Yama was reaching the end of her line, the end of her career as a healer, the end of her beauty as a dancer.

She was beginning to feel like she would die without making a difference when her best friend, Spesca, dragged a lover into her apartment and begged for Yama to save him as he died from a mystery. She rolled up her sleeves to save him, and despite her best efforts, he perished anyway. His fever grew, his bones burst from his body, and she burned down her apartment in the aftermath to stop anyone else from being infected. 

People became infected anyway.

Cloud-riding monsters flew into the city, and the revolver-wielding army rode in on their pegasus—as the Overlord and all his doctors and all his men claimed nothing out of the ordinary was happening. 

Tour guides led mysterious rich men around the city, and Yama began to see conspiracy. No longer a doctor or dancer, Yama donned a mask instead. She abandoned her microscopes, her music, her aching knees. Yama and her friends, they wrung the last from their bodies in the effort, and despite that, they barely understood what was happening to them. 

It is fortunate then, that they are not telling the entire story.

I am. 

People on the ground look to the sky for the divine, and people in the sky look to the heavens for the holy. I do not know what you are looking for in this particular story as you gaze downwards, listening to my voice through this page. But as we reach the end of the battles, the kisses, and the thunder, it must be said that in the aftermath, you will not know yourself, but you will know this singular world: Serango. 

 

Serango is a fantasy novel complete at 115,000 words.  
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