EMBERS OF THE KORIXIANS
DragonBreath Part 5
“Hearken well, bold mariner: embark upon thy voyages, and essay them with heart and hand—for naught else beareth meaning under sun or star.”
Alecrix of the Whispering Sands, Friend of Balo
Devia stood atop the black‐rock cliffs of the Hollow Islands as dawn broke, the wind tugging at her crimson hair and the spray of the surf stinging her skin. Her twisted horns caught the first rays of gold and violet, transforming her silhouette into a living ember against the ashen remains of the once‐lush jungle. Below her, waves clawed ceaselessly at the lava‐formed spires—ancient towers of rock, smoothed over countless tides yet never yielding to the sea’s hunger.
Today was Khala Joost, the Korixian Day of Atonement, when each of her people, accused as cursed spawns, blamed for failing crops, sudden storms, and nightmares whispered to be the work of the Horrors, must seek forgiveness for merely existing. Yet where others would feel shame, Devia felt only an electric thrill. She pressed a single silver feather between her teeth, the first token of her journey, and breathed deep of salt and possibility. Atonement, she believed, was not in groveling, but in bold deeds.
Behind her, the blackened trunks of hardwood groves stood sentinel like broken spears, monuments to the fury of the Narrissian armies. They had razed every green shoot in their blind conviction that Korixian magic was a blight upon Essidarius. From their obsidian cities, the Narrissians exported nothing but hatred—an unyielding contempt for anything not of their line, for anything touched by arcane grace. They had scorched these isles in rage, certain that by eradicating the jungle, they would extinguish Devia’s people forever.
But Devia’s people endured. Their magic was woven into their blood, as natural as a fish’s swim or a bird’s flight. Every Korixian could bend the Weave itself—sometimes with elegance, sometimes with danger—until spells unraveled or blossomed in wild beauty. She had learned to master that power under Furberen the Drowned, the Navigator she rescued as a child, who taught her that true atonement lay not in hiding from the world, but in serving it.
A distant horn cut through the dawn’s hush. The Espada, her ship, was on the horizon—its ivory sails gleaming like a promise. Devia let the wind catch her cloak and lifted her chin. The world beyond these cliffs beckoned: distant ports lost to time, deserts that shimmered like mirages, mountains crowned in ice. She would sail to each of them, carrying her people’s light to the darkest corners of Essidarius.
But Devia knows the truth is more tangled: Korixians are anomalies, extra‐planar wanderers woven into Essidarius by accident or curse—spawn of the Horrors, or mistakes of an ancient god, her people themselves cannot say. What sets them apart is their magic: a living tide in their veins, shifting scrying wards, tugging at weave and warp until spells unravel or explode.
Devia breathes deep, recalling the first time she felt that tide. She was merely a child, ankle-deep in tidepools when a sudden storm whipped the sea into a frenzy. Lightning slashed clouds to ribbons, and she saw a figure drowning beyond the surf: a Navigator, cloak torn, limbs lost in the current. No one else noticed, but Devia plunged in. The storm obeyed her half‐formed thoughts—water stilled around her, currents parting as she reached him. Moments later, she dragged him to shore, hair, and clothes sodden, heart thunderous.
He was Furberen the Drowned, famed for uncanny escapes at sea. He healed under Korixian care; she served him broth and whispered apologies for her “curse.” He repaid her by pulling her into Navigator training: charting currents, bending wind to sails, reading souls in the sky. Under his tutelage, Devia learned that a Korixian’s gift could be harnessed: that to lead a ship through storm and sea, one needed equal parts arcane sensitivity and iron resolve.
She shakes her head, chasing that memory away. She cannot linger there—not yet. Khala Joost demands humility, which for many Korixians means falling to their knees before the Kraka-kai (the pink‐skinned “fools” they call average humans). Legends tell that if a Kraka-kai asks a Korixian for forgiveness on that day, the Korixian would gladly end their own life. Devia will not let superstition bind her. Instead, she carries her penance like a map: to atone, she must help the world she travels, offering her magic, her courage, and her voice.
A distant horn sounds. Her throat tightens. The Espada draws near silvered seas—its ivory sails glowing against the twilight. She wills her heartbeat steady, even as joy blooms. Home waits.
While she watches, her mind drifts to Korv. He lives here still—a hunter of the Whispering Plains beneath the ashen canopy. He is strong: sinew and scars, eyes sharp as flint. She remembers the night they reunited, just days ago. Moonlight filtered through half-burnt leaves, bathing their bodies in fractured light. They fell together like old gods making war, clasping limbs and gasping with relief. Her magic hummed under his skin; his voice was an ache she almost wept to hear.
But no paradise lasts. After love, Korv spoke of her life as a Navigator: the long voyages, the foreign courts, the battles fought on foreign shores. Rumors swirled on these Isles—whispers that Korixians served strange masters, magic pets for the Kraka-kai. She shut him down. “I saved Furberen,” she told him fiercely. “I died in storms so I could live among giants of the sea—and bring back wonders.”
He only frowned, fingers tracing her collarbone. “Why leave this world—our world—to chase ghosts and war? Here, you belong. Here, you are queen of the wild.”
His words were gentle poison. Devia laughed, but anger pinched her lips. “I belong wherever the horizon calls.” She saw the flicker in his eyes—hurt, confusion, longing. She closed the distance and kissed him, tasting all their shared history. Then she set him afire.
It was a reflex—Korixian laughter and flame are siblings, after all. His cloak ignited in blue fire; he rolled, face white with shock. She stamped the flames out, breathless, tears of laughter in her eyes. He barked at her, scolding her cruelty, and she shrugged, hair smudged with ash. She left him by dawn—alone beneath silent, guilty stars—and swore she’d return one day.
Devia exhales. Her chest feels too tight, filled with echoes of that flame. She would never apologize for love or magic. Instead, she would offer her deeds.
The horn sounds again, louder, urging her to rise. She stands, brushing ash from her tunic—stained with charcoal and memory—and takes the silver feather between two fingers. It trembles, humming with old magic. Beneath her palm, she tastes the world’s pulse: salt, smoke, steel-forged decks.
The Espada swings in close, sails snapping. Its crew—bronzed navigators, their uniforms stitched with silver runes—lean over the rails, scanning. Captain Savant Creeks stands at the prow: tall, weathered, eyes grey as storm clouds. When their gazes lock, he raises a pistol finger in salute. Devia returns it, mouth curved upward.
She steps to the cliff’s edge. Below, rock plummets two hundred feet to the roiling sea. With a pirouette that would enrage any normal human’s bones, she drops into nothingness. The feather sparks—silver light fracturing into thousands of motes—and she floats down like an autumn leaf caught on a breeze. The crew watches, astonished, as she lands on deck without a misstep, pack slung over one shoulder.
A cheer rises, horns and laughter blending with her own. Savant strides forward. “Devia Thorne,” he calls, voice rolling like distant thunder. “Belated Khala Joost, but the world welcomes your penance.”
She bows her head. “I offer my magic, my sword, my life.” Her voice is steady, though tremors of emotion linger. “I will see every corner of Essidarius, help every person I can find, and carry my people’s spark into darkness.”
Savant’s grin is slow, proud. “Then the voyage begins anew. Helm—open seas. All hands, prepare to weigh anchor.”
Steel cables groan; the Espada turns away from jagged rocks, surf slapping its sides. Devia moves to the rail, heart pounding as her island home shrinks in the dusk. Flames still flicker on distant trunks, ghostly beacons of a past that cannot hold her. She straightens, talisman feather tucked behind her ear, cloak snapping like a banner.
The world unfolds before her: trade ports choked with spices, desert fortresses perched on wind-whipped dunes, cloud-pierced towers where mortal law surrenders to magic. She remembers the promise of Khala Joost—that by journey and service, Korixians atone not for their births, but for their duty to creation.
Below deck, the flora seeds she brought shimmer in glass jars. Each Korixian bloom bursts with phosphorescent light when night falls—a gift to sailors who’ve navigated dark waters. She will plant them in every harbor so that no navigator sails in absolute darkness again.
She recalls the elders’ tale: Korixians drifted into Essidarius on rivers of mist, wrenched from another plane. Some say they were chattel to an old god; others claim they sprang from the Horros’ nightmares. Yet here they stand—masters of arcane tides, anomalies that can be both sorcerer and storm. In love and anger, their magic surges beyond boundaries. Devia knows it is her task to recreate that weave, binding worlds rather than sundering them.
The memory of Korv stings again, but she steeled her heart. Their paths diverged; the horizon called her name. Maybe one day she will return—flame in hand, laughter on her lips—to dance beneath ash-scarred boughs with him once more. But for now, she belongs to the Espada, to the salt-breathed promise of every dawn.
A final horn sounds, clarion clear in the twilight air. Devia closes her eyes and inhales the sea’s roar. The deck shudders as the anchor lifts; wood sighs as sails fill. She opens her eyes to the endless water, her heart blazing with possibility. Under any sky, by flame or by kiss, she will carry Korixian magic into the world, atoning not for her existence, but for the promise she alone can fulfill.
And so Devia steps away from the dying isles into the uncharted, a sorceress born of mystery and bound for legend. The Espada cleaves the waves, and in its wake, Korixian light blooms across Essidarius once more.
And where Devia was standing, a small green leaf appeared.