In the spirit of a good villainous origin story, I’d like to introduce Neema. Earth Disir, healer, and Magic keeper who sought to bring peace to the tribes, but instead ignited their destruction.
Sometimes, one must strike a match in order to find the shadows.
They waited on the temple steps — legions of Fey and Rimevar. Cyclones tossed dust into the air, coating the desert city in grime. Nymphs had long since withered the well waters beneath the city, their fury steaming the water dry. Earth Disir clutched barren roots, their breasts covered in bark stained red with blood.
Rage crawled up her spine, webbing through her veins, until her skin sizzled. She took a breath, willing the fury to calm. So much war—anger and bitterness suffocated the land. How many more innocents would die? She wanted peace, equality for her kin. She was a fool to think the Mams would listen.
“Take the tunnels,” Quill muttered, his face peaked and ashen as he looked at her.
Neema shook her head. Her gaze flickered to the crack of light offered by the temple’s narrow windows. “This is how it ends.”
Quill was young, too young to understand the heartbreak causing her words to waver. He apprenticed under her mother before his acceptance into the Elder council. He knew Aven well and loved Neema with a brother’s fierceness. His hands fisted and opened, as if he could control the anguish tugging at his bones.
They left her with no choice. The Disir and their old council—the world needed to progress, their ways were antiquated and dangerous. Gathering the Dokkr magik was only the beginning. It could have been a peaceful task, if they had left pride behind, but now, as the Broken Wars raged all around them, JaduRa against Disir, Jord against Unseelie, Friend against sister, brother, family…
Neema shook her head again, as if she could dislodge the nightmare. Her mother’s death, her clan’s destruction. Her tribe, the JaduRa, hidden for so many centuries, were ripe with fury. She couldn’t fault them. The same rage burned in her.
“This isn’t the end, Neema.” Quills eyes glowed warm amber in the temple’s torchlight.
She sucked in a breath. Her Mam’s betrayal pierced the shell of her heart, digging deeper until the once red organ spewed black. “It’s up to you, the Elders, and the Priestess to ensure this wasn’t for nothing, Quill. Bring the magik back to our people. The Mams will fight you at every turn. Their pride has given fear wings. Find Sadiya in Brir Torg. She will guide you, she knows the GoddessTruth.”
Quill nodded, “I won’t fail you.”
Neema smiled sadly, despair rushing over her. “Be safe, brother.”
Udapat’s brightly colored awnings billowed and tore as the Fey’s cyclones trampled the gentle dwellings. Neema turned, glancing down the darkened hall to the Akiseidrbok’s resting place. Her blood throbbed, blistering her skin. She wanted to touch it, to hold its supple leather in her hands one more time. This was the book of destruction she wove. It was her child, her partner, her desire. The unspeakable ounces that plastered her life together. With every spell she threaded onto the splattered pages, Neema lost a piece of herself. Slowly at first, small, inconsequential pieces. Then her rage, her lust, her vengeance—Neema turned back to Quill.
“It’s more than I book, you know.”
He studied her, his narrow shoulders tensing under heavy Astir robes, “I know what it took from you.” His voice conveying more wisdom than his youth could understand.
Neema pressed her lips together. It was time.
Death reeked all around her. Its stench infected her. A plague she would not survive.
She unsheathed the curled double dagger at her waist, her fingers gripping the ivory hilt. She had discovered the dagger beneath a waterfall at the norther end of the PearlGlos when she was still a child. Rusty and cracked, she had mended it, trained with it until the bone hilt molded to her hand.
Quill opened the door.
The sun’s harsh light spilled over them, and Neema raised her arm to shield her face. Quill touched her shoulder. A hesitant caress, a reminder of what once was. She paused.
Maude stepped forward, her brown skin and mossy curls born of her same tribe. A tangle of rowan and coral wove through her hair, the Goddess Crown—over time the Rowan Stellar grew and thickened, becoming an extension of her heart root. But the crown had lost its power years ago, when the Disir turned from Hemsut, Oya and Gula-Bau. Her bark was stained yellow, the color of the Kinship.
The color of death.
Neema took a step forward, listening for the scrape of stone as the temple door sealed behind her.
“Where is it, child?” Fey wind carried Maude’s voice, curling around Neema’s ear.
Another step, Neema leveled her dagger before her. “Come and find it, Sprite.”
Krista Fazendin 
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