as though she could remain alert for a week.

The horizon changed its shape slowly; leisurely painting itself with the wild plants and little pools of muddy sand. But well planned out —like a detailed sketch had been under it. Then the harsh sand disappeared and the ground turned to soil and clay. The plants grew to great tropical trunks and willows —not quite like the ones of Gamma or Beta. These trees were marred by claws and coated with a disgusting looking layer of moisture ( at least that appeared to be its purpose ). Sap was not what was excreted from that bark. It more closely resembled mucus.

Kynes tugged her cloak higher over her nose. There was a distinct stench —in truth a surmountable odour, but she could not shut her eyes to avoid the nauseating sight.

"Bloody monstrous compendium," she cringed aloud.

There were tiny annoying critters on the ground and airborne in her immediate vicinity. Even those 'insects' were terrifying abominations unfamiliar to any other land; human, Elf or Fae.

She had not seen any other fauna yet —not within the light, anyway. Anything could be growling and hissing in that darkness. Waiting to devour.

A slight shiver crawled along her spine as the sensation of being watched finally registered. It resembled something of a hive-mind network —all of these monsters toiled for and bowed to a queen.

A minuscule beat of wings sounded in one ear, then something stung Kynes' temple.

A feverish chill and heat swept over her instantly.

Overhead, there was a sudden screech echoing the one that Luci had cried all of those weeks ago. Every hair on the Wytch's body rose in heightened vigilance. Ice settled in her veins, and her breath became visible in the humid air.

Even so, her movements felt alien, slow and cumbersome.

Why was the sound hastening and nearing?

Kynes finally attempted to speed up —but even she knew that it was too late. Whatever unholy creature it was which was circling above her had already seen. She had been caught.

"No —"

It came out of her barely functioning mouth as more of a muffled grunt than a fervent protest.

A wayward vine curled up towards what she believed was her ankle, but at the last possible moment it veered for the drone instead; lodging itself in the rotators. All which Kynes remembered then was her widening eyes, slow reaction time and being hurled upwards; heading directly for one of those disgusting trees.

author's note |
welcome to stain of ice and blood!

please bear in mind that this is a sequel and you absolutely must read and be caught up with song of mist and storm before continuing here. there are spoilers ahead after the next chapters of kynes' journey.

i hope you enjoy reading!