Chapter 17

Ghost Hounds

Mags jolted awake, heart pounding in her chest as the remnants of a nightmare clung to her mind. In her dream, Solstice had been destroyed—reduced to rubble and ash beneath the onslaught of Angels. Dunja and the other orphans... She couldn’t even think of their names without that searing rage flaring in her chest. It had been a searing rage, a fire she couldn’t control that threatened to consume her from the inside out. Had she fought the Angel in her dream? The memory was hazy, like trying to recall the details of a distant storm.

She blinked, once, twice, her eyes adjusting to the dark. The nightmare began to ebb away, replaced by the strange reality of her surroundings. An unfamiliar ceiling arched above her, crafted from gleaming wooden beams that seemed to glow softly. She was lying in a bed—a plush, inviting nest of pillows and blankets built into the wall, the frame carved from the same wood as the ceiling and walls. The room hummed with a soft, steady vibration, the air tinged with the scent of ozone and something faintly sweet and acrid, like burnt sugar.

Her confusion deepened as she struggled to piece together how she had ended up here. Everything was hazy. Before she could dwell on it further, the door creaked open, and a flood of light spilled into the room.

A man entered, and her heart leapt into her throat. It was the man from the tavern—the one with ashen gray skin and bronze-colored eyes. This time, however, his features weren’t obscured by the cloak he had worn before. He was lithe, with a shock of long, messy wine-red hair atop his head, though everything from the top of his ears down was shaved to the scalp. Dark tattoos of runes wrapped around the left side of his head, starting at his temple and swirling to the back. He looked to be in his twenties, though there was something about him that felt much older. He was dressed in a beige kaftan, laced with intricate patterns in yellows and golds, and several bronze and gold rings adorned his fingers and ears.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, his face stoic, before stepping inside. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice carrying that same sing-song accent she remembered from before. “How are you feeling?”

Mags swallowed, her throat dry. “My head hurts,” she admitted, her voice hoarse. She tensed, her distrust flaring as she glanced around the room, then back at the man. “Where am I?”

The man walked over to the side of the bed, his movements calm and deliberate. “You’re probably dehydrated,” he said, ignoring her question for the moment. He gestured to a pitcher and a cup on the bedside table that she hadn’t noticed before. “There’s water here. You should drink.”

He picked up the pitcher and poured some water into the cup, then handed it to her. She hesitated, staring at the cup as if it might contain something more sinister. The man raised an eyebrow, his expression unchanged. “It’s just water, I promise,” he said dryly. “Though your wariness is fair. I suppose we never properly introduced ourselves last night. My name is Rubicante.”

She reluctantly took the cup, sipping the water. The cool liquid soothed her parched throat, and she drank more deeply, though her eyes never left him. “Mags,” she said finally, her voice steadier now. “What happened? Where am I?”

Rubicante nodded, his gaze steady on her. “Solstice was attacked by several waves of Shades, as well as Angels. You’re currently on our airship . . . we were forced to flee the town after all of the destruction.”

Dread settled in Mags’s stomach like a stone, and the cup trembled in her hands. So, it hadn’t been some nightmare after all. In the back of her mind, she had known it the whole time. She just didn’t want to have to face the truth. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she fought to hold them back, but the weight of what she had seen—what she had lost—was too much. She thought of Dunja, of the other orphans, of the life that had been ripped away in an instant. A sob broke free, and she curled up on the bed, clutching the blankets as if they could somehow shield her from the pain.

Rubicante didn’t say anything as she cried, his expression unreadable. He simply stood there for a moment, then turned and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. Mags didn’t notice, too consumed by her grief. She buried her face in the pillows, letting the sadness take her, and the reality of her loss settled in, cold and inescapable.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags couldn’t tell if it had been hours or days when the door to her room creaked open again. Time had blurred into a fog of grief, every moment weighted by the unbearable loss she had suffered. Her thoughts had spiraled endlessly, circling around Sabo and Vitomir, Dunja and the orphans. The life they had all built together now shattered beyond repair. Had Sabo and Vitomir even survived the attack? She racked her brain, trying to remember if she had spotted either of the two after she had ran into them escorting the town elder to the scrying mirror. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember.

When she finally lifted her head from the damp pillow, her eyes red-rimmed and sore, she saw Rubicante standing in the doorway. He looked at her with those bronze-colored eyes, his expression soft but unreadable. “I’d like you to join me,” he said, his voice polite, almost too polite. Something in his tone told her that, while he was asking, it wasn’t really a request.

Mags let out a shuddering breath, then slowly rolled out of the bed. The moment her feet hit the floor, her entire body screamed in protest. Every muscle ached, her joints creaked, and a dull pain throbbed at the base of her skull. She felt as though she’d been run over by a parade of charging garuda, then dragged several miles behind it for good measure.

But she didn’t complain. She wasn’t sure she had the energy to, even if she wanted to.

She followed Rubicante out of the room, leaning heavily on the wall as she went. The hallway they stepped into was narrow, the walls lined with wooden panels that gleamed under the soft glow of glowing pipes. The air here was different—crisp, with a faint hint of metal and machinery. The steady hum she’d felt in her room was stronger now, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the ship.

A ship. She blinked, her thoughts sluggish. “Where are we?” she asked, her voice rough from crying.

Rubicante glanced back at her, his expression still impassive. “Below deck,” he replied. “Near the cabins of our airship, Skithbladnir.”

An airship. Mags had seen such vessels a few times in the past, but always at a distance. Never in her life had she imagined she’d find herself aboard one. She thought of the ships from her memory, almost identical to their nautical counterpart, though attached to gigantic fish, whales and other creatures that were capable of flight. People called them skyfins, which much like the ships that they carried through the air, were visually identical to their seafaring counterparts. The skyfins were always a wonder to behold. She wondered what kind of flying creature carried this ship. Then she thought about how excited Dunja and the other children would have been to witness a real life airship, and a fresh wave of burning tears welled in her eyss.

As they moved further down the corridor, the ship seemed to come alive. The pipes running along the walls pulsed with light—yellow, red, and purple, casting a warm, almost hypnotic glow. The ship creaked and groaned around them, as if it were a living thing, stretching and shifting in its slumber.

People moved about the corridors, their steps sure and purposeful. Some were carrying out maintenance, while others were engaged in tasks she couldn’t quite identify, and frankly didn’t care enough about to really ponder. They all wore similar outfits—practical clothing suited for long journeys, though some bore more ornate details that hinted at rank or status. Many of them bore that strange emblem: the eye crowned by a leaping hound. Mags noticed that most of them paused as they passed, nodding respectfully to Rubicante before continuing on their way.

She couldn’t help but feel out of place. These people all moved about her with a professional efficiency, each fulfilling their purpose aboard this ship. And here she was, lost and confused, her mind still reeling from the events that had turned her world upside down. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into that strange bed, with the unfamiliar ceiling above it, and cry herself back to sleep.

Rubicante led her up a winding staircase that eventually opened up to the upper deck. As soon as they stepped onto it, Mags was hit by a rush of fresh air, cool and crisp against her skin. The sky was a pale shade of dusk, streaked with the first blushes of sunset, and the vastness of the sky stretched out before her like an endless canvas.

The upper deck was a flurry of activity. Crew members darted back and forth, checking ropes, adjusting sails, and tending to various pieces of equipment she couldn’t even begin to name. The ship was massive—at least a hundred feet long, with masts towering above them, each baring sails and jibs of various sizes. Mags felt a flutter of awe in her chest, despite the lingering pain. She didn’t see the skyfin, and realized that the ship wasn’t moving. We must be grounded then, she thought.

As they made their way across the deck, she struggled to keep track of just how many people were aboard. There had to be at least seventy counting the people they passed below deck, though it was hard to be sure.

Her attention was drawn to the quarterdeck, where a woman of no more than twenty or so years of age sat perched on a high-backed cushioned chair, overseeing the activity below with a casual air of authority. She was striking—thin and short, with pale skin and angular features that gave her a sharp, almost fae beauty. Her long, straight hair was a deep maroon, cascading over her shoulders like a river of blood.

But it was her eyes that truly captured Mags’s attention. They were a golden yellow, glowing faintly in the early morning light. The irises took up more of her eyes than usual, and even at Mags’ distance she noticed that the woman’s eyes were formed by concentric irises. The effect was unsettling. And despite the woman’s youthful appearance, her eyes carried the weight of ages. Those eyes found Mags as soon as she and Rubicante stepped onto the upper deck, locking onto her with an intensity that made her feel as though she were being seen for the very first time. She felt naked and exposed under the woman’s gaze.

Mags hesitated, unsure of what to do or say, but Rubicante continued forward, leading her closer to the woman on the quarterdeck. The air seemed to thrum with anticipation, and Mags could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Who was this woman? The woman hadn’t moved, her delicate chin still resting on a closed fist, her legs crossed in front of her. Yet, there was a power in her stillness, a quiet authority that made it clear she was in command here.

As they reached the base of the quarterdeck, Rubicante stopped and gestured for Mags to do the same. The woman’s golden eyes flicked to Rubicante, and a small, almost imperceptible smile curved her lips. Then, her gaze returned to Mags, and the smile grew ever so slightly, though it was far from comforting.

“Welcome aboard Skithbladnir,” the woman said, her voice smooth and lyrical, yet carrying an undercurrent of something much sharper. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, Miss...?” She trailed off, waiting for Mags to fill in the blank.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Mags swallowed, feeling the weight of those eyes on her. “Magdalena,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. “Most call me Mags.”

The woman nodded, as if that was all she needed to know. “Mags,” she repeated, her tone thoughtful. “You’ve had quite the ordeal, haven’t you? But don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

Safe. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Mags didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more frightened than ever.

The woman with the piercing golden eyes regarded Mags with an unsettling calm. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, as though she were weighing Mags’s very soul. She rose gracefully from her chair, the deep maroon of her hair catching the early morning light, and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

“I am Frey Sarto,” the woman said, her voice a soft melody that carried a note of unyielding authority. “Captain of this ship and leader of the Ghost Hounds.” Mags felt a shiver run down her spine at the title. Ghost Hounds. She was unfamiliar with that name, but the woman’s presence seemed to radiate an energy that made Mags feel as though she should have prostrated herself before the woman.

“Come with me,” Sarto said. She stood, turning away and gesturing for Mags to follow. Before she could even hesitate, Mags found her body tugged forward and moving, as though she were dragged on a leash. Rubicante, who had been silent this entire time, fell into step behind them, his presence a quiet shadow.

Sarto led them to the gunwall of the ship. The view from the quarterdeck was breathtaking in its scope, but Mags barely noticed. Her eyes were drawn to the landscape below—the hills sloping gently down toward Solstice, the olive groves swaying in the morning breeze, and beyond that, the town itself, still smoldering from the attack. A pang of guilt and desperation seized her heart.

“We have to go back,” Mags said, her voice strained with urgency. “I need to be there. I need to help the survivors.” She took a step toward the edge of the deck, her mind already racing with thoughts of what she could do, how she could make herself useful in the wake of the disaster.

But Sarto’s voice, calm and measured, stopped her in her tracks. “Watch,” she said, gesturing out to the horizon.

Mags turned reluctantly, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the distant landscape. At first, she saw nothing but the dark shapes of trees against the brightening sky. Then, slowly, the black figures emerged from the edge of the world, growing larger as they approached. Airships. Several of them, gliding through the sky with a silent grace.

The airships were large, multi-decked sailing vessels, each one crowned with a massive creature tethered above its masts like a balloon. Skyfins, their enormous, whale-like bodies undulating as they propelled the ships forward, swimming through the air as effortlessly as if it were water. The sight was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

Sarto offered Mags a spyglass, and Mags took it with trembling hands. She raised it to her eye, squinting as she tried to make out the details of the approaching fleet. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the colors flying from the masts—crimson fields with thirteen golden crowns grouped in the canton of the flags. The center of each flag bore two crossed swords encircled by a laurel wreath.

“The Crown Coalition,” Mags whispered, relief and a surge of hope flooding her chest. They had come. The Coalition had received the distress signal and had arrived to help the people of Solstice. It was too late to fend off the Maldrath, but they would be invaluable in the relief and recovery effort. Perhaps some of the townspeople had survived, and now there was a chance to save them.

But then, something else caught her eye. Beneath the Coalition flags flew another set of colors—a purple field with a golden skeleton, sword raised high in a stance of defiance. “Those flags...” she muttered.

Sarto’s voice cut through her thoughts, calm and unhurried. “Those ships belong to Major General Davin Astares.”

The name was familiar, infamous even. Major General Davin Astares was a name that carried a weight of dread across the Grand Duchy of Olendar and all other Olenish territories. Known for his ruthlessness, he was said to be as merciless as the blade of a guillotine. Tales of his battles on the Coalition Front—a bulwark against the incursion of the Maldrath from beyond the Green Sea—made their way through every pub and tavern. Even Pod Starim in the quiet little town of Solstice.

“I’m glad they’ve arrived,” Mags said, her voice tinged with the remnants of her earlier relief. “But I still need to help. There could be survivors. I can help put out fires, look for anyone who’s still alive—anything.”

Sarto remained silent for a moment, her golden eyes fixed on the distant fleet. Then she asked, her tone almost too casual, “Why are you so confident in the Coalition Forces?”

Mags frowned, confused. “They’re here to help, aren’t they?”

“Keep watching,” Sarto instructed, her voice softer now, almost gentle.

Mags obeyed, lifting the spyglass once more. A cold sense of dread coiled itself in the pits of her stomach. She watched as the airships descended toward the outskirts of Solstice, their hulking forms casting long shadows over the ruins of the town. The ships landed with a deliberate grace, and moments later, ranks of soldiers in Coalition uniforms began to march out, their movements disciplined and precise.

At first, Mags felt a surge of reassurance. These were the people who would save what was left of her town, who would bring aid and comfort to those who had survived the nightmarish attack.

But then she saw something that made her blood run cold. The soldiers, moving with systematic efficiency, began laying waste to the town. They weren’t helping the survivors—they were razing what was left of Solstice to the ground. Buildings that had miraculously survived the night were set ablaze, and any remaining structures were torn down, reduced to smoldering rubble. The olive groves were trampled underfoot, their centuries-old trees uprooted and burned. Innocent survivors were trampled and cut down in their tracks. The destruction was swift, brutal, and absolute.

Mags gasped, her hand trembling so violently that she nearly dropped the spyglass. “What are they doing?” she cried, her voice cracking with disbelief. “Why? Why are they doing this?”

Sarto didn’t answer immediately. Mags couldn’t bear to watch any longer. She lowered the spyglass, her heart pounding in her chest, and turned to the woman beside her, desperate for an explanation.

“Explain,” Mags demanded, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “What the hell is going on?”

Sarto’s expression softened into something almost sympathetic. She reached out and placed a hand on Mags’s shoulder, a gesture that was meant to be reassuring but only made Mags feel more unnerved. “I will explain everything,” Sarto said softly, her golden eyes holding Mags’ gaze with an intensity that made it clear that her entire world had been shattered in that moment, and there was no hope of picking up the pieces and putting it back together again.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags sat in the plush chair, the cushions cradling her as though to offer comfort from the relentless shock that pulsed through her veins. Her mind was a maelstrom of confusion and terror, barely tethered to reality as she tried to process what she had just witnessed. If it weren’t for the storm raging in her thoughts, she might have surrendered to the chair’s embrace and drifted into a restless sleep.

Frey Sarto sat across from her, her elbows propped up on a polished wooden desk, fingers steepled in front of her. The desk was a study in orderliness, each item placed with meticulous care. There wasn’t a speck of dust, not a paper out of place. In fact, the entirety of the Captain’s quarters were this way. The only thing that broke the starkness of the room was Sarto’s gaze—those unsettling golden eyes, focused on Mags with an intensity that made her feel like a specimen under a magnifying glass.

The silence between them was thick, oppressive. The events of the day looped through her mind on repeat: fragmented images of burning buildings, Coalition soldiers, and the sight of Solstice being razed to the ground by the very forces she had once believed would save it.

A sharp rap on the door broke the silence. Mags flinched, snapping out of her spiraling thoughts as the door creaked open. A man stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with a quiet intensity. He was tall, with tan skin and a strong jawline marred by pale scars that crossed his face—one above his left eye, cutting through part of his dark eyebrow, and another that started on his left cheek, slicing across his lips to the corner of his chin, giving his mouth an odd, permanent quirk. His eyes were a vivid red, striking against the roughness of his features, and his hair was a wild, spiky mess of lavender, an unusual color that Mags had never seen before.

The man was dressed in a simple linen shirt, the front unlaced to reveal a muscular chest, and loose trousers. He was barefoot, his steps soundless on the wooden floor, and on his right ring finger, he wore a silver ring with a sapphire-like stone set into it, glinting in the dim light.

“This is my Vice Captain, Malacoda,” Sarto said, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. “Malacoda, this is Magdalena.”

Malacoda’s lips curled into a cocky smile as he dipped his head in greeting. “Good to put a name to a face,” he said, his tone easy, almost playful. “Especially after the scene you caused in that little town.” His words carried an edge of amusement, but there was something else there too, something that made Mags’s skin crawl. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she was too dazed to ask. He took a seat in the chair next to hers.

She turned back to Frey, her voice hollow as she asked the question that had been burning in her mind since she saw the Coalition forces turn their weapons on Solstice. “What’s going on?”

Frey leaned back in her chair, her fingers still steepled, and regarded Mags with a look that was almost pitying. “Three Angels appeared in Solstice,” she said calmly.

Mags’s breath caught in her throat. “Three?” The memory of the Angels’ attack on Solstice was still fresh, the terror of those moments seared into her mind. She had only seen two—one monstrous, equine beast, and the other with the infant-faced mask, no less horrifying than the first. She must have lost consciousness before the third Angel had appeared.

Frey’s expression remained impassive. “Yes. Three.”

Mags’ mind spun, trying to piece together the fragments of her memory, but she kept coming back to the same question. “Why did the Coalition forces . . . Why did they do that?” The images of the soldiers methodically razing the town made her stomach churn. “Why did they destroy Solstice?”

“The Empire and the Coalition cannot afford to let news of the Angels get out,” Frey explained, her tone disturbingly casual. “The truth is, they have little control over the situation. The Coalition is barely holding back the Maldrath that come from beyond the Green Sea and from the Deeps, but the Angels? They have no way to stop them, no way to predict their appearance. An Angel hasn’t been seen west of Calmarsh until Solstice.”

Calmarsh. The thought of the town made her skin crawl as dark memories clawed at the periphery of her mind. The encroaching memories were overshadowed by the realization triggered by Sarto’s words. Mags’s thoughts turned to the warding stones that were installed in every human settlement in Olendar. The beacons that had been meant to warn the townsfolk of an impending Maldrath attack, to give them time to flee or prepare for defense. But now, with a sinking realization, she understood their true purpose. They weren’t warnings for us, Mags thought. The revelation sank in like a stone in her gut. They’re signals. For the empire . . . the Coalition. A marker of evidence that needs to be destroyed.

Frey’s silence confirmed the truth. The reality of it hit Mags like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her. Her entire life, she had trusted in the Empire’s protection, in the Coalition’s strength. And now, she realized it had all been a lie, a carefully constructed illusion to maintain control at the cost of innocent lives.

“Why am I here?” Mags asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you bring me on your ship?”

Frey’s golden eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you remember from the attack?”

Mags hesitated, forcing herself to think back to those final, chaotic moments. The orphanage had been struck by the equine Angel’s beam, the bleeding pain in her fingers as she searched through the rubble for Dunja and the others. She remembered the masked Angel’s hand reaching towards her, the flash of its attack, the searing pain that shot through her body...

Her legs throbbed with a sudden, phantom pain, and she looked down, almost expecting to see them mangled or missing altogether. But they were whole, unharmed. Confusion and fear twisted inside her as she raised her gaze to Sarto, the Captain’s stoic smile unsettling in its calmness. “What happened to me?” Mags asked, her voice trembling.

“You died,” Frey said bluntly. “During the Maldrath attack. But as Fate would have it, you were reborn and given a second chance at life.” She paused, her eyes studying Mags intently. “Did you have any strange items on your person when you were attacked by the Angel?”

Mags’ thoughts immediately went to the mysterious egg she had recovered from the Deep, but she said nothing, her mind too overwhelmed to piece together the significance.

Frey Sarto continued, undeterred by Mags’ silence. “A vestige of an Angel was born within your heart. You have been reborn as a Maldrath. What you were before . . . entirely too human . . . has been left behind like a husk. You are something else now, Magdalena. But what, I am still trying to discern.”

Mags felt the floor drop out from beneath her as the words sank in. Reborn? As one of the Maldrath? The memories of the attack flooded back into her mind, the terror, the pain... and then, like a key unlocking a door, the realization hit her with devastating clarity.

She. She was the third Angel.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart racing as the truth settled in her chest like a lead weight. Her chest suddenly hurt. Malacoda scratched at his chin, looking drowsy and entirely unphased by the revelation.

Sarto’s voice was steady, almost gentle. “As a Soulsinger and head of an Imperial-sanctioned Company, my job is to destroy Maldrath. Your very existence has sentenced you to death, Magdalena.”

Mags stared at the woman, her mind unable to process the gravity of the situation. “Then why am I here? Why am I still alive?” she asked, her voice shaking. “What do you want from me?”

Frey’s lips curved into a smile, but there was nothing warm about it. “I want to destroy the Ravaelian Empire.”

END OF ARC 1.