SUNLESS TIMES

"This time, it is different." Master Garen's words echoed in Azir's mind all night. Endless nights of poring over books and scrolls had taken a toll on the young sage’s appearance. His thick, black, wiry beard framed a face shadowed by dark circles under his eyes. His once-slim, upright physique was now just a distant memory.

But none of this mattered to Azir as he struggled through the towering piles of books with titles like How to Conduct Flesh Sacrifice, How to Manipulate the Mind, and Mastering Destructive Magic. These volumes, penned by experts in their grim fields, littered the path to his bathroom.

When he finally stood before the mirror, he froze, staring at his reflection in awe. "What happened to you, my boy?" he muttered, his voice heavy with disbelief. He tilted his head, examining himself like a father trying to make sense of his child.

After a moment of introspection, he shrugged off the worry that might consume most twenty-year-olds. The memory of his recent achievements surged through him, bolstering his resolve. "I knew I must sacrifice something in return," he said quietly, his voice steadier now. He made a half-hearted attempt to smooth his unruly hair with his fingers, then let out a weary sigh.

As Azir stepped out of the bathroom, he gazed around his room as though it were a museum exhibit. Books, scrolls, potions, ritual rods, and various materials cluttered the shelves and spilled onto the floors, all shrouded in near-total darkness. Master Garen had often advised him, "Light some candles when you study, Azir, or you’ll ruin your eyes."

Azir's reply was always the same: "Darkness nullifies one of the senses and sharpens the mind's focus on the spirit."

Now, standing in the dim room, he muttered to himself with a touch of sarcasm, "Since this might be the last time..." He moved to open the window, letting sunlight pierce the gloom. But as his hand touched the latch, he froze, remembering the world outside.

A flood of memories from that fateful day—the day everything in Aurora changed—threatened to pull him under. Before the thoughts could overwhelm him, a heavy knock shook his door.

A voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the silence. "Late as usual, adept. Get to the lower chambers immediately."

"Yes, Master," Azir replied, his tone uncharacteristically cheerful. The word "adept," even when delivered with a scolding edge, brought a flicker of pride. At his age, it was a title not many could claim. Most apprentices spent ten years struggling to reach the second rank, but Azir had managed it in three. His hard work, natural talent, and ability to forge good relationships with his mentors had propelled him through the ranks with astonishing speed.

He threw on his black robes and slung his bag over his shoulder. As he moved toward the door, something on the floor caught his eye—a book lying just beneath a shelf dedicated to the Arts of Reanimation. The title, Maidens of Iceheart and How to Sway them, written by an unknown author, made him pause. A faint, mischievous smile flickered across his face.

The smile didn’t last. Duty called, and Azir pushed the book from his mind. He strode into the corridor of memoirs, its walls lined with portraits of the highest-ranked grand sages of old. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he passed, as though alive and scrutinizing his every move.

It was said that these portraits stared only at those with an aura of death surrounding them. Azir dismissed the notion, as he always had. Even if the legends were true, such an aura was inevitable in his peculiar line of work.

Azir rushed into the vast, circular lower chamber, its expanse filled with figures draped in white, blue, and black robes. The air hummed with murmurs and the faint scent of incense.

“Necromancer!” a voice boomed from across the chamber.

Azir turned to see Joseph, one of his oldest friends, striding toward him with a dramatic scowl.

“You screwed me!” Joseph exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger.

“Excuse me?” Azir replied, his tone shifting.

“Oh yes, the great dark magician screws me over again with one of his impossible brews,” Joseph said.

Azir smirked faintly. “Don’t blame me if you can’t follow simple guidelines. I warned you—break the rules, and one day you’ll conjure something that bites you back instead of whatever poor soul you’re trying to hex. What were you trying to do this time?”

Joseph let out a laugh, more amused than angry. “Are you serious? I asked you last week for the formula for minor transmutation.”

Feigning recollection, Azir nodded slowly. “Ah, yes, yes... I remember now.”

“Sure you do,” Joseph shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Anyway, I wrote down everything I did.”

He handed Azir a crumpled piece of parchment. Azir unfolded it and began reading:

- One potion flask

- One crow’s beak

- One pint of goat blood

- One Valatian leaf from the south

As Azir scanned the list, Joseph casually draped an arm over his shoulder. “And one Machiavellian mage who spends all his time holed up in his room like some goblin,” Joseph added with a grin.

Azir glanced up from the paper, muttered something unintelligible, and rolled it up with a snap.

“Did you just put a curse on me?” Joseph asked, half-joking.

Ignoring the question, Azir swatted Joseph on the head with the rolled parchment.

“What?” Joseph yelped, rubbing his head.

“You forgot pink coastal mushrooms,” Azir said, deadpan.

Joseph blinked, his grin faltering. “I thought it would work without them...”

Azir raised an eyebrow, giving Joseph a look that said everything he didn’t need to say.

Joseph took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Well, to be honest, they’ve gotten ridiculously expensive. That old bastard Hector and his dusty wife doubled the prices after what happened nine months ago.”

“Aha,” Azir replied with a sharp grin. “So, as usual, you thought going cheap was the better option. Genius plan—why not skip the mushrooms and risk turning into, oh, I don’t know, a rabbit instead of a crow? And seriously, what’s with the goblin comments?”

Joseph chuckled, leaning in closer. “To be fair, it’s not just you. Look around. Everyone here looks...” He paused, scanning the room before finishing. “Dead. Or empty, maybe. Like they’ve got nothing left inside.”

He smirked and gave Azir a playful nudge. “But hey, at least this place finally feels like home for you.”

“Hilarious,” Azir said dryly, rolling his eyes.

Before Joseph could respond, a commanding voice echoed through the chamber. “Forward!”

The fifty-seven students in the room moved as one toward the front of the chamber. They instinctively organized themselves by the color of their robes: white, blue, and black. Azir and Joseph joined the black-robed group, though their attention was quickly drawn to the figure standing at the center of the room.

It was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a magnificent red robe embroidered with golden lines. His commanding presence silenced the lingering chatter.

“Silence,” Master Garen ordered. His deep voice cut through the room, and the students immediately fell quiet.

“Now that I have your attention,” Master Garen began, his gaze sweeping across the chamber, “you may have noticed that we’re heading out for another hunt. This time, earlier than usual. However, this is not a recovery mission for scrolls or artifacts. This will be an observational expedition to the Far East. Only those chosen by me will receive the full details. Grand Marshal Romanus and I have already made our decisions.”

He turned to the group in white robes. “Master Sabin, join me.”

A young, slim man with a completely shaven head stepped forward. The half-moon tattoo on his scalp gleamed in the chamber’s dim light. Bowing his head respectfully, Sabin took his place beside Master Garen.

“Miss Caroline,” Garen continued.

The blue-robed students erupted into cheers and applause as a stunning brunette stepped forward. She moved with poise, her striking presence silencing the group’s excitement as she joined Master Garen at the front.

“Is he serious?” Azir muttered to Joseph.

“What?” Joseph whispered back.

“The only reason she’s in this institute is because her father’s the vizier of Aurora,” Azir said under his breath.

Joseph gave him a sly grin. “Don’t kid yourself. You know how skilled she is. Just admit you’ve got a crush on her.”

Before Azir could fire back, his name was called.

“Azir,” Master Garen announced.

The room fell silent as Azir stepped forward. No applause followed, only quiet, watchful eyes. He took his place next to Master Garen, his face calm, though his mind churned with unease.

Master Garen ordered the rest of the practitioners back to their studies, while the three chosen ones were instructed to follow him. They ascended the staircase opposite the one Azir had taken earlier, emerging into a vast chamber that served as Marshal Romanus’s office.

The room was an architectural marvel, lined with meticulously organized books and scrolls. Shelves stretched to the domed ceiling, and the entire space seemed to rotate gently, though no visible mechanism powered the movement. The subtle shift was disorienting at first but oddly hypnotic.

At the room’s center stood a table with three contracts placed neatly atop it. Master Garen lowered himself into an ornate gothic chair, snapping his fingers twice. In an instant, three chairs materialized behind the students.

“Please, take your seats,” Master Garen said, his tone softening to an almost paternal warmth.

Once they were seated, he continued. “Master Azir here is already familiar with this process. He has been one of my frequent selections, having risen through the ranks swiftly. You two, however, are new, though I see great promise in both of you. The same opportunity awaits, should you prove yourselves. That said...”

Master Garen paused, his expression growing uncharacteristically serious as he turned to Azir. “This time is different. We rarely use destructive magic beyond these walls, but I suspect this mission may require it.”

Azir’s brow furrowed. “Is something wrong, Master? We can all sense the shift in mood. It would be better if we understood the full situation so we can prepare accordingly.”

For a moment, Garen’s gaze lingered on Azir, a shadow of concern crossing his face. Then he chuckled lightly. “Oh, nothing to fear. We’ve received reports of disturbances near Eastwatch. It’s likely nothing serious, but we’ve been tasked with investigating.”

Sabin, the priest, interjected with fervor. “Brothers and sisters, do not fear. The seven gods will watch over us on this journey. I have prayed for days and felt the undeniable presence of Jorgund Almighty.”

Caroline rolled her eyes and muttered, “Great. A religious zealot and a necromancer. I feel safer already.”

“Silence,” Master Garen commanded, his voice sharp again. “I selected the three of you deliberately. You each excelled in your respective disciplines. Azir, your mastery of necromancy is unparalleled. Caroline, your pyromancy is unmatched in precision and raw power. And Sabin, your healing abilities are crucial to this mission. Together, you are uniquely equipped for the challenges ahead. Furthermore, I will personally ensure that no harm befalls any of you.”

Sabin leaned closer, placing a hand on Azir’s shoulder, then Caroline’s. “Pray with me tonight, brother and sister. Let the gods bless and protect us for what lies ahead.”

Azir brushed Sabin’s hand off lightly, his voice tinged with dry humor. “I’m not sure your gods are particularly fond of me, priest.”

Master Garen tapped the table gently, reclaiming their attention. “Before you are your contracts. Read them carefully. Sign if you’re willing to go on this journey. If not, I will find others better suited to the task.”

The three students leaned forward, studying the documents. After a moment’s hesitation, each signed their name.

As the last quill left the parchment, the chamber door creaked open. A tall, elderly man entered, his long white hair and beard cascading down his ornate robes. His presence was commanding, his gaze sharp despite his years.

Master Garen rose and greeted him with a respectful nod. “Marshal Romanus, the party is ready.”

“Grand Marshal Romanus,” Master Garen said, rising from his chair and bowing deeply at a 90-degree angle, his hands crossed over his chest. The three students mimicked his gesture.

Straightening up, Master Garen addressed the trio. “I advise you all to practice for tomorrow—and make an effort to get along.”

They bowed once more and filed out of the office. Azir lingered at the back of the group, his expression unreadable. Before leaving, he let a strand of his hair drop onto the polished floor. As he stepped through the threshold, the office doors swung shut on their own with a faint creak.

He ignored Caroline’s sharp glance and strode purposefully toward his quarters, but a sudden hand gripped his shoulder, yanking him to a halt.

Caroline smirked as she turned him around. “I don’t trust your kind, Necromancer. But I’m willing to reconsider—if you prove yourself.”

Azir met her gaze, his voice calm but edged. “I have nothing to prove to you. But I’ll gladly show you what superior skills look like.”

The tension hung in the air for a moment before they both nodded curtly, an unspoken truce forming between them. Azir turned and continued to his room without another word.

Once inside, he locked the door and swiftly retrieved a black box hidden beneath his bed. From it, he drew a small, ornately carved knife, a potion that exuded dark vapors, and a wooden rod slightly longer than his finger, tipped with a luminous white crystal. Carefully, he plucked another strand of his hair and placed it on the desk.

Using the knife, Azir made a shallow cut on his thumb, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the hair. As the blood soaked into the strand, he uncorked the potion. Black smoke poured out, coalescing into a dense cloud above his head.

Taking a deep breath, Azir extended his hand toward his shadow, grasping it as if it were tangible. With a deliberate motion, he pushed the shadow out of the room. It detached and vanished.

Azir stood still, eyes closed. When he reopened them, the world around him had shifted. His surroundings were rendered in shades of grey and white, muted and dreamlike. Despite the monochrome, he recognized Marshal Romanus’s office, precisely where he had dropped his hair.

Invisible and intangible, Azir observed.

Master Garen’s voice carried a hint of unease. “Master, this is bad. The sun hasn’t vanished in a thousand years, and now it’s been nine months of total darkness. People are noticing. Riots are breaking out, and there are reports of unholy sounds coming from the Far East. Sending three students on this quest—it’s reckless.”

Grand Marshal Romanus raised a thick white brow. “Is it?”

Master Garen stepped closer. “People are blaming us. Romanus, history has a way of repeating itself. This feels eerily like the events of old times. I fear this mission is a death sentence.”

Romanus nodded thoughtfully. “Garen, we can dwell on ancient lore and let fear dictate our actions, or we can seek answers ourselves. Do you propose we stand idle while the East falls into chaos?”

“And sending three children is your solution?”

Romanus smiled faintly. “You were fifteen when you went on your first mission. And look at you now—a master of the magical arts.”

Garen frowned. “My first mission was retrieving a chalice from an abandoned house. A monkey could have done it.”

Romanus chuckled. “Times have changed. Students now are stronger, smarter, more prepared than we ever were at their age.”

Garen fell silent, then asked quietly, “Do you promise they’ll return? That at least my students will come back alive?”

Romanus’s expression darkened. He said nothing.

Garen clenched his fists. “I thought so. I won’t allow this.”

Romanus walked slowly toward the door, his steps steady as he passed through Azir’s spectral presence. Pausing at the threshold, he spoke, his voice low and weighted. “Do not think I don’t care for these children—my children. When you went on your first journey, I prayed for hours for your safe return. Do you think it’s any easier now, sending three of them into the unknown?”

Master Garen rubbed his forehead, his frustration evident. “We know why we’re sending them. If Fredrick is behind this, then—”

Romanus cut him off sharply. “So what? If it’s Fredrick, we’ll deal with him however necessary.”

With that, Romanus opened the door and stepped out, leaving Garen to his troubled thoughts and Azir to his clandestine revelations.

Master Garen replied, “He is not an easy man to deal with. You know how ambitious he was. He truly believed that this academy—and especially he himself—should wield all political power in Aurora, either voluntarily or by force.”

He paused for a moment before adding, “What about what Azir saw in his room? The sketches and experiments?”

Grand Marshal Romanus rolled his eyes and said, “He was a Grandmaster. What else would he do but experiment and research?”

“Yes, research,” Master Garen replied, his tone sharpening, “but papers were written about controlling light itself. Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that—”

Grand Marshal Romanus cut him off. “What? That Fredrick found a way to control the sun itself? Our conflict with Fredrick was about his corruption of the students—giving access to magic to anyone who desired it. Good, bad, ignorant—it didn’t matter to him.”

Master Garen’s frustration began to show. “Alright, but what about his sudden disappearance?”

Grand Marshal Romanus chuckled. “What about it? He disagreed with us, couldn’t live by our rules, so he left to live as he pleased. There’s nothing sinister in that. Don’t let your theories and overthinking get the better of you. You have a job to do. Take your students to East Watch, gather information, and come back. That’s all.”

Just then, Azir heard a vibration at his door, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating. He opened the door but saw nothing. As he tried to close it, a foot stopped it from shutting entirely. Azir opened the door wider and found Sabin standing there.

Sabin grinned. “Ah, I woke you from your sleep,” he said. Examining Azir’s face closely, he added, “My, my, your eyes are bloodshot red.”

He placed his hands on Azir’s face and used his thumbs to inspect his eyes. Azir tried to pull back, but Sabin held firm, pulling his head closer. “Now, now, stop resisting,” he said gently. “Ah, sages—always so prideful. Sometimes, even the greatest magicians need help.”

Sabin closed his eyes and began chanting softly. After a moment, he opened them and said, “There. All good. I was wondering if I could come in for a chat, brother.”

Azir rushed to his bathroom, leaving the door open. Looking into the mirror, he noticed his eyes were back to normal. “Incredible,” he murmured. He called out, “Yes, yes, come in. Excuse the mess. I’ve been trying to solve this for a millennium.”

Sabin stepped inside, his expression shifting between amazement and apprehension as he took in the disarray. He didn’t sit down—there was nowhere to do so—and neither did Azir.

“I just wanted to talk to you about Caroline,” Sabin said.

“There’s no need,” Azir replied curtly. “The girl means nothing to me. I have no idea why she harbors so much doubt toward us—toward me especially. Frankly, she’s not the only one, but at least the others hide it.”

Sabin shook his head. “Perhaps she has more reason than the others to hold a grudge.”

Azir frowned. “Oh? And what reason would that be?”

Sabin sighed deeply before speaking. “Her mother was murdered in front of her when she was just a child. It was a necromancer who did it. They were traveling from Spearfall to Ratchet Bay when a group of bandits, led by the necromancer, attacked their caravan. Her family offered all the gold they had, begging the bandits to spare them, but the necromancer... he toyed with her mother.

“Her father fell to his knees, pleading for mercy, but the necromancer only seemed to draw strength from their desperation. He conducted experiments on her mother. He killed her and brought her back to life repeatedly—a barbaric, repulsive act that went against everything we stand for and everything the gods intended.

“The worst part? He ended it with a soul rip.”

Azir’s eyes widened in horror. “He devoured her soul?”

Sabin nodded grimly. “Yes. He sought to extend his lifespan.”

Azir pushed a pile of books off his bed and sat down heavily. After a long pause, he said, “I can understand her anger, but I can’t do anything about it. You can’t blame everyone for what happens to you.”

Sabin nodded. “I know. I don’t blame anyone for their expertise or their school of magic. I believe every form of magic is meant for good. It’s the practitioner who chooses their path.”

Azir slowly nodded in agreement.

Sabin smiled faintly. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I hope tomorrow marks a new beginning for all of us—and that our journey proves to be both successful and enlightening.”

Azir glanced at him and said, “Yes. And here’s some advice—prepare well. Prepare for combat.”

“Of course,” Sabin replied. As he turned to leave, he stumbled over a book titled The History and Misconceptions of Necromancy. He picked it up, examining the cover. “Interesting,” he murmured, before carefully slotting it back on the shelf.

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Azir sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the implications of the masters’ conversation. Anxiety gnawed at him—this could be his first brush with real danger. He muttered to himself, "Fear is good. It pushes a man to fight to his very last breath to survive."

He stood abruptly and began packing his bag, methodically gathering his materials: potions, animal parts, and, most importantly, his silver rod. He scanned the room for anything else he might need when his eyes landed on the black book Sabin had picked up the night before. Taking it from the shelf, he murmured, "Well, if I make it back, I might just continue writing this."

Opening the book, he read a passage:

"The source of necromancy is unknown. Its earliest uses centered on bringing back the spirits of deceased loved ones and communicating with them to predict the future or divine one’s destiny. At this stage, necromancy was not seen as a dark art but rather as a healing tool, bringing solace to many. However, its nature evolved. No longer confined to inquiries with the dead, necromancy began to delve into offensive practices—raising the dead not for communion but as weapons of destruction. Much like pyromancy, the most common form of magic today, necromancy expanded, evolving into shadow magic. Master necromancers eventually learned to tap into…”

The passage ended abruptly as Azir closed the book. He stared at it for a long moment before setting it aside. Tomorrow loomed over him like a shadow.

---

The next morning, Azir, Sabin, and Master Garen met at the academy and set out for Eastwatch. However, their arrival was anything but warm. The sign that once proudly welcomed travelers had fallen, leaving the village bathed in an atmosphere of dread.

As they walked through the village, villagers began to shout:

"Look at what you've done, devils!"

"May the gods curse you, you filthy pagans!"

Insults and jeers rained down upon them, hostility growing with each step.

Sabin whispered, "Why are they so angry at us?"

Master Garen replied evenly, "They blame us for the disappearance of the sun. When the unexplainable happens, they point fingers at those already viewed with suspicion. To them, we are guilty of overstepping our bounds—tapping into forces they believe should remain untouched, even stealing the gods’ power."

The angry crowd pressed closer, their insults turning to threats. Master Garen’s voice cut through the chaos: "Whatever happens, do not use your rods."

A woman stepped forward, her face twisted with disgust. "Why don’t you use your magic to revive our dead children or grow our crops? Greedy bastards, the lot of you. What do you want here? We have nothing for you. Go back to your castle and leave us to our suffering!"

Master Garen responded with a calm, disarming smile. "We’ve heard of a disturbance and thought we might be able to help. May I speak with the leader of this village?"

The woman sneered. "You’re looking at her. And if you’ve come with food or medicine, know that no one here will touch your pagan-tainted offerings!"

The crowd cheered in agreement, their anger palpable. Master Garen’s gaze shifted to the sickly, pale faces among the villagers. "By the looks of some of your people, you might want to reconsider."

The woman’s expression softened slightly as she explained, "This is not illness. It’s black magic. One terrible night, before the vanishing, shadowy, hooded figures were seen entering the house of Old Man John—the hunter who’s been dead for years. No one dared to investigate, especially after hearing screams and howls from the house. Animals began turning up butchered—or not at all."

Sabin exchanged a worried glance with Azir, who instinctively checked the contents of his bag.

The woman’s voice faltered as she added, "Then our children started disappearing."

Master Garen nodded, his calm demeanor unshaken. "Show us where this house is. We will handle it."

The woman pointed to a small, decrepit house on a hill. "You’d better handle it quickly. Magic folk are not welcome here, and I can’t promise to stop the villagers from tearing you to pieces."

As the group approached the house, a foul stench hit them.

"Rot," Azir muttered, covering his nose.

“Well, then I can burn whatever is rotting—and whoever caused it,” Caroline muttered, holding her nose as she covered her mouth with the sleeve of her cloak.

Master Garen stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Remember, we are here to observe only."

The group entered the small hut, their eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The smell was unbearable, but there was nothing else of note. Azir scanned the room, his gaze falling on a dusty table where a folded piece of paper caught his attention. He picked it up and read aloud:

"Lest tender lives below emerge
Recipient of weary splendorous glow
Divine
Unspoken
As divinity seldom shown
Sway in darkness
Eternally unknown"

Azir paused, trying to make sense of the cryptic poem. But before he could ponder it further, Master Garen spoke up, his voice low and urgent. “Under us.”

Master Garen’s sharp eyes had noticed an old, dusty carpet. He began to pull it back slowly, revealing a small hatch in the floor. The air grew heavier, thick with the sense of foreboding. “Ready your rods and stay behind me,” Master Garen whispered, his hand on the hatch as he prepared to descend.

Azir, still feeling unsettled, muttered, “The smell’s getting stronger.”

Master Garen nodded grimly. “It’s also getting much darker.” He glanced at Caroline, who had already reached into her bag. She murmured a quick incantation, and from her palm emerged three delicate fire butterflies, their flickering light offering the only source of illumination as they flew ahead.

As they descended down the stairs, the butterflies guided their way through the ever-darkening passage. The air grew colder, the atmosphere thick with dread. When the butterflies disappeared, another faint light appeared ahead—a dim glow that seemed to pulse in time with their heartbeat.

Master Garen’s voice was steady but urgent. “Stay close.” The group reached a narrow door, its frame weathered by time. Master Garen slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open, only to freeze in place, his eyes wide with shock.

Before them stood a large, dank room, the air thick with the stench of rot. Candles flickered dimly around the space, casting eerie shadows over decaying animals and other unmentionable horrors. At the center of the room stood a group of hooded figures, their red robes ominous and their faces obscured by bat-like masks. And in the center of the circle, a man stood—eyes fixed on Master Garen, a manic gleam in his gaze.

“Fredrick!” Master Garen whispered, his voice filled with both recognition and dread.

Suddenly, Fredrick dropped to his knees, his body wracked with pain as he screamed, “You’re too late, old friend. It has already begun.”

The hooded figures moved in unison, pulling knives from their robes and plunging them into Fredrick’s body. His screams twisted into guttural growls, his voice warping into an ancient, unintelligible chant. Master Garen looked around in horror, realizing that both Caroline and Sabin had vanished.

He turned to find Azir standing frozen in place, his eyes wide with terror as he stared at the ritual unfolding before them.

“Run, Azir!” Master Garen yelled, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently. “Go back to Romanus, and tell him that Fredrick...”

But before the message could be finished, the hooded figures seized Master Garen, ripping his rod from his grasp and dragging him toward the ritual circle.

Azir’s heart pounded as fear gripped him. He knew he couldn’t stay; he couldn’t face whatever horror was coming next. With desperation, he grabbed the powder from his bag. Without a second thought, he threw it into the air, disappearing from sight in a cloud of smoke.

He ran faster than he ever had, his legs pumping with urgency as he made his way back to the academy.

Alaa Mounzer is a short story writer who found a love for writing and fiction in the most unlikely of places: Lebanon, a country riddled with war and corruption. This environment indirectly gave the younger generation a medium to express their thoughts and creative ideas through the magic of writing and the escapism in fiction. His experience in theater, such as the locally successful 1975-2019, which dealt with the different ideologies of the Civil War, allowed Alaa to tap into various mediums of self-expression. This, combined with an initial love of fantasy, motivated the young writer to both read countless works of fiction and write many short stories. With that said, “Sunless Times”, which at its core deals with the neglect of threats from those in charge and unbridled ambition, is the first story he is trying to publish.