Page 12 of Florescentia

The inky liquid was icy to the touch. The texture was smooth, not as sticky as oil, but not as fluid as water. Before much longer, the void swallowed my fingers and pooled in between the creases of my palm, the glow of my markings strong enough to see through closed eyelids.

Through the strength of my voice, the incantation at the peak of my energy: “Florescentia.” The word sounded like a thousand whispers, echoing in my state of meditation around me.

Then—there was nothing.

A sudden snap of energy, as if grounding a charge.

My eyes opened so fast I had to blink to clear my vision.

The portal was there. My hand was submerged. Nothing was happening.

I braced my other hand on the floor and plunged my arm up to my shoulder. I grasped, wiggled my fingers, searching in the abyss. It was no different from sticking my arm in an ice bath.

I closed my eyes again.

Come now . . . something!

A small cracking noise from beside my head.

I looked up, the water lamp burning bright, the plankton moving faster, faster, faster.

It was too late to move away.

The glass shattered—no, more than shattered. It combusted.

A sharp yelp as the glass hit the side of my face, and I removed my hand from the void. A screech like a climaxing kettle, an unnatural howl in my ear, before I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face and covering my ears as if the room would collapse on me then.

My head became disoriented, a sickening sourness in my stomach like bad chemicals. Everything was spinning, crashing, things were moving . . .

Something was here.

My belongings were tossed as the floor quaked beneath me.

Then—it just stopped. The stillness was as jarring as the commotion.

I lifted my head to see the rug torn and tattered, Absinthe and Tonic gone, glass absolutely everywhere.

After my hand touched the wet floor, I snatched it back.

The biolight water was . . . hot?

The little glowing organisms were no longer glowing. Had they generated enough kinetic heat to cook themselves?

The silence of the room was deafening. I cleared my throat just to check if my eardrums were still intact. Within the tatters of the rug, pieces of wood were scattered.

With a careful touch, I gathered the rug, pulling and shoving the heavy material out of the way. Deep, splintered cuts marred the hardwood. These floors were verawood, one of the densest flooring options you could use.

After yanking the bunched rug away, I shoved it aside to assess the damage.

Dorian was going to kill me. How would I begin to explain this?

And I thought the damage was bad before seeing the final piece. The warning wasn’t small, not even implied. It was explicit.

Carved deep into the floors was an unambiguous omen.

A single demand.

Obscuria.