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They say that time is subtle; a shifting change on this raging rock of space, but that is only true for those who are immortal. Everyone else is swept up in the maelstrom of seconds, minutes and hours that march into endless days, months and years. Nothing is immortal, not even the Sun, with its intense blazing glory, or the swirling orbs of light dotting the skies at night, though we gaze into the past as we watch them.

Magic was once an irrefutable part of the natural order, life ebbed and flowed around the spirit that harnessed the energies flowing from every corner of the cosmos. It was simpler then, everyone could harness a piece, knowledge was fostered and apprenticed out, but like everything in life, that too faded with time.

Now magic is a superstitious belief, the deities ignored, their hearth’s devoid of tribute, much as the world is devoid of hope.

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She watched him under the veil of her eyelashes, suddenly feeling subdued and embarrassed. Her palm stung. A bitter reminder of what she had done; the pink imprint of her hand slashing across his pale cheeks. Her heart tattooed dangerously against her chest, as she watched him move closer to her. She raised her hand to strike again. “Once was enough,” he whispered in that low silky voice, his hand grabbing her arm. She looked up into his face. Big mistake. His eyes were hard and black.
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