Gift of the Voyager

The flutter of hundreds of papery wings joined the rasp of steel as Ceearis glared across the moon-lit circle. “Draw.”

“Draw?" His laugh was like the hiss of Gran’s teapot as he crossed his black-sleeved arms. “I did not come to fight, little sister.”

Ceearis’s wings shivered with rage. “We are not family. Draw!”

“This is unnecessary.” His smile was oily, his eyes pebble-black like a crow’s. “I bring a gift.”

“You—”

A hand caught Ceearis’s arm.

“What news, Voyager?” Rayna asked, shooting Ceearis a sideways glance.

“Ray—”

“I offer a solution.” The man gestured at the shadowed trees. “You wish to stay, yes? In your little forest? I have something you can trade to keep the Winged Hand from destroying your village.”

“Trade?” Ceearis barked a laugh. “What could you possibly offer us.”

The man’s hand swooped into his cloak, and before Ceearis could even suck in a breath, his hand was jutting forward, fingers uncurling. Blood-red light spilled out of his palm, sprang forward like arrows. The energy struck Ceearis in the chest as she shoved Rayna sideways, exploding outward in lines of fire-hot pain. “Why revenge, of course.”