"You'll be a god-touched in the new world of Elyndor," the boy said quietly.
And around him the space there began to tear, slowly ripping off like wet paper, then with a sharp, scraping sound.
Violet light spilled from the space wound, dense and radiant, carrying the dim metallic scent of ozone and crushed stardust.
The boy said again, "Depending on how you perform, Namadris's fate could be bleak."
Then from the torn space stepped a small girl—
Her eyes were big and vividly violet, luminous even in the strange half-light. Twin silver braids hung down her back, gleaming like polished steel.
Nearly translucent butterfly wings extended behind her in measured, elegant beats, scattering faint prismatic motes that drifted like fireflies.
"Hey, Chröma! This better be good!" she whined, her voice high and musical, edged with playful indignation. "I was just about to harass Irina and her bratty daughter, Elara."
Chröma rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, I need you to do me a favor."
