The night was ripe for an escape. It was the kind of night when silence seemed deeper, engulfing every breath. Midnight strained her ears in the dark, but her rushing blood was a hurricane. After the too-many moments it took to quieten her heart, she listened.

A drip is all that sounded in the cave.

***

‘That’s the way, hold it steady,’ Hops said.

Midnight struggled to keep her bow from wavering. Her hands trembled as she pulled the drawstring. An arrow was not even nocked, as she was still practicing basic handling.

‘Use your shoulders, and breathe.’

She inhaled and pulled. The tension proved too much. She lost grip on the string and the fabric slapped against her skin. The bow clattered to the ground as Midnight clutched her burning wrist.

Hops rushed over. ‘Let me see it,’ he said. He inspected the wound. He set a heavy rucksack on the ground and procured a length of cloth. As he did, Midnight spotted a strange powder in the bag.

The old man closed the pack and tightened the leather strip around her right forearm. ‘You’ll need this.’

Midnight rubbed at the stinging spot, but nodded and picked up her bow.

***

Midnight crept through endless tunnels. Hollows she had spent uncountable time memorising. This was it. She held onto her makeshift bow like a compass. It was her solution. The result of her sweat and blood and time and tears. Midnight wished she could express her gratitude to Hops for releasing it, allowing her to let it sing.

She made her way relatively freely through the caverns. Fewer Heartless around. Less movement. Slaves retired to their quarters. That’s how she knew the day was over, though she could not see the sun. Oh, how long had it been since she’d tasted its warmth?

But in this heartbeat, she welcomed the quiet shadows in this darkened night. They shielded her. She took this silence and this darkness and made them her own.

A dream of light pushed her onwards.

***

‘Now, you’ll need to learn how to meet a mark,’ Hops said.

Midnight held her three arrows. She thought of Thìr and his story and his smile. It was all she could muster. She held on to the hope that they would not need be used. But if it came to it, Midnight could not hesitate.

‘Looks like you’ve only got three arrowheads. A bit of a shame, but it’ll have to do. At least we have a few spare shafts to practice with.’

Hops paced around her chamber, setting up several rough, wooden targets on the walls. The solitary torch nestled in the room cast long silhouettes which hugged the angular shapes around her.

‘Visibility will not be great. Very few places here afford more than a few torches. And you want to avoid those areas anyway if you want to remain unseen. But, this means you’ll have to learn to shoot in low light.’

The old man hopped over to her and guided her arms through the process of nocking an arrow.

‘Focus on the point,’ he said, as he adjusted her grip. ‘And keep the stock straight and steady.’

Midnight shifted her position.

‘Line up your arrowhead and the target, then breathe and pull.’

She eyed the wooden piece on the wall and drew the arrow back. It felt like she pulled into familiar, long-forgotten motions.

She freed the arrow. It clinked sharply against the stone wall, a few inches from her target. The wall did not give way.

Midnight frowned.

She tried again.

The arrow loosed and planted itself in the wood with a thwack.

Midnight allowed herself a crescent smile. She would make the whole mountain part before her.

***

Midnight sidled along a wall, keeping low. Through openings above her she could see into the low-lit work area of the Machines. Soft, bright shafts leaked into the cavern from somewhere high up—what might have been strained moonlight.

Midnight told herself that before the night was over, she would touch them. She would sate the longing of her skin for air and light.

The machines themselves lay dormant, unattended. There was no debris left uncleared, nothing to mark the spot where her heart had broken. Only cold, unfeeling giants gazing out over unyielding rock.

She knew she had to descend to the area eventually. The intriguing service tunnel she suspected of being the exit lay that way. She braced herself and kept going.

Suddenly, scraping and scratching tore the eerie silence. A sound like the dragging of metal on rock. Midnight had heard it several times but had never known what caused it. She did not wish to find out now.

It drew closer. She could feel it through the walls.

Midnight rose and hopped swiftly toward the end of the tunnel, away from the noise.

Her foot met stone, and she lunged forward. Midnight tripped and felt nothing beneath her but empty air.

A fall in the dark disoriented her.

***

‘One of the perks of being so old here,’ Hops said with a wink, ‘is that you get to know your way around the place.’

Midnight and Hops stepped lightly and slowly through tunnels and passes overlooking the main expanse of the mountain’s heart. Hidden, they moved above the watching flames, in discord and defiance to the droning of the workers and the Heartless.

‘You get to learn each twist and turn. How to get between places unseen.’ He turned to her and gripped her shoulders. ‘You’ve done well so far. But you’ll need to learn to become the shadows. Beat as one with the mountain.’

Midnight went to step forward, but Hops grabbed her arm and pulled her back. He pointed beneath her feet, where the rock had given way into a dark opening.

‘The tunnels are treacherous. If it comes to it, you’ll need to improvise. If something goes wrong…’

***

Midnight felt blood.

Not heeding the wound for now, she instinctively scampered for a dark corner as the scraping above her faded. Midnight let out a breath. She looked up. She had fallen several feet but the lurching sensation had terrified her more than the fall.

Midnight quickly checked her provisions. The bow had not broken, thankfully. Her arrows were unscathed. When she could no longer ignore the burning in her leg, she touched at the wound. She winced as she noticed her thigh was bleeding.

Midnight pounded the ground and silently cursed her negligence. She reached for her provision pack—Hops’ gift—when panic gripped her. The pack was missing.

She squinted, poring over the area where she had landed, trying to spot the bag. She could see only blackness.

Then she heard soft chatter and footsteps.

A flame flickered nearby.

***

‘You’re nearly ready, girl,’ the old man said as he watched her leap from stone to stone, unleashing arrows. Each one met its mark.

Midnight jumped down, satisfied. For once, she was taken by a welcome exhaustion, an aching that assured her she achieved something.

‘I have taught you all I can,’ Hops said as Midnight settled. ‘From here, you’ll be carried by strength of will. But, I do have one final gift.’ He stepped forward and held out a worn leather pack. Midnight accepted it as if it were a crown of gold. Hops had already done so much for her.

‘It’s not much. But I’ve placed a waterskin, a few rations, and spare cloth and shafts inside. You’ll need it if you are to think of the journey ahead.’

Midnight inspected the components and then closed the pack tightly.

‘You will need to give thought to where you are going once you leave this mountain. I don’t know where you came from. But I pray you will find your way home. And I pray you find your name.’

Midnight embraced the old man.

‘Oh, please, you will topple me. Remember my leg,’ he said with a chuckle. Midnight drew back.

‘Look,’ he said sternly. ‘Even this first step is dangerous. Know that there are places in this mountain I have not seen. I can only guide you so far. I fear you will have to push through dark depths before you see the light at the end.’

***

The Heartless patrol was near. At least two of them, judging by their voices. Midnight crouched and shrunk farther in. The wound in her leg complained.

Fortunately, the guards had split at an intersection. Only one Heartless was headed past her. From her recess in the wall, Midnight could see the tunnel grow brighter. She spotted Hops’ pack on the ground. It was in the guard’s path.

She stalked the Heartless as he approached, matching her footsteps to his casual gait. He began whistling. The tune echoed in the cave, unfairly free of bitterness.

Midnight prepared the bow.

The song stopped when the guard kicked the bag. He looked down.

Midnight slowly nocked an arrow. She pulled the drawstring. The air tensed around her fingers.

The Heartless picked up the discarded package, inspecting it by torchlight.

Then Midnight rose out of shadow, like a predator out of still waters. She did not make a sound. She did not disturb the silence with her breath.

The Heartless turned, as if by instinct. His frightened eyes did not see a slave. They did not meet weakness. They did not meet mercy.

The arrow twanged. A heartbeat later it lodged itself in the guard’s throat. He fell down gurgling, still holding on to torch and pack.

One.

Midnight let out a whimper as her muscles relaxed. But she could not dwell on what she had done. She moved over to the guard and dragged his stiff and lifeless body toward the wall. Stashing it near the alcove she had taken cover in, she took back Hops’ bag.

Then she collapsed by the stone, feeling cold. The cut in her leg needed tending. She rummaged through the pack and brought out a strip of cloth. Perhaps she had not felt it during the tension, but her thigh seemed to bleed more profusely.

She could not stop here. Midnight knew that.

Suddenly, as if dredged up from some hidden recess of her mind, she saw what to do. A makeshift bandage would not be enough.

Midnight picked up an arrow, and snatched the torch from the fallen guard’s hand.

She held the arrowhead to the flame.

As the iron heated, she reached into the pack and took out a spare wooden shaft. She bit into it as she prepared her mind and her body. She peeled back the bloodied fold of her tunic.

Then touched the metal to her flesh.

This was improvising.

Agonising moments later, still blinking back tears and choking out a cry, Midnight tied her closed wound with the cloth. She rose, breathing heavily but determined to press on.

Taking a few cautious steps out, Midnight examined her surroundings. This tunnel was not familiar. She braved out farther, hugging the wall, darting between dark patches.

As she ventured further into an unknown area, a stench suddenly filled the air. The wall she had been touching as a guide gave way to a low balustrade carved out of the rock. Beyond it, a lower area stretched out into the darkness. Faintly, she could make out large, slumbering shapes. Huge, fur-covered beasts were splayed throughout the enclosure.

Midnight shivered, repelled more by the purpose of these creatures than their odour. This was how the Heartless planned to give life and motion to the machines.

More footsteps ahead spurred Midnight’s mind to action. Their tapping ticked like a clock. She had to move. She thought quickly and held her breath.

A drop to the level below was the only way forward.

***

Midnight and Hops stood anxiously together as the work day was winding down. Slaves returned to their quarters under the guarded eyes of Heartless. Midnight began pacing her chamber restlessly. Hops spied from the entrance.

A full watch later, Midnight had traced the same pattern a hundred times. ‘It’s time,’ Hops said suddenly, motioning to her. ‘Come.’

She sprung to the door, weapons and supplies ready.

‘There is no turning now,’ the old man said, taking her hand and walking out into the tunnels. ‘Tonight… you go.’

Midnight froze in her tracks.

Hops turned to her. His eyes were warm and grey. Caring, but spent. Midnight only now truly noticed how old he was. Broken by a life—if it could be called that—of pain.

‘You must go, Midnight,’ he wheezed. ‘Do not worry about me. I’ve lived my life. I am old. If I die knowing I helped you leave this place… so much the better.’

She clutched his arm.

Why must her heart keep breaking?

‘No, Midnight. I will do what I can, distracting the guards. The area outside of the Machines is heavily watched.’

She stood unmoving, unwilling to go on.

Why must it come to this?

‘Please,’ he said, more forcefully than she had ever heard him speak. ‘Go. I will only slow you down. Please, let me have this.’

First Thìr, the only one who smiled. Now Hops, the only one who cared.

Midnight tore herself away from the old man and dashed down the dark tunnel alone.

Why was this the price she had to pay?

***

Midnight snuck through a den of beasts. Their true size was surely obscured by their slumbering forms. But even so, the mounds of fur were far taller than her. Tusks longer than she had seen on any desert creatures bobbed up and down as the beasts slept. They were deadly weapons themselves.

She dared not breathe as she made her way along the dirty stone, waiting for the wandering beacons to disappear from sight. Above her, three guards passed on the walkway she had stood on. She hoped they would not find the body she had left behind.

Midnight pressed on. The air was filled with the smell of beast and food and waste. A single idea drove her down here and pushed her onward. She reasoned she was near to the Machines, perhaps even adjacent to it. The beasts needed ease of access to the contraptions they were to pull, so this enclosure should lead to the main cavern.

In spite of the distracting smell, Midnight marvelled how sharp her mind was. She did not know whether this awakening was brought on by what she had done or by the blooming dream of escape. She wondered how she had endured years in the mountain’s clutches.

The walls became narrower as Midnight reached the den’s end. As she feared, a massive gate blocked access to the rest of the complex. This one, built for beasts, would not budge. But nearby, she spotted a smaller gate, perhaps intended for the caretakers who would enter to feed the creatures.

On the other side, a guard stood watch.

Midnight jumped back behind the body of an animal, wary not to disturb its sleep. Braving another glance, she noticed the guard was facing away. But the path between her spot and the gate was free of cover and more brightly lit. She could not risk approaching him.

Midnight drew a second arrow.

She took in the guard’s surroundings more carefully. She could see no one else keeping watch nearby.

She leant out, drawing the arrow tight.

The guard stood at least forty paces away. But nothing, no gate nor guard, could bar her way.

Midnight locked her eyes on target, and released.

The arrow flew, a silent bringer of death pouncing on the unaware. The guard crumpled to the floor, an arrow piercing his neck. He thrashed briefly and then gave out.

Two.

Midnight hurried through the exposed portion of the den to the exit. Slowly, she unlatched the gate. The metal bars let out the slightest creak before she slipped through.

On the other side, Midnight secreted the Heartless corpse behind a pillar, away from the watchful flame of torches. She followed the walkway set out beside a large passage decked with a makeshift wall of wooden logs and spikes.

Midnight’s intuition had proven right. Ahead, the cavern opened up into cold, colossal emptiness. A dozen different walkways led out into darkness. Pinpricks of light decorated the distant reaches of the cavern where the Machines themselves were housed.

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Then Midnight spotted the guards and her breath was cut short. A sizeable troop of Heartless paced sporadically. Others lazed about, enjoyed chatter or a drink. Every passage was covered. Every exit.

She retreated behind an exposed boulder. Clutching her weapon to her breast, Midnight stifled a groan. She could go no farther. Not on her own.

She rested her head against the stone and sighed. Her eyes took in the immensity of the complex from which she had emerged. Looking up, she saw countless openings and holes—some of which functioned as windows, others as entryways to other levels.

And then she spotted movement somewhere far above her. By an opening, a figure took up position. It was not a Heartless. A torch flicked to life.

‘Damn you!’ he cried out. ‘Damn you all!’

It was Hops.

At his cry, the guards drew their attention upwards.

And then it began to rain fire.

Midnight watched from behind cover as the old man threw down firebombs. She caught glimpses of bundled cloths descending, each with a flaming wick. They exploded on contact with the stone.

Men cried out. Some from pain, others from anger. Loud booms shook the mountain’s foundation. Chunks of rock flew up wildly. Bridges collapsed and passageways crumbled into dark depths. Midnight heard the fading screams of falling men.

She looked on as more guards poured out of openings like roused ants. They marched into the lowest tunnel, keeping to cover as more fire drizzled down.

‘Do you taste it?’ Hops yelled out from his vantage point. ‘Do you feel the fear? Damn you!’

Midnight’s ears were ringing when the firestorm ended. The platoon of Heartless took their cue and rushed out, splitting up into groups and taking various passages upward. Their footfalls receded as they entered the stone complex. They would surely find the old man, who was now defenceless. And then?

She did not want to think about it. And when she peeked over the boulder, Midnight saw nothing but burning debris and crumbled rock. The Machines were cast in eerie light as the remnants of flame flickered and died.

But the way was clear.

Midnight did not waste a breath. She sprinted out, heading for a bridge which had been left intact. She rushed through chaos and craters, hoping that the smoke would keep any Heartless left nearby blind.

She ran across, over an abyss, trying to run from tears she could not hold back.

On the other side, Midnight spotted the tunnel she had noticed once when working here. It felt like countless days had passed since then. But here she stood, the high-ceilinged passage unfolding before her. She ran.

Then a lone guard stepped out from a side-chamber. Midnight dashed away in time to take cover in a shadowed cleft.

She breathed heavily as the steps drew closer. She grasped her final arrow. Her final hope.

Composing herself, she set arrow to string. Counting down another moment, she sidestepped out. The Heartless gazed at the point aimed at him and froze.

Midnight let go.

But the arrow never sailed.

In that instant, the bowstring tore and the stock snapped. The shredding of the weapon rang louder in Midnight’s mind than any firebomb.

Colour returned to the guard’s face as the pieces fell around her. Midnight’s hands stung. Her shoulders ached. She numbly caught the arrowhead, having come loose of its shaft.

The Heartless laughed. Shrill and proud.

He took a step toward her. ‘This is what you get, you—’

Midnight thrust the arrowhead into his neck. She first took his voice for having taken hers.

She struck again. She poured out all her pain and struck with the weight of all her suffering.

Again. For Thìr.

Again. For Hops.

Again. For freedom.

The guard dropped in a shower of red.

Three.

The bloodied arrowhead fell with a clatter. Midnight stared at her scarlet hands.

Slowly, shaking, she moved.

She was so close.

So close to the singing sun and the glinting lake.

A step away.

***

‘What is your name?’

Silence.

‘What are you called?’

Nothing.

‘Well, we can’t have that! You’re as pretty as the midnight moon!’

Midnight.

‘That’s a good name, don’t you think, Midnight?’

***

Midnight dragged herself onward. Drained. Dreaming.

She saw herself bathing in light. She imagined herself drinking from clear rivers. She thought of herself dancing on warm sands.

She dreamt of her name being spoken once more, clear as moonlight.

But all she heard was a screech, like scraping glass. Like the dragging of metal on rock.

Midnight looked up, bleary.

A shadow darkened her path.

And all her dreams shattered to pieces, scattered in the unforgiving dark.

The ominous figure looked on wordlessly.

Midnight stumbled back, landing next to the fallen guard. As her hand felt around helplessly, she happened on the dead man’s sword. She gripped it.

Midnight sprang suddenly, fuelled by madness and memory. She rushed at the figure. The onlooker, unperturbed, swung his terrible blade. Effortlessly, he knocked the sword out of her hands. Then he spun, closing the distance and brought the hilt of his scythe to her face.

Midnight fell.

A silent scream was all she could conjure, a sound that would not leave her throat.

***

My heart to yours. We’ll stay together and fly free.

***

Midnight was nowhere. Enclosed by darkness. She could not see, could not move.

Footsteps punctured the silence.

‘The boy.’ A voice spoke, a sound like night itself.

Another step.

‘The old man.’

The figure halted. A light sparked to life. Midnight squinted, barely making out a dark blue cloak. The light rose to the figure’s face. Vicious red eyes glared at her.

‘You don’t think I noticed how they clung to you?’ The voice came from behind a leather half-mask.

With his other hand, the figure placed his weapon on the ground. The scythe clacked heavily. Midnight saw it properly now. It was a tool she had once known for harvest, now fashioned for death. The snath was of black steel, with a leather grip around its midsection. The angular blade caught the light ferociously, highlighting its engravings and its gleaming edge.

‘I am Remeriel, if you care for names. Would you share yours?’

Midnight stiffened. Remeriel chuckled.

‘Maybe you think Shurun’el has been the one keeping watch on you. After all, he’s had his way with you. But he doesn’t see that well these days, as you might expect.’ Remeriel let out more soft laughter, pleased with his own dark humour. ‘No. I am the one who watches.’

The man brought his face closer to her. Midnight jumped. ‘And you are a danger. For where one bright soul lingers, there hope festers.’ His words were spiteful and poisonous.

Remeriel shifted. He brought his weapon up, close to her lip. Midnight could feel its cold edge. Then he applied pressure. A ribbon of blood weaved its path down her chin.

‘Here you will remain,’ Remeriel said. ‘Here you will spend your days in darkness and in dread.’

The weapon pulled away as Midnight bled. She almost welcomed the warm relief.

Remeriel changed stance again. The scythe-blade pointed down. The man then threw his torch to the side. The flame clattered next to a hunched figure, bound and gagged.

Hops.

‘Here you will dwell. In doubt and despair.’

The weapon scraped the earth. Haunting. Thirsting. Its music was an elegy.

‘Until your death.’

Midnight thrashed against her bonds. The old man had no chance to speak or to cry out. The weapon slashed, cutting silence and flesh, spilling blood.

The tapestry in her mind came loose at last. Every thread ripped. All she heard was shattering, like the breaking of pottery. Over and over. The pointless prod of a needle. Colours fell apart. Here there was only night. Dawn did not exist.

There was nothing Midnight could do to save him. Or anyone.

She could not say a word.

More than anything, she wanted a chance. She wanted a way.

And yet her hope was now buried in the black. Midnight shivered. The utter dreamless dark swept in like an avalanche,

She hoped this was a nightmare. She hoped this was untrue.

But she was awake.

* * *

The rose gardens of Sheneh-Adrani glistered after rain. Drenched, the flowers sparkled with the sheen of countless settled shards of glass. A white sun broke through the overhanging grey, burning away fog and dying drizzle.

And in this crystal light, the assassin stepped in blood.

A body lay facedown beside the mass of colour, trailing its own brilliant scarlet line. As if the man had tried to get away from something before his life gave out.

Umariel rushed over, instincts suddenly alert, and inspected the body. It was fresh, fallen less than a watch ago, and the man’s attired mark him as one of their own. Slashes in the clothing indicated repeated blade wounds, but they were strangely arrayed. The man seemed cut at random, with no vital spots stricken.

And overpowering the crisp scent of recent rain, Umariel could smell burning.

Umariel jumped and drew out his daggers. His eyes flashed over the area, but he spotted nothing. His mind ran a dozen scenarios which could have led to this outcome. But what invader would be capable of this? The islands of Sheneh-Adrani were hidden, an undiscovered gem of the sea to the wider world.

Unless…

Umariel dashed, following the fallen man’s trail of blood. Rounding the hedges and beds of roses, he emerged on the beach. Three other bodies lay about in the sand, one still writhing.

But he did not care for them, for in their midst, Riri cowered.

Shaken.

Umariel sheathed his weapons and ran toward the scene. The air smelled of smoke. He started sweating. As if he had stepped into a pocket of drought untouched by the storm.

‘Riri!’ he yelled. The girl did not look up. The men around her lay prone, singed and cut. She had not even drawn her blade. She sat there, arms wrapped around her knees, face drawn into her hood.

‘Riri,’ he called again, disregarding the death around him. She lifted her head and looked at him. Her black and red hood fell back, and her face shone like the sun piercing through the weight of a grey day. In her eyes, Umariel beheld such broken beauty that he was taken aback.

Air and wind returned, and Umariel could breathe again. Riri’s hair came loose once more, tussled by the breeze. He rushed in and embraced her. She buried her face in his chest, fitting snugly as a blade in its sheath. Umariel feared being consumed himself, but he held on.

‘Riri, it’s me,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’ She started sobbing.

He remembered a day not long ago, holding a scared, shaken girl while everything around her fell to flame and steel. And here she was now, a woman. Still broken, still haunted.

It’s lonely when there’s no one left to fight, isn’t it?

‘Umar,’ she whimpered, ‘I… I killed…’

He held on tighter as she broke into heavier sobs and unintelligible murmurs. Umariel let her sink into his arms, whispering her name over and over.

You just want it to be over, don’t you?

Just then, waves broke loudly out at sea. Umariel glanced over and saw a ship treading rough water. The Moonbreaker’s weathered prow cut triumphantly through the surf as it prepared to dock. A sole figure on board heaved at the wheel, sails snapping and rigging groaning around him. The vessel threw up plumes as it fought the tide and made for land. The captain stood in defiant command against wind and waves.

Despreaux Monaré the Seastrider, Lord of Oceans, had returned.

As the ship made port, Umariel helped Frìriël to stand. She rose slowly. He held her shaking hand and they both watched their master’s vessel with anticipation. The Moonbreaker’s crusted hull made it look like a relic from a bygone age. The wood was old, carrying build-up of coral and sea debris. Ragged sailcloth hung from the ship’s three masts, telling of dangerous travels at sea. The tenacious vessel was worn, as if it sailed in perpetual tempest. But Umariel knew the horrid strength of this ship.

The gangplank came down with a creak. Heavy boots tromped against the wood.

Even from a distance, Umariel could sense a shift in the air. The captain manifested the same dark majesty as his vessel. The energy of the sea itself was wreathed around him somehow.

The man’s cloak cracked like a whip in the wind. He adjusted his hat with a gloved hand, his other hoisting a large halberd with a golden gauntlet.

Lord Despreaux approached. His clothing was loose, blowing about like waves on the surface of a darkened sea. But his fiery gaze was steady, burning eyes piercing all he looked at. A craggy beard hung rigidly and reached down to his exposed chest. Umariel had always found his master’s visage unnerving, and could never look at him long.

He stopped a few feet away from them, dirty boots crunching in the sand.

‘My lord,’ Umariel said. He released Frìriël’s hand and bowed. She wiped her eyes and followed suit.

The captain looked around, tapping gauntleted fingers on the steel frame of his weapon. He eyed the dead men blankly. He noted the splinters of glass burned into the sand. He understood.

Then his eyes fell to the one still moving, gasping and grasping for life. ‘Finish it,’ he said to Umar.

The assassin fell into step. He knelt. Drawing a dagger, he pressed the slender blade against the man’s throat. The victim squirmed and sputtered, but Umar held. Then came the sweet and hollow silence. He stood.

‘This is the strength you will need,’ the captain said. ‘A heartless will to do what you must.’ He pointed to the bodies. ‘They did not know their place. I am proud you know yours.’

Umariel found his lord’s voice weightier than the kill. It resonated like deep water, coming from within him, filling his lungs.

The captain turned to go.

‘Why did you go out there?’ Riri suddenly asked.

‘Riri,’ Umar hissed under his breath.

‘…my lord,’ she added.

‘To find guidance,’ the captain said simply.

‘And did you?’

A smirk appeared on Despreaux’s face, like a crack in a cliff weathered by water. ‘I saw the end of an era, and the beginning of a new one. Before this is all over, you shall have a part to play.’

Riri walked forward, brushing past Umariel’s shoulder and clasping his hand. ‘Not without him.’

‘I see fire and shadow have mingled at last,’ Despreaux said.

Umariel gasped, ashamed.

The captain looked to him, seeming… pleased? ‘Do not think I was unaware. Long have you burned for her with desire. And long have you loomed in her thoughts. This is good. You will be all the stronger for it.’

Frìriël stomped her feet. ‘If it makes you so happy, then why are you so gloomy? Something is bothering you, captain.’

‘Do not take the end of an era lightly, my dear. I knew it would come to this, and you would depart. You fear I care not for you. You fear I have no regard for the future. But you are my fire’—then he nodded to Umariel—‘and my shadow. I’m a man of my word. You will have enemies to fight. Then you will be free of my services. Free to pursue what life you want in Anardes. Chase your own song in the new world with Umariel by your side.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Umariel said, bowing.

Riri turned to him, a fragment of a smile playing about her face. She beamed even as she struggled with the terror of who she was. ‘Do you hear that, Umar?’ She tugged on his arm playfully.

‘Now come,’ said Despreaux. ‘You are to set out shortly. The Dragon’s Eye calls, where the next step in the breaking of the song is to be put in place.’

The captain started toward the island’s heart, ignoring the mess on the beachfront. Umariel followed, walking with Riri by his side and the flicker of something he had never felt before beating in his chest.

Hope.

* * *

Sanah’ël hated long rides over water. There had been nothing interesting to look at since leaving Taeladran. And here she was, stranded on a rickety chunk of wood, piloted by a seedy, unsavoury fellow, heading toward the most undesirable location in the Lower Realm.

She kept her jacket open—despite the wind—so the boat driver could see her sword. Sanah’ël hoped the weapon, coupled with her fiercest scowl, would prevent any unwholesome ideas taking root in the sailor’s head. The hunched, balding man rowed on through endless grey water, nothing but spit coming out of his mouth.

At least the silence was enjoyable. She had the time and space to think. Adrift, Sanah’ël sank into a sea of remembrance.

***

Sanah took her first step in the sky. She had broken through clouds moments before and reached an impossible land. Far above her lowly station, far beyond her loneliness, far from the clutches of poverty and grime. The life she and her brother knew seemed no more.

Sanah had accepted the hand of a stranger, years ago, on the promise of something better. And here she realised her benefactor had fulfilled their word. Her brother had opted for a different path, under the care of powerful folk in the mountain. She did not know much else, only that he was content with his access to pleasures heretofore unknown and unattainable.

But here, standing above the heights of everything she imagined and faced with a land awash in sunlight, Sanah knew she made the right choice.

‘Are you just going to sit there and gape?’ her guide asked, ‘As much as I understand your admiration of my skills, we need to be moving.’

Her guide was an attractive young man who had driven her here in a baffling contraption. She could not remember much of the journey, only that they somehow rode the winds themselves. Sanah had had her eyes closed for most of it, sickened by a feeling of weightlessness and a realisation of their altitude.

The guide signalled with his hand and smiled. He had lively, violet eyes from another world. And he smiled far too often. She had never seen such frivolity and happiness. She followed him, stepping on solid stone, barely able to tell the ground beneath her feet was suspended thousands of feet in the air.

Everything here was just as below, only… clearer. The air was fresher, the day was brighter, and the mountains more filled with colour. Even the white city that rose ahead appeared cleaner, the towers of its smooth, stone castle scraping at the sky. Proud and secure at the top of the world.

‘Welcome to Aseladran,’ the man said, striding confidently. ‘It may take mere moments to grow accustomed to this land’s beauty, but please, I know it will take a lifetime for yours truly to cease dazzling you.’

‘What?’ she said, barely focusing on his words and taking in her surroundings.

The man turned. ‘I, of course, am speaking of the main attraction,’ he said, arms out.

‘What is your name?’ she asked, unimpressed.

‘Nathariel, but you can call me—’

‘Nathariel, are you always this ridiculous?’

‘No. Only on days when the sky is blue.’

Sanah glared at him.

‘Alright, let me at least offer to take your belongings and show you to your new quarters.’

He went to reach for her satchel. She drew back and tightened her grip on it. All she owned in this world.

‘So that’s a “no” to chivalry, then.’

‘Pardon me for not being entirely taken with someone who doesn’t seem to approach anything seriously.’

Nathariel’s face darkened. ‘You’re not… very trusting, are you… ah?’ The man made a vague gesture.

‘Sanah,’ she said finally. ‘My name is Sanah.’ She sighed and relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, old habits.’ She held out her belongings.

‘Good,’ Nathariel said. He smiled and grabbed hold of her satchel. ‘Come along. Lady Isila is eager to meet you. And I’m sure you’re going to love your lodgings.’

***

Days passed more pleasantly in Aseladran. Sanah could truly sleep here in luxury and peace. Gone were nights spent only half-asleep in tatters and on edge. Sanah woke softly in her new home draped in blankets and light. Gone were mornings where she started awake in rags, driven by danger and shadow. Even old dreams had trouble haunting Sanah here, so distant from where she had once been. It was perfect.

Almost. There was but one hitch.

Nothing spoiled a morning more than Rubiël’s pretty face.

On this particular morning, Sanah was exploring the hallways of Aseladran’s castle. She was fascinated by the culture of a people separated from the mainland. Art and architecture had developed differently over hundreds of years spent apart, though tinged with whispers of the history once shared.

Sanah was inspecting a depiction of a warrior astride a winged creature whose shadow split into three. The figure seemed to envelop the canvas in wreathing darkness.

‘You can’t take that,’ Rubiël called out in her annoyingly melodious tone.

Sanah startled and turned. Rubiël watched her calmly, arms folded. Her flawless gaze made Sanah feel small, as if the woman before her could see her every imperfection.

‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, Rubi,’ Sanah said, feigning confidence.

‘Why are you even here, beggar?’

‘I was just looking—’

‘No. Why are you here at all?’ Rubiël sharpened her words.

In her pettier moments, Sanah wished she had some leverage against Rubiël, a knife to get under the woman’s skin. But she could do nothing against her cuts.

‘The other Lords only take on two. So why were you thrown in?’

Sanah steeled herself. ‘I am just as much a member of the Order as you and Nathariel.’

‘That is not true,’ she said coolly, as if deflecting her attempt at a blow. ‘Lady Isila’s pity will not take you far. You are nameless. Not even bestowed a weapon.’

Sanah clenched her fists. Rubiël sensed it. Her hand lowered ever slightly to the pommel of her sabre. Sanah stepped away from the painting and faced down the woman, drawing on some hidden strength. She had had enough being looked down upon in her poverty.

‘Look, girls, I made food!’ Nathariel burst out, appearing from behind a pillar. He was holding a cake and smiling. Sanah did not know whether to laugh or to strike him.

‘What are you doing, you fool?’ Rubiël asked.

‘I believe a morsel is the best reliever of tension,’ he said as he broke off a piece and stuffed it into his mouth.

The two women simply looked on blankly.

‘Besides,’ he began, licking his fingers, ‘what does it matter how many apprentices each Lord employs? Despreaux hasn’t chosen a second yet. But even so, Sanah doesn’t belong there. She couldn’t stomach living out at sea.’

‘Right now, I can’t stomach your cooking, Nathariel,’ Sanah said and stomped off down the hallway. Rubiël walked away in the opposite direction, her heels clacking loudly on the marble.

Sanah turned a corner, stewing, and nearly ran into Lady Isila. The Lady did not break composure as Sanah bowed hurriedly.

‘Walk with me.’

***

Lady Isila held out two items. A short sword, almost bronze in colour, with relatively unadorned components. The blade curved out slightly at the end symmetrically before closing into a pointed tip. The other item was a shield of the same hue. Engraved wings spread over its surface.

‘Simple and sincere,’ Lady Isila said, her resonant voice carrying through the brightly lit chamber. ‘Truth strikes hardest when it is unadorned. You carry strength undimmed by distraction. Do you accept your new name and calling, Sanah’ël, you who are true of heart and honest?’

She took the sword, letting her fingers settle on its hilt, familiarising itself with its weight. Next, she grabbed hold of the shield, strapping it around her forearm. It was small and light, but the steel proved itself to be solid when she tapped it with the blade.

‘I do,’ she said. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘The blade’s name is Riala. May it bring you to good fortune. You, who were once lowly and now risen to new heights.’

Sanah’ël bowed.

Lady Isila looked on her, and Sanah’ël could feel the weight of expectation and responsibility. She had never been trusted, and never trusted anyone.

‘Do you carry doubts, child?’ Lady Isila said. ‘Do you worry about your brother? Fear not, for you will share a purpose.’

‘Why am I here?’

The slightest frown crossed Isila’s face, a tiny wrinkle in her perfect, golden features. ‘Do not let Rubiël’s taunting words belittle you. You are here because I chose you.’

Sanah’ël nodded. The finality of Isila’s voice instilled surety.

‘Look where we are, Sanah’ël,’ said the Lady.

They stood before two ornate wooden doors set into bevelled, stone archways. Figures were etched in the doors’ panels and an illegible script accompanied them. A narrative captured in relief.

‘You want to know what awaits you,’ Lady Isila said. ‘Before you is a story. One you surely know in song but not in truth.’

***

The sun sank behind mountains in the heavens, casting dreamlike light across the paved courtyard. Sanah’ël held onto her weapons with her life as the day around her died. She feared losing them at any moment. As if they were not truly hers.

She swung at armoured dummies, feeling sweat accrue on her back and moisten her hair. Each strike reverberated powerfully, shooting satisfying aches through her arms. She finished with a flourish and knocked the dummy’s head off its standing.

‘The blade looks good on you,’ Nathariel called out from behind her.

Sanah’ël accosted him, panting. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘A while. You move very gracefully.’

She turned back and picked up the fallen piece.

‘You are meant to return the compliment,’ Nathariel said.

‘You stand very frustratingly,’ Sanah’ël retorted.

‘That’s not quite it.’

‘You are a master of exploration, having so thoroughly mapped out the reaches of your own backside.’

‘Try again.’

‘You’re insufferable.’

Nathariel chuckled and hopped down from his perch. ‘Is it quite so hard for you to be nice?’

‘Is it quite so hard for you to be humble?’

‘You wound me, Sanah.’

‘I wish.’ She sneered at him and readied her blade.

‘Ah, here we go.’ He picked up a practice sword from a nearby stash. ‘The ever-genuine Sanah.’

She smiled. ‘Striking down the ever-boastful Nathariel.’

He clicked with his mouth and raised an eyebrow. Sanah could not help but be infected by his light-heartedness.

They lunged at each other, their blades sending sparks as the first stars appeared above them.

***

Sanah sat on a rock overlooking a valley, legs dangling. Nathariel was next to her, leaning back. They watched the sun collapse into the horizon, streaking the sky with red. Beyond them, the land fell away into misty, undefined distance. It was strange to be so high above the sunset.

She breathed easily in the evening air. Her blade and shield were nearby and she rubbed at her arms, feeling the duress of a practice battle.

‘You know, I saved you some of that cake,’ Nathariel said.

Sanah eyed him awkwardly. He brought out a bundle and gave it to her.

She took a bite, tasting chocolate and almonds. The sweetest thing she had eaten in a long time. ‘You made this? It’s actually decent.’

‘But of course, for it is—’

‘Don’t,’ she said. She chewed in silence for a while. ‘You bake wonderfully.’

Nathariel beamed. ‘There you go.’

As the sun nearly disappeared and night slowly took over, Sanah could not help but sense that something was about to slip away. A moment that was fast getting away from her.

‘Sanah, listen,’ Nathariel said, facing her. ‘I… Hmm. No. You are so intriguing. You harbour such tenacity. The way you grasp each moment, each chance, each breath… is truly something.’

‘Nathariel, you’re mumbling,’ she said from behind a rushing smile.

‘Ah, I’m sorry. Sanah, I want to get to know you more. Would you give me this chance?’

‘Me?’ she said, astounded. ‘But, I thought surely you and Rubi…’

Nathariel frowned and shook his head. ‘No. No. We never… No, she and I would never get along. Rubiël is proud and hard-hearted. Deceptive, even. But you, Sanah… you are so candid. It’s delightful.’

Sanah looked away. ‘But I am not beautiful,’ she said in a low voice.

Nathariel widened his eyes. ‘What? Sanah, please, don’t misunderstand me. It’s simply that I learned from my father to value character foremost.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘See, my mother was a lovely woman, strong and trustworthy. Beautiful, also, but that faded in an accident. And yet, my father loved her all the more, not less. I aspire to that kind of commitment.’

Sanah gazed at him, drawing closer.

‘Uh, not that I am comparing your situation to hers. Sanah, you are beautiful. But it’s not about that. Beneath Rubiël’s beauty is a subtle dagger. One I do not wish to fall into. But you, you have real beauty even as you are lovely to behold.’

‘Is that a confession?’ she asked, smiling.

‘I guess it is.’

‘Nathariel, you’ve stopped being ridiculous.’

‘Well, the sky is red right now, isn’t it?’

***

‘Land, ho!’ a croaky voice cried out. Sanah’ël came to, startled by the sailor’s shout. She emerged from her memories with her mind on a land far above and a lover far away. She was back in the grey dullness of the world and the grim direness of her mission. The ugly island of Sanaros peeked out of the sea in front of their vessel.

As they approached, Sanah’ël spotted sails bearing the golden lion of Anardes. An Imperial galleon. The vessel was conspicuously docked in a cove, away from the body of marine traffic.

Well, this will be interesting.

The sailor pulled their little boat into dock. The man immediately blocked the way off and held out his hand. Sanah stood curtly and paid the two sheleh ferry. The coins clinked in the man’s hand and he grunted, satisfied.

As she stepped off into the bustling crowd, Sanah’ël almost felt bad for pocketing five of the man’s own. But old habits die hard and if nothing else, she was a creature of habit.