The Ghost at Rest - Fiction by Steve Miller

Spend a quiet evening at home with one of the world's most lethal assassins...

The Ghost at Rest

The bruise along Mae Ling's left ribs bloomed purple-black against her pale skin, a souvenir from the Macau job that had concluded eighteen hours earlier. She pressed her fingertips gently against the tender flesh, wincing as she assessed the damage in the full-length mirror of her bathroom. The target had been quicker than anticipated—a former Triad enforcer turned legitimate businessman who still retained his street instincts. His elbow had found her ribs during their brief, violent dance on the forty-second floor of the Grand Lisboa. Still, he was dead, and she was merely bruised. In her line of work, that constituted an unqualified success.

Mae Ling pulled on a soft cotton tank top, the fabric settling carefully over her injuries, and padded barefoot through her Mid-Levels apartment. The space was a study in contradictions—minimalist Scandinavian furniture juxtaposed against traditional Chinese artwork, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Victoria Harbour while heavy blackout curtains stood ready to provide complete privacy at a moment's notice. To any casual observer, it was the home of a successful tech consultant or finance professional. They would never suspect that behind the innocuous bookshelf in the study lay her true sanctuary.

She pressed her palm against a specific section of the wall, and the biometric scanner hidden beneath the paint read her handprint. The bookshelf swung inward with a whisper-quiet mechanical hum, revealing the room that contained the tools of her trade. The armory was compact but comprehensive—a climate-controlled space no larger than a walk-in closet, yet containing enough firepower to outfit a small military unit. Handguns hung in precise rows: a suppressed Walther P99, her beloved Sig Sauer P226, a compact Glock 19 for close work, and several others, each maintained to perfection. Rifles occupied the far wall—a disassembled Barrett M82 for extreme long-range work, an HK416 for situations requiring more aggressive persuasion, and her personal favorite, a custom-modified Remington 700 that had never failed her in seven years of service.

But tonight, Mae Ling wasn't here for weapons. She moved to the workshop area, where her laptop displayed detailed schematics of the Grand Lisboa's security systems—research that was now obsolete but represented weeks of meticulous preparation. She closed the files and began her post-mission ritual, cleaning and organizing her equipment with surgical care. The ceramic knife she'd used to end the target's life went into an ultrasonic cleaner, its blade disappearing into the bubbling solution. Her tactical gear—black clothing designed to blend with shadows, lightweight body armor, communication equipment—was inspected, cleaned, and returned to its designated place.

The ritual was meditative, a way to transition from the heightened alertness required for her work back to the mundane rhythms of civilian life. Each piece of equipment told a story: the scar on her tactical vest from a job in Bangkok where everything had gone sideways, the modified grip on her Sig Sauer that accommodated her smaller hands, the collection of false passports representing a dozen different identities she could assume at a moment's notice. Mae Ling ran her fingers along these familiar objects, grounding herself in their reality after the surreal violence of the previous night.

Satisfied that everything was in order, she sealed the armory and made her way to the kitchen. The space was modern and well-appointed, though she rarely used it for elaborate cooking. Tonight called for something simple and comforting. She filled her electric kettle with filtered water and selected a tin of premium oolong from her collection—a gift from a grateful client in Taiwan who had never known her real name or face. While the water heated, she prepared a light snack: rice crackers topped with aged cheese and thin slices of Chinese sausage, arranged on a small ceramic plate with the same attention to detail she brought to planning an assassination.

The kettle's soft whistle announced that the water had reached the perfect temperature. Mae Ling warmed her teapot with a splash of hot water, swirled it around, then discarded it before adding the tea leaves. She poured the water in a slow, steady stream, watching the leaves unfurl and release their amber essence. The familiar ritual was soothing, a connection to her grandmother's teachings from childhood—one of the few pure memories from her life before she became the Ghost of Hong Kong.

Carrying her tea and snack to the living room, Mae Ling settled into the corner of her oversized sofa, pulling a cashmere throw around her shoulders. The bruise on her ribs protested as she adjusted her position, but the pain was manageable—a reminder that she was alive, that she had once again emerged victorious from a deadly game. She reached for the remote control and navigated to her streaming service, scrolling past action movies and crime dramas with a wry smile. After spending her professional life immersed in violence and deception, her entertainment preferences ran toward the absurd and innocent.

She selected an episode of "Are You Being Served?" from her carefully curated collection of British sitcoms. The show was delightfully ridiculous—a relic from the 1970s featuring the staff of a fictional department store and their endless double entendres and misunderstandings. Mae Ling had discovered it during a recovery period after a particularly difficult job in London, and it had become her guilty pleasure. There was something deeply satisfying about watching Mrs. Slocombe fuss over her cat while Captain Peacock strutted about with pompous authority, their petty concerns a universe away from the life-and-death stakes of her own existence.

As the familiar theme music played, Mae Ling sipped her tea and felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. On screen, Mr. Humphries was explaining to a confused customer why the men's department didn't carry a particular style of trouser, his camp delivery and theatrical gestures drawing a genuine laugh from the assassin. She had killed three people in the past month—a corrupt politician in Singapore, a human trafficker in Manila, and now the former Triad enforcer in Macau—yet here she was, giggling at a decades-old British comedy like any other woman enjoying a quiet evening at home.

The contradiction didn't trouble her. Mae Ling had long ago made peace with the duality of her existence. By day—or more accurately, by the periods between jobs—she was simply another Hong Kong professional: well-educated, financially comfortable, culturally sophisticated. She attended art gallery openings, practiced tai chi in the park, and maintained cordial relationships with her neighbors. But when the Broker called with a contract, she transformed into something else entirely: a shadow that moved through the world's dark corners, dispensing death with clinical precision.

Her phone, resting on the coffee table beside her tea cup, suddenly illuminated with an incoming message. The display showed only a number she recognized—the Broker's secure line.

She glanced at the device but made no move to pick it up. On television, Mrs. Slocombe was having another crisis involving her pussy, and the studio audience was erupting in laughter. The message notification pulsed insistently, but she ignored it, taking another sip of her oolong and settling deeper into the sofa cushions.

The Broker was her primary contact with the shadowy network that employed her services. She had never met him in person—she wasn't entirely certain the Broker was male, as their communications were conducted entirely through encrypted text messages and voice-altered phone calls. What she did know was that the Broker had an uncanny ability to identify targets who needed killing and clients willing to pay handsomely for the service. Politicians who had betrayed their constituents, criminals who preyed on the innocent, corporate executives who valued profit over human life—the Broker's contracts always came with detailed justifications that allowed Mae Ling to maintain the fiction that she was some sort of avenging angel rather than simply a killer for hire.

The phone buzzed twice more in quick succession. Mae Ling's eyes flicked toward it briefly before returning to the television screen, where Mr. Lucas was attempting to demonstrate a camping tent to increasingly bewildered customers. She knew the messages would be marked urgent—they always were. In the Broker's world, every contract was a matter of life and death, every delay potentially catastrophic.

But Mae Ling had learned the importance of boundaries, of maintaining spaces in her life that remained untouched by the violence that defined her profession. Tonight was one of those spaces. Her body ached from the Macau job, her mind was still processing the split-second decisions that had kept her alive, and her soul—if she still possessed such a thing—craved the simple pleasure of mindless entertainment. The Broker's urgent contract could wait until morning. Whatever crisis demanded her particular skills would still exist in eight hours, and she would be better equipped to handle it after a full night's rest.

After the fourth buzz, Mae Ling reached over and turned the device face-down, muffling the notification light. On screen, Captain Peacock was delivering a pompous lecture about proper department store etiquette while Young Mr. Grace nodded approvingly from his wheelchair. The familiar rhythms of the show washed over her like a warm bath, each predictable joke and recurring gag a small comfort in a life defined by uncertainty and danger.

She thought about her grandmother, who had raised her after her parents died in a car accident when Mae Ling was twelve. The old woman had been a teacher, devoted to literature and traditional Chinese culture, who had filled their small apartment with books and the scent of jasmine tea. Mae Ling touched the cross that hung on a silver chain around her neck—the cross her grandmother had worn every day until her death eight years ago—and wondered what that gentle woman would have thought of her granddaughter's chosen profession.

Her grandmother had practiced what she called "practical faith"—attending Catholic mass on Sundays while maintaining a small Buddhist shrine in their bedroom, lighting incense for ancestors while reciting the rosary. She spoke of karma as readily as she did divine forgiveness, believing that the universe kept its own accounts while God offered redemption to those who sought it. "Every action creates ripples," she used to say, "but the water can always be made clear again." Would such a woman have condemned the lives Mae Ling had taken, or would she have somehow found justification in the careful selection of her targets—the corrupt, the cruel, those who preyed upon the innocent? Mae Ling suspected her grandmother would have focused not on the killing itself, but on the intention behind it, the cosmic balance of removing evil from the world. It was a comforting thought, though Mae Ling wasn't entirely convinced she believed it herself.

Of course, her grandmother had never known what her beloved granddaughter would become—one of Asia's most feared assassins. To the end, she had believed Mae Ling worked in international consulting, traveling frequently for business meetings and client presentations.

The lie had been easy to maintain.

Her legitimate cover identity was thoroughly documented—complete with tax records, professional references, and a modest but respectable income. It explained her comfortable lifestyle without raising suspicions about its true source.

On television, the episode was reaching its climax as the department store staff dealt with yet another crisis involving a difficult customer and a misunderstood product demonstration. Mae Ling found herself genuinely invested in the outcome, despite having seen this particular episode at least a dozen times.

There was something deeply satisfying about the show's formulaic structure. The way each episode followed the same basic pattern while introducing just enough variation to keep things interesting. It was the opposite of her professional life, where no two jobs were ever the same and the slightest deviation from the plan could prove fatal.

Her phone buzzed a fourth time, and Mae Ling felt a flicker of irritation. The Broker was nothing if not persistent, but tonight she was off duty. She had earned this respite through years of flawless service, through contracts completed without a single failure or blown cover. The criminal underworld knew her only as the Ghost of Hong Kong—a phantom who appeared without warning, eliminated her target with surgical precision, and vanished without a trace. Police files contained dozens of unsolved murders that bore her signature: clean kills with no witnesses, no evidence, and no apparent motive beyond professional execution.

But the Ghost of Hong Kong was currently wearing comfortable pajamas and laughing at a British sitcom from the 1970s. The duality no longer seemed strange to her—it was simply the reality of her existence, as natural as breathing. She had compartmentalized her life with the same methodical precision she brought to planning an assassination, creating spaces where Mae Ling the woman could exist separately from Mae Ling the killer.

The episode concluded with the typical resolution: misunderstandings cleared up, dignity restored (more or less), and the promise that tomorrow would bring fresh opportunities for chaos and confusion. Mae Ling smiled as the credits rolled, already looking forward to the next episode. She had nowhere to be tomorrow morning, no pressing obligations beyond eventually responding to the Broker's increasingly urgent messages.

For now, she was content to exist in this bubble of domestic tranquility, nursing her bruises and her tea while the neon lights of Hong Kong painted rainbow patterns across her living room walls.

As the next episode began, Mae Ling pulled the cashmere throw more tightly around her shoulders and settled in for another half hour of blissful normalcy. The phone continued to buzz periodically, each message presumably more urgent than the last, but she had made her decision. Tonight belonged to her, not to the Broker or the shadowy clients who required her services. Tonight, she was just another woman enjoying a quiet evening at home, and that was exactly how she intended to keep it.

The Ghost of Hong Kong could rise again tomorrow.

--

A story featuring Mae Ling is included in the Chillers and Thrillers anthology, now available at DriveThruRPG and DriveThruFiction!

When Gods Fail -- a short story by Steve Miller & L.L. Hundal

 

When Gods Fail

The ancient grove had stood untouched on the north side of Mount Olympus for centuries, its towering oaks forming a natural cathedral where dappled sunlight filtered through emerald leaves. Moss carpeted the forest floor in velvet softness, and wildflowers bloomed in scattered patches of color. It was here, in this sacred space forgotten by time, that Lyra and Daphne found themselves drawn together by forces they couldn't name.

Their love had blossomed slowly over months of friendship, and now, finally alone in nature's embrace, they gave themselves to each other completely. Daphne's dark eyes reflected the canopy above as she pulled Lyra closer, their bodies moving in ancient rhythm beneath the watchful trees.

Their passion was pure and fierce, a celebration of love that seemed to make the very forest pulse with life. Birds fell silent in the branches above, as if nature itself paused to witness their union. The air grew thick with magic neither woman understood, their joy and desire rippling outward like stones cast into still water.

Deep beneath Mount Olympus, something stirred.

Zeus had slumbered for millennia, his power diminished as mortals forgot the old ways. But now, suddenly, he felt it—a surge of primal energy, raw and intoxicating. His eyes snapped open, lightning crackling between his fingers as he sensed the source. Two mortals, their passion so intense it had pierced the veil between worlds and awakened him from his endless sleep.

The king of gods rose from his throne, his form shifting and solidifying as power coursed through him once more. He had been dormant so long, but this... this was exactly what he needed. Young love, pure desire—it would restore him completely. And he would take what he required.

In the grove, Lyra and Daphne lay entwined in the aftermath of their lovemaking, skin glistening with perspiration, hearts still racing. The forest around them seemed more alive than before, as if their union had awakened something primal in the very earth.

"Do you feel that?" Daphne whispered, her fingers intertwined with Lyra's.

Lyra nodded, sensing a presence she couldn't identify. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that made her skin tingle. "Something's coming."

The temperature dropped suddenly, and storm clouds gathered overhead with unnatural speed. Thunder rumbled in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. Then, in a blinding flash of lightning, he appeared.

Zeus stood before them in all his terrible glory—tall and imposing, with wild silver hair and eyes that crackled with electric fury. His presence was overwhelming, divine power radiating from him in waves that made the very trees bend away. He wore the arrogance of eons, the entitlement of one who had taken whatever he desired for thousands of years.

"Mortals," his voice boomed like thunder, "your passion has awakened me from my slumber. I am Zeus, king of the gods, and I claim the right to join your... festivities."

Lyra and Daphne scrambled to cover themselves, fear and anger warring in their expressions. This was their sacred moment, their private love, and this ancient being thought he could simply intrude?

"Get away from us," Lyra said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "We didn't invite you here."

Zeus laughed, the sound like breaking stone. "Invite? Child, I am a god. I take what I wish, when I wish it. Your desire called to me across the void—surely you understand what that means."

He stepped closer, his form radiating heat and power. "I have been alone for so long, forgotten by mortals who once worshipped at my feet. But you... you have reminded me of pleasure, of the joy of flesh. I will have you both."

Daphne stood, pulling Lyra up beside her. Despite their nakedness, despite the overwhelming presence of the god before them, she felt no shame—only fury. "You think because you're some ancient god, you can just take whatever you want? That we're just objects for your pleasure?"

"I am Zeus!" he roared, lightning crackling around his form. "I have claimed thousands of mortal women! Queens and peasants alike have been honored by my attention!"

The words hung in the air like a curse, their arrogance so complete it took Lyra's breath away. When she spoke, her voice was ice-cold, cutting through his bluster with surgical precision.

"Honored?" she said. "You mean raped. You mean terrorized and violated."

The god's expression darkened, storm clouds gathering in his eyes as the accusation struck home. "You dare speak to me with such insolence? I could destroy you with a thought!"

"Then do it," Daphne said, stepping protectively in front of Lyra. "But you won't get what you came for."

Zeus paused, his anger warring with his desire. He needed their passion, their life force—destroying them would gain him nothing. Instead, he reached out with one massive hand, intending to simply take what he wanted.

That was his mistake.

Lyra moved faster than thought, her fist connecting with the god's jaw in a blow that sent shockwaves through the grove. Zeus staggered backward, more from surprise than pain, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Impossible," he breathed. "You're mortal. You cannot—"

Daphne's kick caught him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. "We're not your victims," she snarled. "We're not anyone's victims."

The god straightened, rage replacing his shock. "You think your mortal strength can match divine power?" He raised his hand, lightning gathering in his palm.

But something was wrong. His power, so recently awakened, flickered and wavered like a candle in wind. The energy he'd tried to claim had been born of mutual desire, freely given and received between equals—it carried within it the very essence of consent and choice. Such pure force could not be corrupted, could not be bent to serve domination and violation. Like trying to hold lightning in his fist, the power slipped through his grasp, recognizing him as antithetical to its nature.

Lyra and Daphne felt it too—a strength flowing through them that wasn't entirely their own. The grove itself seemed to be lending them power, the ancient trees and sacred earth rising up against this violation of their sanctuary.

They moved as one, their love making them perfectly synchronized. Lyra's elbow found Zeus's ribs while Daphne's knee connected with his thigh. The god stumbled, his divine form flickering as his stolen power continued to rebel against him.

"This cannot be!" Zeus roared, swinging wildly. But his movements were clumsy, weakened by the very energy he'd tried to claim. "I am the king of gods! I am—"

"A rapist," Lyra finished, her fist connecting with his nose in a satisfying crunch. "A predator who thinks power gives you the right to take whatever you want."

"You're pathetic," Daphne added, grabbing a fallen branch and bringing it down across the god's shoulders. "All that power, all those centuries, and you never learned that love can't be taken by force."

Zeus fell to his knees, his form beginning to fade. The power he'd stolen was abandoning him, flowing back into the grove, into the love between the two women who had awakened it. He looked up at them with something approaching wonder.

"How?" he whispered. "How are you doing this?"

"Because our love is real," Lyra said simply. "It's freely given, freely received. It's not something you can steal or corrupt or claim."

"And because you're not a god anymore," Daphne added. "You're just a bitter old man who never learned that consent matters."

The king of gods tried to rise, but his strength was gone. The grove had rejected him, the very earth beneath his feet refusing to support his weight. He looked at the two women standing over him—naked, unashamed, powerful in their unity—and for the first time in millennia, Zeus felt something he'd forgotten existed.

Fear.

"This isn't over," he gasped, his form growing more translucent by the moment. "I will return. I will—"

"No," Lyra said firmly. "You won't. Because we're not afraid of you anymore. And neither will anyone else be."

With a final flash of lightning, Zeus vanished back to his lonely throne and his slumber. The storm clouds dissipated, and warm sunlight returned to the grove.

Lyra and Daphne stood in the sudden silence, still breathing hard from the confrontation. Then, slowly, they began to laugh—first quiet chuckles, then full-throated laughter that echoed through the trees.

"Did we just beat up Zeus?" Daphne asked, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I think we did," Lyra replied, pulling her lover close. "I think we really did."

They sank back down onto the soft moss, holding each other as the grove settled around them. The ancient trees seemed to whisper their approval, and wildflowers bloomed more brightly in the patches of sunlight.

"He was right about one thing," Daphne murmured. "Our love is powerful. Powerful enough to wake gods."

"And powerful enough to send them packing when they overstep," Lyra added with a grin.

They made love again as the sun set through the canopy, their passion even more intense for having been tested and proven true. The grove embraced them, protecting them, celebrating them. And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—but it was only weather now, natural and harmless.

The age of gods taking whatever they pleased was over. The age of love freely given had begun.

--

If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out more fiction from Hundal & Miller... the anthologies are available wherever NUELOW Games products are sold!

The Ghost at the Crossroads - Fiction by Steve Miller

If you've gotten yourself a copy of the Chillers & Thrillers anthology, you know how the Ghost of Hong Kong ended up in the mysterious situation she finds herself in. (And if you haven't gotten a copy yet, you should! It's got some great comics from Steve Ditko and great fiction from Steve Miller!)

The Ghost at the Crossroads

The cold seeped through Mae Ling's bones like ice water through cracked stone. She opened her eyes beside a dirt road, the taste of earth and rain heavy on her tongue. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, her body protesting every movement. She wore nothing but a thin white nightgown, soaked through by gentle rain from the gray sky above.

The fabric clung to her pale skin like a burial shroud, and she shivered from an inexplicable chill that seemed to emanate from within her very core. Mae Ling had awakened in strange places before—safe houses, hotel rooms, the occasional alleyway after a job gone sideways—but never like this. Never so vulnerable, so exposed, so utterly without memory of how she had arrived at this desolate stretch of muddy road.

Something was wrong. More than wrong. She had no memory of how she got here. In fact, her mind seemed hazy and as she tried to focus on what might have brought here, her thoughts just grew more disjoined.

She stood on unsteady legs, her bare feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. The rain continued its gentle percussion against her skin, each droplet a tiny shock of cold reality. Mae Ling wrapped her arms around herself, trying to preserve what little warmth remained in her body, and began to walk. The road squelched beneath her feet with each step, mud oozing between her toes and coating her ankles in a layer of brown sludge.

Maybe it was the cold. If she could find some shelter and warmth, her head might clear.

As she walked, the landscape around her remained frustratingly uniform—rolling hills covered in sparse vegetation, the occasional gnarled tree reaching skeletal branches toward the overcast sky. There were no landmarks, no signs, nothing to indicate where she was or which direction might lead to civilization. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the wet sounds of her footsteps in the mud.

It was then she noticed the figures in the distance.

At first, they were nothing more than dark shapes wavering in the hazy air, distorted by the rain and mist that hung low over the landscape. Mae Ling squinted, trying to make out details, but the figures remained frustratingly indistinct. They seemed to be moving, though whether toward her or away from her, she couldn't tell. A prickle of unease ran down her spine—in her line of work, unidentified figures in the distance were rarely a good sign.

She continued walking, her eyes fixed on the distant shapes, when movement closer to the road caught her attention. There, standing just off the muddy path, was a figure that made Mae Ling's blood freeze in her veins. It was a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, wearing a crisp school uniform despite the rain. The girl's long black hair hung straight around her shoulders, and her dark eyes held a weight that seemed far too heavy for someone so young.

Mae Ling recognized those eyes. She recognized that face, that posture, that particular way of standing with one hip cocked slightly to the side. She was looking at herself—herself as she had been nearly two decades ago, when she was still Mae Ling Chen, honor student by day and something far darker by night.

The young Mae Ling raised one slender arm and pointed to something on the ground near her feet. Mae Ling followed the gesture and saw the crumpled form of a man lying in the mud, his expensive suit torn and stained with blood and dirt. Even from a distance, she could see the unnatural angle of his limbs, the way his head lolled to one side. She knew that body, knew that face, knew exactly how he had died because she had been the one to kill him.

Her first kill.

The world around Mae Ling began to shift and blur, the muddy road dissolving like watercolors in the rain. The gray sky darkened to the deep purple of twilight, and suddenly she was no longer standing on the road but beneath the rotting wooden docks of Victoria Harbor. The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay, and she could hear the gentle lapping of waves against the barnacle-encrusted pilings.

She was sixteen again, her school uniform replaced by dark jeans and a black hoodie. In her hand was a length of metal rebar, its surface slick with blood and seawater. At her feet lay the man from the road, though here he was very much alive—alive and terrified and begging for his life as the tide slowly crept higher around his broken body.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of the approaching water. "Please, I have money. I can pay you. Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it."

Mae Ling looked down at him with the cold detachment that would later make her legendary in the criminal underworld of Hong Kong. Even at sixteen, she had possessed an almost supernatural ability to disconnect from her emotions, to view violence as simply another tool to be wielded with precision and purpose.

"You're a rapist," she said, her voice flat and emotionless. "You hurt my friend. You hurt other girls. You don't deserve mercy."

The man's eyes widened with desperate panic as the water reached his chest. His legs were shattered—Mae Ling had made sure of that, using the rebar to methodically break both femurs and tibias so he couldn't crawl to safety. She had wanted him to have time to think about what he had done, to understand that his death was not random violence but justice delivered by someone who had decided his crimes warranted the ultimate punishment.

"I'll change!" he pleaded, water now lapping at his chin. "I'll never hurt anyone again! Please, you're just a kid—you don't want this on your conscience!"

But Mae Ling had already turned away, walking back toward the street with the same measured pace she would later use to exit countless crime scenes. Behind her, she could hear the man's increasingly frantic pleas dissolving into gurgles as the tide claimed him. She didn't look back. She never looked back.

The memory dissolved as suddenly as it had appeared, and Mae Ling found herself once again on the muddy road, shivering in her soaked nightgown. The young version of herself had vanished, leaving only empty space where she had stood. Mae Ling wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and continued walking, trying to process what she had just experienced. Was it a hallucination brought on by hypothermia? A fever dream? Or something else entirely?

The rain began to fall more heavily, transforming from a gentle mist into a steady downpour that drummed against her skin and turned the road into a river of mud. Mae Ling's hair hung in wet ropes around her face, and she had to constantly wipe water from her eyes to see where she was going. The cold was becoming unbearable, seeping into her bones and making her teeth chatter uncontrollably.

It was then that she saw the second figure.

This one stood directly beside the road, as motionless as a statue despite the driving rain. Mae Ling approached cautiously, her assassin's instincts screaming warnings even as her rational mind insisted that what she was seeing couldn't be real. The figure was a woman dressed entirely in black—a short leather skirt that hugged her curves, a long coat that fell to her knees, and flat-heeled boots. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her makeup was applied with the precision of war paint.

Mae Ling recognized this version of herself as well—herself at twenty-two, when she had begun to make a name for herself in the assassination business. This was the Mae Ling who had earned the nickname "Ghost of Hong Kong" through a combination of skill, ruthlessness, and an almost supernatural ability to appear and disappear without a trace.

"What is this place?" Mae Ling whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain.

The world shifted again, and suddenly she was standing in an opulent office overlooking the glittering lights of Hong Kong's financial district. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city below, while expensive artwork adorned the walls and Persian rugs covered the polished marble floors. Behind an enormous mahogany desk sat a man in his fifties, his silver hair perfectly styled and his tailored suit worth more than most people made in a year.

Mae Ling stood before the desk in a short black dress and a long black coat, her posture radiating the quiet confidence that had become her trademark. To her left stood the man's chief lieutenant, a younger man with nervous eyes and hands that trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette.

"I've completed the contract," Mae Ling said, her voice steady and professional. "I'll take my payment now."

The older man leaned back in his leather chair, a condescending smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You know, if I had known I was hiring a girl, the fee would have been half what we agreed upon. Since I feel as though I've been led on, I don't think I'll be paying you at all. You should be happy that you're leaving here with your life."

Mae Ling's expression didn't change, but something cold and dangerous flickered in her dark eyes. "I did the job. Your business rivals are dead. The traitor within your own organization has vanished without a trace. I want the agreed-upon sum."

The man's smile widened, revealing teeth that were too white and too perfect. "Get out of my sight, little girl, before you vanish without a trace as well."

Mae Ling turned as if to leave, her movements fluid and graceful. "I already have," she said quietly, and then she spun around with inhuman speed, a silenced pistol appearing in her hand as if by magic. The gun made a soft coughing sound, and a small hole appeared in the center of the man's forehead. He slumped forward onto his desk, blood pooling beneath his face.

The lieutenant raised his hands immediately, his cigarette falling forgotten to the floor. "Wait! I was in favor of paying you! I told him it was a mistake to try to cheat the Ghost of Hong Kong!"

Mae Ling kept the gun trained on him, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. "And now?"

"Now I'm in charge of the business," the lieutenant said quickly, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. "And I promise you'll get a one hundred percent bonus on top of your base fee."

He reached carefully into the dead man's jacket, moving slowly to avoid startling her, and withdrew a thick envelope. "The base pay for services rendered is in here. Consider the bonus an investment in future business relationships."

Mae Ling took the envelope without lowering her weapon, quickly counting the bills inside. Satisfied, she tucked the money into her coat and finally holstered her gun. "Pleasure doing business with you," she said, and then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows as if she had never been there at all.

The memory faded, and Mae Ling found herself back on the muddy road, shivering and soaked to the bone. The rain was coming down even harder now, turning the world into a gray blur of water and mist. But through the downpour, she could see that the distant figures were drawing closer. What had once been indistinct shapes on the horizon were now recognizable as people—dozens of them, walking steadily toward her along the road.

As they drew nearer, Mae Ling began to recognize faces in the crowd. There was Chen Wei, the corrupt police captain she had eliminated with a car bomb three years ago. Behind him walked Maria Santos, the drug dealer's wife who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time during a hit in Macau. She saw the faces of targets and collateral damage alike, all of them moving with the same steady, inexorable pace.

They were the dead—everyone she had killed, everyone she had allowed to die, everyone whose death could be traced back to her actions over the course of her career. And they were all walking toward her with expressions of grim purpose.

Mae Ling's assassin training kicked in automatically. She was outnumbered, outflanked, and completely without weapons or cover. The only logical response was to run.

She turned and sprinted down the muddy road, her bare feet slipping and sliding in the treacherous footing. Behind her, she could hear the steady splash of footsteps as her pursuers maintained their relentless pace. They didn't seem to be running, but somehow they were keeping up with her, as if the very road itself was working against her escape.

The rain began to change as she ran. What had been clear water now fell in thick, crimson drops that stained her white nightgown and turned the muddy road into a river of blood. The metallic smell filled her nostrils, and she could taste copper on her lips as she gasped for breath. The world around her became increasingly difficult to see through the curtain of blood rain, shapes and shadows blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare landscape.

Mae Ling ran blindly through the crimson downpour, her lungs burning and her legs trembling with exhaustion. Just when she thought she couldn't take another step, the blood rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She found herself standing at a crossroads where four muddy paths intersected, gasping for breath and wiping blood from her eyes.

At the center of the crossroads stood an old-fashioned streetlamp, its warm yellow light cutting through the gloom like a beacon. Beneath the lamp stood a man who seemed utterly out of place in this desolate landscape. He was elderly but distinguished, with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore an elegant three-piece suit that looked like it had been tailored on Savile Row, complete with a gold pocket watch and polished leather shoes that somehow remained spotless despite the muddy ground.

"Mae Ling," the man said, his voice carrying a slight European accent that she couldn't quite place. "You must make a choice."

He gestured to the three paths that branched off from where she stood. "Go left, and you will be confronted by everyone you have ever killed. They will have their opportunity for revenge, and I suspect they will not be merciful. Go right, and you will be judged and sent to whatever afterlife awaits someone with your particular... resume. Go straight, and you will have the opportunity to correct what went wrong."

As the old man spoke, memories began flooding back to Mae Ling with startling clarity. She remembered now—she was dead. She had been killed by something that shouldn't exist, something out of legend and nightmare. A vampire. The creature had been impossibly fast, impossibly strong, and it had torn her throat out with fangs that belonged in a horror movie rather than the real world.

"Who are you?" Mae Ling asked, her voice hoarse from running and screaming. "And if I go straight, will I be returning to the world as a literal ghost? Instead of just the Ghost of Hong Kong?"

The old man smiled, and there was something both kindly and terrible in that expression. "You will be restored to life, my dear. Once you deal with the vampire in whatever fashion you consider appropriate, you will continue with your existence. There are... powerful beings who are fascinated by the line you have walked between justice and murder, between protection and destruction. They want to see where that path will eventually take you. The vampire killing you was not part of their equation, and they would rather not lose you as a source of entertainment."

Mae Ling looked down each of the three paths, weighing her options. To the left, she could see the crowd of her victims approaching through the mist, their faces twisted with anger and the promise of retribution. To the right, she glimpsed what looked like a courtroom where figures in black robes waited with scales and ledgers. Straight ahead, the path disappeared into darkness, but she could sense something waiting there—an opportunity, a second chance, a return to the world of the living.

"I probably deserve to be judged," Mae Ling said finally, her voice steady despite the magnitude of the decision before her. "I probably deserve whatever punishment awaits me in Hell. But if I have a chance to return to life, I'll postpone Judgment Day until next time."

The old man's smile widened, and he clapped his hands together with obvious delight. "Excellent! I was hoping you would choose that path. It promises to be far more entertaining than the alternatives."

He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a medallion on a silver chain. The medallion was perfectly round, about the size of a silver dollar, and bore the ancient symbol of yin and yang—the eternal dance of light and dark, good and evil, life and death. As he placed it around Mae Ling's neck, she felt a strange warmth spread through her chest, pushing back the cold that had settled in her bones.

"A token," the old man explained, "to remind you of this moment and the choice you made. Now go, my dear. Your second chance awaits."

The world dissolved around Mae Ling like sugar in rain, and suddenly she was clawing her way up through wet earth and mud. Her fingers broke through the surface first, followed by her hand, then her arm. She pulled herself from what she realized was a shallow grave, the soil turned to thick mud by the same heavy rain that had followed her through her journey of memories.

Mae Ling emerged from the earth like some primordial creature, covered in mud and gasping for breath that she wasn't sure she should be able to draw. She was alive—impossibly, inexplicably alive. Her throat, which she remembered being torn open by the vampire's fangs, was whole and unmarked. Her body, which had been drained of blood and left for dead, was once again warm and vital.

For a moment, panic seized her. What if she had become like the creature that killed her? What if her return to life had come at the cost of her humanity? Mae Ling examined her hands in the dim light, looking for signs of supernatural transformation. Her skin was pale but not unnaturally so. Her fingernails were normal, not extended into claws. When she ran her tongue over her teeth, she found no fangs.

It was then that she noticed the medallion hanging around her neck, its silver surface gleaming despite the mud that covered everything else. The memory of the old man at the crossroads came flooding back—vague and dreamlike, but undeniably real. He had given her a second chance, an opportunity to return to life and settle her score with the vampire that had killed her.

Mae Ling pulled herself fully from the grave and stood on unsteady legs, looking around at her surroundings. She was in an unfamiliar forested area, her one-time grave being unmarked at the foot of an ancient tree. The rain continued to fall, washing some of the mud from her body but leaving her chilled to the bone. She was no longer wearing the white nightgown from her journey through the realm of memories. She was wearing her work clothes--black boots, black trousers, black blouse, and a long coat--and all of it was caked with mud and almost pasted to her shivering body. Her guns and knives were missing.

She needed fresh clothes, weapons, and shelter—in that order. But more than anything, she needed to understand what had happened to her and what it meant for her future. The old man had spoken of powerful beings who found her entertaining, who wanted to see where her path would lead. That suggested her resurrection came with strings attached, obligations she didn't yet understand.

Mae Ling touched the medallion again, feeling its warmth against her skin. Whatever forces had brought her back to life, whatever price she would eventually have to pay, there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty: she had unfinished business with the vampire that had killed her. The creature had made a mistake in not ensuring her permanent death, and Mae Ling intended to make sure it was a fatal error.

She stood perfectly still for a moment, then began walking toward what sounded like traffic. The rain was beginning to lighten, and she could see the first hints of dawn on the horizon. A new day was beginning, and with it, a new chapter in the legend of the Ghost of Hong Kong.

Mae Ling resolved to think long and hard about where to go from here, about what her resurrection meant and what obligations it might entail. She needed to understand the rules of this second chance, the limitations and possibilities it presented. But first, there was a vampire she needed to kill.

The thought brought a cold smile to her lips as she walked back into the world of the living. The Ghost of Hong Kong had returned, and she had a score to settle.

RPG-a-Day Challenge #7 -- Journey

 Today, we have another bit of fiction. If you get to the end, please let us know if you want to see more of Adan & Kylee and their journey through danger, romance, and magic!

The Crimson Codex

By L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller

Chapter 1: The Forbidden Archive

The ancient stones of Valdris Academy hummed with residual magic as Adan pressed his palm against the cold granite wall, feeling for the hidden mechanism that Kylee had discovered three nights prior. The moonlight filtering through the tall gothic windows cast long shadows across the corridor, and every creak of the old building made his heart race faster. Beside him, Kylee's emerald eyes gleamed with anticipation and barely contained excitement, her auburn hair catching silver highlights in the pale light.

"Are you certain about this?" Adan whispered, though his voice carried more thrill than genuine concern. His fingers found the slight depression in the stone, and he felt the familiar tingle of magic responding to his touch. The wall began to shimmer, revealing the outline of a doorway that had been concealed for centuries.

Kylee's lips curved into that mischievous smile that had first captured his attention during their second year at the academy. "When have I ever led you astray?" she murmured, stepping closer to him. Her hand found his free one, their fingers intertwining naturally. The warmth of her touch sent a different kind of magic coursing through him, one that had nothing to do with the arcane arts they studied during daylight hours.

The hidden door swung open silently, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into darkness. The air that wafted up from below carried the scent of old parchment, dried herbs, and something else—something that made the hair on the back of Adan's neck stand on end. It was the smell of power, ancient and untamed, the kind that their professors warned them about in hushed tones during advanced theoretical classes.

"The Forbidden Archive," Kylee breathed, her voice filled with wonder. "I can't believe it actually exists."

Adan conjured a small orb of light in his palm, the warm golden glow pushing back the shadows as they began their descent. The stairs were worn smooth by countless feet over the centuries, and he wondered who else had walked this path before them. The walls were lined with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and move in the flickering light of his spell, depicting scenes of wizards performing magic that looked far more complex and dangerous than anything they had learned in their four years at Valdris.

The staircase opened into a vast underground chamber that stole Adan's breath. Towering shelves stretched into darkness, filled with books and artifacts pulsing with inner light. Magic thickened the air until every breath felt charged with potential.

Kylee gasped, overwhelmed by the concentration of power. 

"Look at all of this," she whispered, moving toward a leather-bound tome that seemed to whisper her name. "The texts they removed from the regular library. The dangerous ones."

Adan followed her deeper into the archive, his light spell expanding to illuminate more of the incredible collection. He could see books on necromancy, tomes detailing the summoning of otherworldly beings, and scrolls covered in runic scripts that hurt his eyes to look at directly. This was knowledge that could reshape the world—or destroy it entirely.

"We shouldn't be here," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. His scholarly instincts were warring with his sense of caution, and curiosity was winning. "If Professor Thorne discovers we've found this place..."

"Professor Thorne doesn't have to know," Kylee replied, pulling a slim volume from the shelf. The book's cover was made of some kind of scaled hide, and it felt warm to the touch. "Besides, we're graduating in two months. What's the worst they could do? Expel us?"

Adan knew she was right, but something about this place felt different from their usual midnight adventures. Their previous explorations had been relatively harmless—sneaking into the astronomy tower to practice advanced divination, or using the abandoned east wing to experiment with transformation magic. This felt like crossing a line they couldn't uncross.

Kylee had opened the scaled book and was reading intently, her brow furrowed in concentration. The pages seemed to glow with their own inner light, and Adan could see strange symbols dancing across the parchment. As she read, he noticed that her eyes had taken on an unusual luminescence, reflecting the magic contained within the text.

"Kylee," he said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "What are you reading?"

She looked up at him, and for a moment, he didn't recognize the expression in her eyes. There was hunger there, and something that looked almost like desperation. "It's a treatise on dimensional magic," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "Real dimensional magic, not the theoretical nonsense they teach in Advanced Planar Studies. This describes actual methods for opening gateways to other realms."

Adan felt a chill run down his spine. Dimensional magic was forbidden for good reason—too many wizards had been lost to the spaces between worlds, and those who returned were often changed in ways that made them barely recognizable as human. "Put it back," he said firmly. "That's exactly the kind of knowledge that got locked away down here."

 

But Kylee was already turning pages, her excitement growing with each new revelation. "Listen to this," she said, beginning to read aloud. "The barriers between dimensions are thinnest during the convergence of the three moons, when the fabric of reality becomes malleable to those with sufficient will and power." She looked up at him with shining eyes. "Adan, the triple moon convergence is tomorrow night."

"Absolutely not," he said, moving to take the book from her hands. "We are not experimenting with dimensional magic. We're going back to our dormitories right now, and we're going to pretend we never found this place."

Kylee pulled the book away from his reaching hands, clutching it to her chest. "Don't you understand what this means? We could be the first students in over a century to successfully open a dimensional gateway. Think of the knowledge we could gain, the places we could explore."

"Think of the ways we could die horribly," Adan countered, though he could feel his resolve weakening. Kylee had always been the more adventurous of the two of them, the one who pushed boundaries and challenged limitations. It was one of the things he loved most about her, but it was also what terrified him.

She stepped closer to him, the book still pressed against her chest. In the golden light of his spell, she looked ethereal, almost otherworldly herself. "I need this, Adan," she said quietly. "My grandmother was expelled from here for pursuing 'dangerous' research, and she became one of the most powerful dimensional mages in history. They called her reckless, but she changed the world." Her grip tightened on the book. "I need to know what's possible. What we're capable of. Don't you ever feel like the academy is holding us back? Like they're so afraid of failure that they're keeping us from reaching our true potential?"

He did feel that way, more often than he cared to admit. The structured curriculum and careful limitations often felt stifling to someone with his natural aptitude for magic. But he also understood why those limitations existed. Magic was dangerous, and the more powerful it became, the more catastrophic the consequences of failure.

"Promise me we'll just read," he said finally, knowing he was making a mistake but unable to resist the combination of her pleading eyes and his own curiosity. "No experiments. No attempts to actually perform any of the magic described in these books."

Kylee's face lit up with joy, and she threw her arms around him, the book still clutched in one hand. "I promise," she whispered against his ear. "Just reading. Just learning."

They spent the next several hours exploring the archive, pulling books and scrolls from the shelves and reading by the light of Adan's sustained illumination spell. The knowledge contained within these texts was staggering—detailed instructions for magic that their professors had only hinted at in the most advanced classes. Kylee remained focused on the dimensional magic tome, while Adan found himself drawn to a collection of texts on elemental manipulation that went far beyond anything in the standard curriculum.

As dawn approached, they reluctantly returned the books to their proper places and made their way back up the hidden staircase. The door sealed itself behind them with a soft whisper of magic, leaving no trace of their nocturnal adventure. They walked back to their respective dormitories in comfortable silence, both lost in thought about what they had discovered.

But as Adan lay in his narrow dormitory bed, watching the sunrise paint his small window gold and pink, he couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed between them. The way Kylee had looked at that book, the hunger in her eyes when she spoke about dimensional magic—it reminded him of the cautionary tales their professors told about wizards who had been consumed by their pursuit of forbidden knowledge.

He told himself he was being paranoid, that Kylee was too smart and too careful to let herself be seduced by dangerous magic. But deep down, he knew that their midnight exploration had set something in motion that couldn't be stopped. The triple moon convergence was less than twenty-four hours away, and despite her promise, he suspected that Kylee had no intention of limiting herself to merely reading about dimensional magic.

The next day passed in a blur of regular classes and routine activities, but Adan found it impossible to concentrate on anything. During Advanced Transmutation, he accidentally turned his practice stone into a small bird that immediately flew out the window, earning him a sharp reprimand from Professor Blackwood. In Theoretical Thaumaturgy, he gave completely wrong answers to questions he could normally handle in his sleep.

Kylee, by contrast, seemed energized and focused, participating more actively in class discussions than she had in weeks. But Adan noticed that she kept glancing out the windows, watching the position of the sun as it tracked across the sky. She was counting down the hours until nightfall, until the three moons would rise in perfect alignment.

After dinner, Adan tried to corner her in the common room, hoping to talk her out of whatever she was planning. But she slipped away before he could approach, leaving him with nothing but a meaningful look and a whispered "Meet me at midnight" as she passed his table.

The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. Adan tried to study, tried to read, tried to do anything that would distract him from the growing sense of dread in his stomach. But nothing worked. At eleven-thirty, he gave up all pretense of normalcy and made his way to the hidden entrance to the Forbidden Archive.

Kylee was already there, the dimensional magic tome tucked under her arm along with several other books he didn't recognize. She had changed out of her academy robes into dark, practical clothing, and her hair was braided back in a style he had never seen her wear before. She looked older somehow, more serious, and definitely more dangerous.

"You came," she said, though there was no surprise in her voice. She had known he would be there, just as he had known she would ask him to come.

"I couldn't let you do this alone," he replied, though part of him wondered if his presence would make things better or worse. "Where are we going?"

"The old observatory," she said, leading him away from the archive entrance. "It's been abandoned for decades, but it has the best view of the sky. And more importantly, it's far enough from the main buildings that no one will notice if something goes wrong."

The phrase "if something goes wrong" sent another chill through Adan, but he followed her through the winding corridors and up several flights of stairs to the highest tower of the academy. The old observatory was exactly as she had described—abandoned and forgotten, with a domed ceiling that could be opened to reveal the night sky above.

Kylee set her books down on the dusty floor and began arranging them in a careful pattern. The dimensional magic tome was placed at the center, surrounded by the other texts in what Adan recognized as a ritual configuration. She had clearly been planning this for much longer than just the past day.

"Kylee," he said carefully, "you promised we would only read."

She looked up at him from where she knelt beside the books, and in the moonlight streaming through the open dome, her eyes seemed to glow with their own inner fire. "I lied," she said simply. "I'm sorry, but I knew you wouldn't come if I told you the truth."

Above them, the three moons hung in perfect alignment—the silver moon of knowledge, the blue moon of power, and the red moon of transformation. Their combined light bathed the observatory in an otherworldly radiance that made everything seem sharp and unreal.

"This is insane," Adan said, but he made no move to leave. Despite his fear, despite his better judgment, he was as curious as she was about what might happen. "We don't know enough about dimensional magic to attempt something like this safely."

"We know enough," Kylee replied, opening the scaled tome to a page marked with a strip of cloth. "The ritual is clearly described, and the convergence provides the perfect conditions. We may never get another chance like this."

She began to read from the book, her voice taking on a rhythmic, chanting quality that seemed to resonate with the magical energy in the air. Adan felt the hair on his arms stand up as power began to gather around them, drawn by her words and focused by the ritual configuration of the texts.

The air in the center of the circle began to shimmer, like heat waves rising from summer pavement. Slowly, gradually, a tear appeared in the fabric of reality itself—a window into somewhere else, somewhere that definitely wasn't their world. Through the opening, Adan could see a landscape of impossible colors and geometries that hurt his eyes to look at directly.

"It's working," Kylee breathed, her voice filled with wonder and triumph. "We're actually doing it."

But as the dimensional gateway stabilized and grew larger, Adan began to sense that something was wrong. The magic flowing through the ritual felt different from anything he had experienced before—wilder, hungrier, and far more difficult to control. The books around the circle were beginning to smoke, their pages curling as if exposed to intense heat.

"Kylee, we need to stop," he said urgently. "The magic is getting away from us."

She either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him, continuing to chant from the tome even as the dimensional gateway expanded beyond the bounds of the ritual circle. Through the opening, Adan could see movement—shapes that might have been creatures or might have been something else entirely, drawn by the magical disturbance they had created.

The first entity to emerge from the gateway was roughly humanoid in shape but composed entirely of what looked like living shadow. It moved with fluid grace, its form constantly shifting and changing as it adapted to the physics of their dimension. Behind it, Adan could see others beginning to gather at the threshold between worlds.

"Close it," he shouted over the growing magical storm. "Close the gateway now!"

But Kylee seemed transfixed by what she had accomplished, staring at the shadow creature with a mixture of fascination and terror. The tome in her hands was beginning to glow with dangerous intensity, and Adan realized that the ritual had moved beyond her control. The gateway was feeding on the magical energy of the convergence, growing stronger and more stable with each passing moment.

The shadow creature turned its attention to them, and Adan felt its alien intelligence pressing against his mind like cold fingers made of static and whispers. The air around it tasted of copper and ozone, while a sound like breaking glass echoed from nowhere. It was curious about these young wizards who had opened a door between worlds, but its curiosity felt predatory—like being studied by a spider.

Behind it, more entities pushed through the gateway. Things with too many eyes that blinked in patterns that made his vision blur. Things that existed in more dimensions than human perception could process, their edges seeming to fold in on themselves. The temperature in the observatory plummeted, and Adan's teeth began chattering uncontrollably as something that had been waiting eons sensed opportunity.

Adan made a desperate decision. Drawing on every technique he had learned in four years of magical education, he began weaving a counter-spell designed to disrupt the ritual and collapse the dimensional gateway. It was dangerous magic, the kind that could easily backfire and destroy them both, but it was their only chance of preventing a catastrophe that could threaten not just the academy but potentially their entire world.

The shadow creature sensed what he was doing and moved toward him with alarming speed. Its touch was like ice and electricity combined, sending waves of pain through his nervous system and disrupting his concentration. But Kylee, finally understanding the magnitude of what they had unleashed, added her power to his, helping him maintain focus despite the creature's assault.

Together, they poured their combined magical strength into the counter-spell, fighting against the momentum of the ritual and the alien intelligence of the entities trying to force their way through the gateway. The strain was enormous—Adan could feel blood running from his nose, and Kylee's hands were shaking with exhaustion—but gradually, slowly, the dimensional tear began to contract.

The shadow creature let out a sound that was part shriek and part something that human ears weren't designed to process. It made one final desperate lunge toward the gateway as the opening collapsed, but the dimensional barrier snapped back into place just in time, severing the creature's connection to its home dimension and causing it to dissolve into wisps of rapidly fading darkness.

The sudden silence that followed was deafening. The three moons continued their stately dance across the sky, but the magical storm had passed, leaving behind only the acrid smell of burned parchment and the lingering taste of otherworldly energy in the air.

Kylee collapsed to her knees beside the ruined books, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I thought I could control it."

Adan knelt beside her, pulling her into his arms despite his own exhaustion and the lingering pain from the shadow creature's touch. 

"We're alive," he said simply. "That's what matters."

But even as he held her, he knew that their relationship had been fundamentally changed by what had happened in the observatory. They had crossed a line together, ventured into territory that no student wizards should ever explore, and the experience had revealed aspects of both their personalities that neither had fully understood before.

Kylee's hunger for forbidden knowledge, her willingness to risk everything for the chance to push beyond established boundaries, was both thrilling and terrifying. Adan realized that he would follow her anywhere, because his love for her was stronger than his sense of self-preservation. But he also understood that their future together would be shaped by this moment, by the choices they had made and the consequences they would have to live with.

As dawn approached for the second time in as many days, they made their way back to their dormitories, leaving behind the burned remains of the forbidden texts and the lingering traces of dimensional magic. They had learned something profound about the nature of reality and their own capabilities as wizards, but they had also learned that some knowledge came with a price that was almost too high to pay.

The official investigation into the magical disturbance detected in the old observatory would begin within hours, and Adan knew that their midnight adventure would not remain secret for long. But for now, in the quiet moments before the storm of consequences began, he was content to walk beside Kylee through the empty corridors of Valdris Academy, knowing that whatever came next, they would face it together.

Their journey of discovery had only just begun, and the dangers they had encountered in the Forbidden Archive were nothing compared to what awaited them in the wider world beyond the academy's protective walls. But they had proven to themselves and each other that they were capable of surviving challenges that would have destroyed lesser wizards, and that knowledge would serve them well in the adventures to come.

As they reached the point where their paths diverged toward their respective dormitories, Kylee turned to him one final time. In the pale light of dawn, she looked young and vulnerable again, the dangerous sorceress of the night replaced by the girl he had fallen in love with during their second year at the academy.

"No more forbidden magic," she promised, and this time he believed her. The experience in the observatory had taught them both the importance of respecting the boundaries that existed for good reason.

"No more forbidden magic," he agreed, sealing the promise with a gentle kiss that tasted of magic and moonlight and the beginning of a love story that would span dimensions.

-- To Be Continued...?

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Would you like to see what awaits Adan and Kylee? Leave a comment letting us know! If people are interested, we can put up a new chapter once a month!

RPG-a-Day Challenge #6 -- MOTIVATE

Alas, I could not find anything that motivated ideas today. So I'm just posting a couple pictures of Brigid the Red (aka The Christmas Dragon)... one of her in a D&D t-shirt and the other taken the time she DM'ed a game at one of L.L. Hundal's Girls' Night In.

RPG-a-Day Challenge #5 -- Ancient

These feats for d20 System games are released under the Open Game License and may be reproduced in accordance with it. Copyright Steve Miller 2025.

THE ANCIENT FEATS GROUP

The following feats are of the [Ancient] group. They may be chosen by characters who are in the age category of Old and beyond according to the character race's aging chart whenever a feat is gained.

Cranky [Ancient]

You're too old for this crap.

Prerequisite: 3rd level

Benefit: You gain a+2 bonus to melee attack rolls, as well as +4 damage if you are inflicting non-lethal damage.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do.[Ancient]
You say things others should live by.
  Prerequisite: Cha 15
  Benefit: +4 bonus to all Bluff and Intimidate skill checks.
  Special: This feat can be selected as a bonus feat by Clerics (D&D), Charismatic Heroes (d20 Modern) and Dedicated Heroes (d20 Modern) whether they meet the age requirement or not.

Experienced [Ancient]
This isn't your first rodeo.
  Prerequisite: 5th level
  Benefit: +2 bonus to all Bluff, Sense Motive, and Spot skill checks,

Jaded [Ancient]
You are confident that you've seen it all. Twice.
  Prerequisite: 10th level, Experienced
  Benefit: +2 bonus to resist all Fear-effects, Mind-Effecting spells and exceptional or special abilities that mimic them.

No More Fucks to Give [Ancient]
You've had it with their shit.
  Prerequisite: 15th level, Jaded
  Benefit: +4 bonus to resist all Fear-effects, Mind-Effecting spells and exceptional or special abilities that mimic them. +4 bonus to Intimidate skill checks. +2 bonus to base AC/Defense Rating. +1 to all Initiative rolls.

RPG-a-Day Month #4 -- Message

From the Dragon's Treasure Vaults: 
The Message Bottles

The Message Bottles are four identical empty wine bottles with corks, appearing like little more than trash (or, if you're environmentally conscious, ready for the recycling bin), but if viewed through a detect magic spell, they radiate strong Conjuration magic with an undertone of Transmutation magic). 

   If attempts are made to break one of them, they fail. In fact, the bottles are so sturdy they can be used as clubs or to keep doors open by jamming them between the door and frame.

   Functions: If the possessor of one bottle makes a Willpower save (DC9) as a standard action to clearly picture a known possessor of another of the bottles in their mind, he or she can uncork the bottle and speak into it to transmit a message; the message is transmitted the moment the character recorks the bottle. The other person will hear it when they uncork their bottle. The message can be up to 1 minute long. Another message cannot be sent until the first one is received/heard. The bottle can be used up to six times in a day.

   If the character fails the Willpower save, he or she realizes that the mental focus just isn't there at the moment. The character can try again the following round, but even the failed attempt counts as one of the daily uses.

   If the bottle is no longer in the possession of the person the message is for, it is still sent and heard, but no reply can be made unless the new possessor knows someone else who has one of the four bottles.

   The possessor of any one of the bottles can unerringly teleport or gate to the other possessor and bottle's location. (If the character doesn't know who has one of the bottles, the spell takes him or her to the nearest one, aside from the one he or she already possesses.)

   If a Message Bottle is used as a weapon, it deals 1d3+Strength bonus in blunt damage.

History of the Message Bottles: In 1,204 BC, Brigid the Red (an ancient dragon who is also known as the Christmas Dragon) was in Egypt, establishing a new residence/lair when she noticed humans had made another advancement in glass-creation techniques: They were now making containers that were semi-viable for transporting and liquid and other substances. Shortly afterwards, she created her first iteration of the Message Bottles--a matched pair of which she gave one to the Pharoh so he could reach her whenever a situation dire enogh to warrent her assistance arose. 

   Nearly 1,100 years later, she observed that the Romans had perfected a method to make glass bottles, and she returned to her old idea of the Message Bottles. This time, she created four. She kept one and gave the others to her favorite humans. When they passed, she reclaimed the bottles and gave them to others.

   As glassblowing techniques improved and bottle-shapes changed, Brigid updated her creation with a new version, destroying all but one of the older sets. Even though this made the item useless, she kept it for nostalgia purposes. Her reason for the updates was to make the Message Bottles look as uninteresting as possible, so they would not be stolen from the person she gave them, nor even be suspected to be magical items. Her latest upgrade took place in 1846, in France, and those are still in use today.

   Since 1862, every president of the United States of America has had one of the bottles while in office. The actress Bessie Love (who secretly fought evil and collected magical artifacts both during and after her film career came to a close, and whom Brigid considered a good friend) also had one of the bottles, from 1921 until her death in 1986.

For more about Brigid, see posts here at this blog. If you want to support our efforts, buy a copy of Gifts from the Christmas Dragon, which describes 18 more of Brigid's magical creations, as well as a short story.

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Here's a song that helped inspire today's post. Enjoy!