A drip.

A dream.

A fall.

A flame.

A drop.

A step.

A silent scream.

A word.

A way.

Awake.

The woman woke to the pit-pat of moisture as it slid off the rock face and splashed into a small pool near her bedding. It was not much of a bed, a simple stone slab cushioned by coarse linen blankets, but it was all she had. She reached a hand drowsily to touch the tiny cascade of water in the dark. Like cold tears, they refreshed her thirsty skin. Was the earth weeping again? Even something with such a stony heart could hurt, it seemed. Could break. Could fall apart.

The woman had been woken up by something bright. In her mind’s eye, half enveloped by a dream, the brightness opened up far above her, a yawning chasm leading to unbounded freedom.

No, it was but a trickle of light seeping through a taunting crack. The ceiling she now stared up at loomed suffocatingly close, the slit through which a faint song of light crawled in the only relief from total blindness.

It was another day in darkness. She kept time as best she could in a place where light never showed its face and the stars did not turn. The woman had given up counting after what seemed a thousand upon a thousand days, but still she did not give in. She had not always been trapped here. Years before—how many years, years, years—she had a life outside. A life before the tears—how many tears, tears, tears—were spilled and spent. But there was no point crying or screaming anymore. Agony could never pierce the silent stone, the endless weight of earth above.

The caverns had become her home.

Home.

No.

This was not home.

Not this.

She missed the feel of grass, the way each blade caught between her toes. She pined for the gentle sands of her homeland. All she stepped on now was gravel, rock, and dirt. Traitorous and hurtful. This was not home. A dark place which scared her so much—how many fears, fears, fears—could never be a home.

She tried to focus. She tried to remember her misty dreams. For at least in her dreams she was free. But it was like chasing shadows. And she knew that when she left this bed she would enter the shadows all around her, but they would not yield to her. They would show her nothing.

The woman rose anyway. She threw off the blanket, a thin cloth cobbled together from different strips of fabric, and placed her feet on the cold, hard ground. In that moment, the mountain took a breath. A shuddering breeze swept through the innards of the cave and past the woman’s face. It came from somewhere and carried its whispers off to who knows where. Oh how free the wind was. How free to come and go as it pleased, not bound by what shackled her.

But then it was gone, and she was again surrounded by the stuffy cavern air. Gone like her dreams, out of reach.

So, first things first. She stood up off the altar of her bed. Yet she always rose with the sickly sense that she had forgotten something. She always woke with the dread that things would be better if she had lain on that cold stone forever. But that would be giving up. And the harsh men who ruled this place would never allow it. Still, that disorienting sensation lingered.

Who was she in this infinite darkness?

It would not come to her.

Her name.

Her name would not come to her.

Who was she in this darkening infinite?

The woman looked around. Her name was not in her bed. It was not in the stone. She could not find it in the cobwebs of her mind. Every day she searched for it. Every day she came up short. She liked to believe that maybe one day she would stumble upon it. Her name had been pried out of her, beaten, thrown, and dashed against the rocks. Could it still be found?

She had lost it. Perhaps her name was swept away by a river. Perhaps it dropped off a bridge into a ravine, lingering and lost. Perhaps it waited in a forlorn corner of this rancid cave, rusty and abandoned. Perhaps it waited on the lips of a welcome rescuer.

No, those thoughts were folly.

So every day she realised and accepted that her new name was all around her. In the dark. Her true name long-forgotten, this was the only thing she could cling to. It was what the others also called her.

Midnight.

A name to fit her moonstone eyes, which shone like twin lunar lights. A name to suit her hair, black and straight like sable blades. A name to match her beauty, pale and slender like the touch of a summer night’s moon. Someone had once told her she was as pretty as the night sky. Long ago, when she could still gaze at the heavens until the late hours sang their lullabies and she fell for their songs. Long ago, when there was nothing above her but open, open, open sky.

Midnight.

So she knew that though her clothing was nothing special—mere rags, dirty and hardly fitting—she was a gem in the dark. But she also knew beauty in a place like this had a price. The Heartless—those who forced her and a thousand other men, women, and children to labour and do their bidding—were cruel and fickle. The women who took the fancy of the Heartless fell prey to their whims and could be taken anywhere.

No one would hear.

No one would heed.

No one would dare.

What was the point of beauty if it brought sorrow? She had tried in the past to pry the beauty from herself. She had tried to rip out her hair, to scar her face and body. But the others never let her. Her fellows could not stand and watch her suffer out of pity. And the guards would not permit her to harm herself out of perversion.

Worse things would follow if she did.

So she lived on with this curse, each day wishing she was someone else, somewhere else.

With her mental adjustments made, all the familiar physical sensations of a new day made their presence known. Her grumbling stomach—which had long ago ceased being an accurate indicator of time—complained vainly. Bruises which she had forgotten in her sleep returned with the vengefulness of an insulted ruler. Her blistered feet railed against her will to keep standing and walking. Without much else to see by, these pains were her only point of reference in the dark. Reminders that she was still here. Still here.

But the harsh light soon came. A haze of firelight grew somewhere in the distance. The ridges of the cave’s walls tremored as shadows fled from the torch. Scampering footsteps alerted her to someone approaching. The distinctive skip in stride told her it was old man Hops. Midnight’s instincts, perked on edge like a deer in potential danger of a predator, relaxed. She breathed again.

The old man appeared from a turn in the cavern’s twists, enveloped in yellow and red. The torchlight accentuated his age, making each line on his face seem deeper etched than his actual years. Hops had been here before Midnight arrived years ago. The others named him that because of his limp. He hid it well when working and under the watchful eye of guards—after all, his prospects would not look good if his infirmity was known—but Midnight knew that in secret, when he was alone or with the others, his habit returned.

‘Midnight, you’re awake,’ he said in a low tone. The acoustics of the rock chamber carried his whispers. ‘You’re late. Come on, it’s the Rocks today.’ He waved furiously, making the splash of fire on the walls shiver.

The woman drew closer, traversing from the pinprick of light above her bed to the fiery circle around the old man. The walk between was thick with pitch darkness.

‘You overslept, so you missed breakfast,’ the curious old man said as she emerged from the black. ‘But I saved you some.’ Hops held out a bundle wrapped in dirty cloth. Inside were two things. A mangy cut of meat, bland and stringy. A stale slice of bread, dry and crusty. The usual. Midnight nodded appreciatively.

She took the items and devoured them. They did not settle the protests in her belly. If anything, they were a stronger reminder of what was lacking.

Still, Midnight did not speak. She never did. Her voice had gone with her name somewhere in the muddle of the murky darkness. Now she could not find the energy to speak. Tormented words—how many words, words, words—longed to be released but they remained shut up. She wanted to thank him, at least. But she could not even do that.

‘Now,’ said the curious old man, watching her with wide, silver eyes the same hue as his thinning hair, ‘come quick. We don’t have long. There’s a guard waiting.’

Hops turned and left down the same narrow passageway he had entered through. Midnight followed the silhouette departing in a sphere of fire through the winding corridors, the tunnels and crannies in the depths of the mountain. She had never seen the entire complex of caverns, but they reminded her of a great heart, each tunnel a vein or an artery. That’s where she was. In the heart of the earth. She was a single heartbeat in a barren body.

The guard was waiting for them as Midnight and Hops joined a central tunnel. The stout man was illuminated by unkind flickers of candlelight. He carried a weapon, a simple sword. The mere sight of it was more than enough to settle any unrest among the workers. Like an actor breaking into a role, Hops straightened his back and evened out his steps around the guard.

Without signal, the Heartless one approached them, grabbed Midnight by her tunic, and threw her roughly against the wall. Her vision blurred from the slam, but she was denied the mercy of falling. A moment later, the man’s hand clamped her chin, suspending her in her dizzy state.

‘Awake now?’ he taunted, his face mere inches away from hers. Midnight could not focus. Her head swam. The guard looked her up and down hungrily, but decided pushing her to the ground was more fun. ‘Next time,’ he said as she welcomed the stability of stone below her, ‘it’ll be more than food you miss out on. Try holding it down when you don’t have a stomach.’

Midnight rose gracelessly. She squinted through watery eyes and blinked back her pain. This was nothing, she told herself. This was nothing.

‘Now, go get the boy,’ the guard spat. ‘The bastard won’t stop crying. Make him work or things will go bad for the both of you.’

That threat usually meant being taken to see the master of the caves. Midnight had never seen him, but she knew what would happen. Those who were abducted never came back. Or if they did, they were no longer themselves. She had once seen a man work mindlessly until his joints had given out and his body failed him after a visit to the master.

Too scared to contemplate that outcome, she complied with the guard’s request. Once her vision and balance returned to normal, Midnight oriented herself. Hops, who had stood aloof from the incident, now held out a hand and led her toward the place the boy was held.

The guard made another threat as Midnight and Hops crawled into a space leading to another cave, but she did not pay attention. Her mind was set on finding the boy. Poor Thìr. For someone so young to be brought to a place like this…

Thìr was crying in the dark. She could hear his weeping in the walls before they emerged in his chamber. Hops’ torch spilled firelight into the cramped space and revealed a young boy huddled against the rock. Scrawny and poorly dressed, Thìr held his head in his hands. His hair was an unkempt mop, dirty as a kitchen rag and about as undefined in colour. When he looked up, his satin black eyes were specked with shimmering crystals.

Poor Thìr. He was the only one with something of a real name in here. The boy always dreamt of things beyond these walls, his imagination fed by the same scraps of story Midnight could remember from others of the world outside.

‘I’m still hungry,’ he said through thick sobs, ‘and they beat me. I’m not gonna work again! I’m not gonna work!’

Midnight knelt before the boy. She examined his body, noting fresh welts around his shoulders, elbows, and calves. She wished she had not eaten the morsels Hop saved for her. All she could do now was embrace the boy and restrain his wracking body. She kissed his forehead and took his hand in hers. Slowly, reluctantly, Thìr’s crying softened to a whimper.

She went through a motion that had comforted the boy in previous years. It was the only way she could communicate. Midnight cupped her hands together over her heart as the boy watched, transfixed and silent now. Then she gingerly released her hands, slowly, slowly, further from her body. She spread them out, keeping her thumbs interlocked, and fluttered her fingers like a butterfly as they groped for the boy’s chest. They landed softly there and the boy broke into a grin. He received Midnight’s motion by cradling her hands over his own heart.

My heart to yours. We’ll stay together and fly free. How she wished she could say the words.

‘See, now,’ Hops said as he watched, ‘she’s given you her heart again. Don’t upset Midnight by not doing what you’re told.’

‘I know,’ Thìr said resignedly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Good boy,’ the old man said. ‘Let’s hurry now. There’s lots to do.’

Midnight rose holding the boy’s hand and led him back down the passage. She shuddered beneath the guard’s icy gaze as they came out into the main shaft, but held Thìr close by to protect him from whatever retaliation the Heartless had in mind. Fortunately, he did nothing beyond pointing stiffly with his weapon toward the deeper darkness. Toward the Rocks.

Each day, workers were led to one of two places: the Machines or the Rocks. The Machines was the more pleasant one, if only comparatively so, for the wider space in which they constructed mechanisms was marginally more welcoming and the fact that they could use tools and pulleys to aid their work. The Rocks, on the other hand, was a cramped system of labour tunnels in which they toiled at shaping unwieldy boulders into seated vehicles. None of the workers knew what the function of these strange contraptions was, for none had ever been seen in use around the caves. Each day they laboured with only the most rudimentary of hand tools, shaping and carving and etching and setting stone for unknown purpose. Their shifts at the Rocks rotated between working on those peculiar devices or digging for precious gems and jewels deeper into the earth. It was menial and menacing work.

As Midnight, Hops, and Thìr were escorted along the length of the main tunnel by the guard, they glimpsed the enormity of the mountain’s hollowness through natural arches in the stone to their left. Whatever force had bored through the cavern rock left windows in its wake, and Midnight could see the tell-tale signs of activity far below. Torches lit up a small portion of the massive space, revealing tall wooden structures set in place amid the rocks. Indistinct figures toiled there like ants before an anthill. The sporadic shouting of guards and cracking of whips rose over the more regular sound of grinding gears and load-bearing ropes—the lifeblood of operating machinery. Midnight could almost smell the collective sweat of hundreds of overworked men and women.

But she was going to the Rocks. Being slightly overworked was a luxury there.

Midnight looked around at her companions. She wondered grimly how much longer the old man could keep up his act before the toll on his body became obvious and the Heartless took decisive action. And as for Thìr… she desperately hoped his stubbornness would not land him in severe trouble.

The Heartless guard watched them, she knew, through cold and calculating eyes. Uncaring. They were nothing to him. Expendable and nameless slaves.

Just then, the old man stumbled. The uneven, unforgiving surface they walked on proved too much for Hops and he tumbled to the ground. Midnight’s breath caught in her throat. Before the guard could do anything, she leant over and helped him up. She looked back with apprehension. The guard already had his sword at the ready, but evidently decided against taking any action. Hops thanked Midnight quietly as he was lifted to his feet again.

‘Keep up the pace, witless filth,’ the Heartless growled.

Soon, the naturally sculpted corridor—unnaturally lit by pale lamplight—widened and split into several sections. The pace of the group pushed on by the guard slowed as they joined a cue of other workers being led to their daily areas of duty. Ahead, a taskmaster sorted each approaching labourer into divisions. The process moved like clockwork, each person stepping forward, receiving their appointment, and filing out with lifeless precision.

Once Midnight was through the sorting, she lost track of Hops and Thìr, who were herded toward other sections of the Rocks.

The countless hours that followed bled into one another, a bland mash of timeless time, indistinguishable from other days. The same labour. The same pain. The same loneliness. The same nothingness.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

All save for one event.

At some point, when Midnight braved a look around in brief respite from the rock before her, she spotted a curious object not far off. She pretended not to notice, keeping stride and pace in her work lest any unwelcome gazes fall on her. But the thought of that object kept her going through each tiring strike.

Later, in the bustle of departing workers, she scurried over to where the curiosity was. On the ground, discarded in the dark, was a length of wood, smooth and slightly curved. She felt as if she had seen something like it long ago. Scooping it up as if it were the most precious thing in the world, she examined it. The dark wood shaft was about as long as her arm, and shaped into two even arcs. Near the centre, a strip of leather was tightly wound around it, forming a comfortable grip. At both ends of the curved piece of wood there were grooves inset, as if something was meant to attach to it. Though Midnight did not fully understand what the object in her hands was, she decided in this moment to keep it.

The seeds of a plan took root in her mind. It was a small sprout of hope.

She quickly hid the treasure underneath her tunic, trying to shelter it inconspicuously between the loose garments. The walk out of the Rocks was made with bated breath. Midnight expected to be searched, to be punished.

She made it through.

Back in the main tunnel, she could not wait for Hops or Thìr. The object in her keeping demanded attention. It had to be put away for safety. Back in her chamber. A million miles away in the dark.

She hurried on through the darkness, feeling as if peering eyes were all around her. She stepped in rhythm with her heartbeat, an accelerating tap-tap-tap in the silence of the cave.

Thump. Tap. Thump. Tap. Thump. Tap.

The distance was maddening, and the intense pressure of carrying her contraband beat down on her harder than all the hardship of the Rocks. The lightless air around her was almost tangible, reaching unseen tendrils to halt her progress. To make her stop. To give her away.

Midnight kept going.

As if determined to discover her, the darkness conjured two shapes ahead. Two Heartless, chatting idly and patrolling, were heading her way. They had not seen her yet. In her dismay, Midnight leant up against the wall, trying to blend into the darkness. However, no solid stone was there to meet her frenzied dash. Instead, she kept going into the black, momentarily in freefall. When she collected herself, Midnight realised she must have entered one of the side tunnels. At least here she would be out of the gaze of torches and the path of guards. Not content with her current cover, she retreated further and further into this secluded hole. She could wait here until the danger passed.

As Midnight backed deeper into this tunnel, she became aware of a faint light and an unfamiliar scent sneaking in somewhere above her. Looking up, she noticed openings in the rock, much like the ones overlooking the Machines but far smaller. Indistinct words carried through these rock-windows. Against wisdom to the contrary, Midnight stood up and craned over furtively to see through the opening.

She caught glimpse of a chamber lit by evenly distributed torches on brick pillars. She spotted luxuries she did not have: carpets and furniture. What appeared to be a very large table lined the length of the room, and even the meagre foodstuffs set on its surface were a feast that set her mouth watering. Near the back of the hall, a large stone chair was set on a raised platform. A figure occupied this throne but he was too obscured to be properly described. Another man, dressed in attire far fancier than that of normal Heartless, slowly paced before table. A faded blue cloak enveloped him.

Midnight jumped when someone burst through doors somewhere in the room. The newcomer was evidently outraged, overturning chairs and spilling items from the table to the floor.

‘You’re not in a good mood,’ said the figure in blue, looking in the other man’s direction. Midnight could see the blue-cloaked man properly now. He was tall and well-built, and sported a rather large scythe-like weapon. He had eyes of savage carnelian, almost bloodshot. The rest of his face was masked, but he spoke with a voice like the dark of night.

‘Spare me, Rem,’ said the intruder. Midnight froze. It only took a moment for recognition to settle in. Before she saw the ruffled chestnut hair and that spiteful stride, she recognised the man. His proud, demanding voice was unmistakable.

He called himself Shurun’el.

A panicked breath escaped Midnight’s lips. She cowered deeper into shadow and clutched the object desperately. She hated that man. She hated the way he touched her, the way his breath brushed against her neck. She hated him.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ the man called Rem asked.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Shurun’el said, ‘I’m not here to talk to you.’

Midnight dared to look again and saw the hated man draw neared to the throne.

‘My lord,’ he remarked, ‘I saw him. His heart is ripe for moulding. I believe it’s time.’

Their conversation resounded across the length of the cave. It did not matter should any slave be within earshot, Midnight realised. For what good would the information they are privy to be to them?

‘And yet you failed.’ Whoever had spoken was clearly in command. His booming voice burrowed through Midnight. It quaked somewhere deep inside her. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to be elsewhere, far away. Even though the enthroned figure was concealed by shadow, Midnight could feel his terrible countenance.

‘What you believe is of no concern to me,’ the commander continued. ‘What you can do is another matter.’

‘It was not my fault,’ Shurun’el said apologetically, fear lacing his voice. ‘He was helped. That red-headed wench—’

‘Ah, the Seastrider’s mistake. Did I not say his oversight will cause problems in the future?’

‘Well, given her state I don’t think she’ll be a real problem.’

‘And yet,’ Rem chimed, ‘look what she did to your face.’

Shurun’el growled. ‘That wasn’t her, it was—’

‘Oh, someone other than an Amarant did that to the mighty Shurun’el? If I were you, I’d have stuck with that story and saved whatever pride you have left.’

‘Why doesn’t the maggot leave this cocoon and prove himself, then?’ Shurun’el snarled.

‘Remeriel! Shurun’el!’ the man on the throne roared, and his voice was like an earthquake, harder to bear than all the weight of the mountain. His interruption promptly ended the squabble of the two underlings, who dropped to their knees in reflex. ‘No matter. This will not be a major setback, I presume.’

‘Not at all,’ Shurun’el said, not daring to raise his head.

‘Everything else runs according to plan,’ Remeriel supplied. ‘Production is steady.’

‘Enhē,’ the throned man said. ‘Good. Shurun’el, you will be outfitted with a new squad. Your coming alone signals to me that less than happy circumstances have befallen them.’ To this Shurun’el said nothing. ‘Do not disappoint me again.’ Having said this, the figure stood up, stepped off the platform, and came into the light.

The woman recoiled. She fell backwards into the comfort of darkness. She could not process who—or what—she had seen. The figure in command was… she did not know what he was. But she knew she needed to be away from here, away from him. Was that the master of the caves? She did not want to find out.

Midnight retraced her steps with her breath held close and her object closer. With all the speed she could muster in noiselessness, she darted back out to the main tunnel, almost too careless to check if other guards were making rounds.

She completed the trek to her little corner of the mountain without incident. The shadows did not betray her. The silence did not reject her. She returned to her chamber sweaty and sweltering, perhaps more so from the exhilaration of extracting the treasure or the shock of the enthroned Heartless than the labour at the Rocks. She relaxed as much as she could with all this dark distance between her and that man. Still, there was that dreadful voice. And his face…

She occupied herself with the task at hand. She counted ten moments of silence, until she was sure of absolute loneliness and the only sounds were the pounding of her heart. Only then did she draw out the wooden object from beneath her clothes. Admiring it one last time, she covered it with a discarded strip of cloth and nestled it in the nook of a nearby wall. Safe in the dark at last.

The day would then end as most did, with a trip to the Pools, a bathing square with natural springs. Though it was the most bearable place in the mountain, even there proceedings were strictly regimented. Even there she could be watched.

When Midnight arrived, the natural steam produced by the clean, warm water made her feel the grime with renewed awareness, like cogs bogged down with grease. Other women were already making use of the pools. Midnight breathed a relieved sigh when she noticed the absence of guards on duty.

All she took was a single step into the water. Before she could savour the warmth creeping pleasantly into her legs, someone entered behind her. She did not need to turn to see who it was. The quiet gasps that erupted out of the other women told her everything.

‘Hello, lovely,’ Shurun’el said. Midnight shuddered at the playful poison in his tone. ‘Everyone else, get out. Get out!’ he bellowed again when his command was met with the slightest reluctance. The others vacated the pools in a hurry, leaving behind strewn items and articles of clothing.

He grabbed her hand and turned her around forcefully. The dreamlike water reflections thrown against the stone did nothing to soften Shurun’el cruel appearance. And it was only now that Midnight saw what Remeriel had teased in that clandestine meeting. The right side of Shurun’el’s face was shrivelled and disfigured, barely settled into fresh scars. But the wound was only cold satisfaction. It would not stop him.

‘Bathe,’ he said. ‘Quick. I’ll be watching.’ There was no patience or kindness in his voice. His one eye was filled with lust and rage. She knew what he wanted next.

But she would not make a sound. Not for him. Not for anyone.

It was another day in silent darkness.

* * *

A wan sky withered above the world’s end. Sheneh-Adrani, a ring of three islands overlooking a distant ocean, was wreathed in grey. The surrounding seas mimicked the dullness of the clouds.

And in this ghostly light, an assassin walked among roses.

The rose beds were the only colour in a world being slowly abandoned by the sun. They kept their brilliance even in this colourless dusk. Crimson, like a memory of blood. The flower fields were the sole remarkable feature of Amarea, Beorosa, and Celenda, a triplet of triangular isles tucked away in the far northern corner of the Western Sea. They comprised the beating heart of Despreaux’s Domain, far beyond the reach of the cartographer’s inquisitive hand, where the known map kissed the edge of the abyss. The islands would have looked idyllic had it not been for the grey weather, frequent storms, and other dangers lurking in their waters.

These things did not concern Umariel now.

He paced the flowered steppes, glad to be on land again after weeks out at sea. He was headed to the beach. From there he could observe the water without fear of being swallowed by its jaws. But even as Umariel passed the rocky ridges leading to the beachfront and even as he stepped on familiar sand and took in the scenery, he could not relax. His mind was still engaged. He knew the place by heart. Twelve positions of concealment. Six vulnerable locations. Three vantage points.

Zero places of serenity and comfort.

He gripped the daggers by his belt a little tighter. The snakeskin handles fit him perfectly. These blades were his serenity, his comfort. Purity and Peace. Things that he would never know.

He had received these daggers the day after Luneder burned. Umariel closed his eyes and wrapped the cloak closer around himself, a shield against the wind. He was taken back to that day…

Umar was kneeling in a dark room before a man whose eyes seemed to harbour fire long after the last smoulders of Luneder had given out.

‘This day you prove yourself, Umar,’ his lord said. ‘You are an accelerating force. You bring all things to their destination. Do you understand?’

‘I do.’ As he spoke the words, Umar pushed the faces of those he had ended in that town out of his memory. The mothers, the fathers, the watchers, the workers.

The pirate captain retrieved a weapon case swathed in felt. Clicking it open, he produced two daggers. Pommel to tip, they were works of art. Winter-grey blades engraved with serpentine motifs were embedded to black handles. Their edges glinted in the weak light.

‘Take them.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Umar reached for them, gripping the twin blades reverently. They were almost weightless, yet emanated a quiet, heavy force.

‘Tools for the task. You are shadow. You feed on the light. There can be no doubt now. Do you accept your new name and calling, Umariel?’

‘Yes, Lord Despreaux.’

A rustle stunned him back to the present. Twelve years passed in a blink. Umariel turned expertly and flashed his daggers at an approaching figure. Head to toe, the assassin was poised to kill.

‘Sorry, m’lord. Didn’t mean t’scare ya like that.’

It was only Kest. Umariel lowered his weapons and his guard. As he appraised the man standing before him, Umariel remembered that Kest, too, had been there that day. The years had not been kind to the pirate. Kest’s girth tested the limits of his leather overalls. His face was pocked with impurities and his nose was more crooked than a shipwreck’s mast. His remaining hair grew in patchy tufts of oily brown.

‘What do you want, Kest?’ As he put away the blades, colour returned to Kest’s face and his eyes reverted to a normal size.

‘Jus’ lettin’ you know that with our lord out, yer in charge tonight.’

‘Ah.’

‘We might wan’ t’celebrate, y’know? With things goin’ so well in Kerena an’ all.’

Kerena. Yes. The chaos they had caused in that land would have created a stir by now. Another speck of starlight snuffed. Another piece of the song torn.

‘I’ll think about it, Kest.’

‘Thank you, m’lord.’

‘Have you seen Frìriël?’

‘I fancy she’s out feedin’ those beasties. If you needed me for somethin’ I’d be happy to oblige but I ain’t goin’ near th’ bloody things. I ain’t losin’ ‘nother leg.’

‘Of course. I’ll see you and the rest tonight.’

Kest bowed awkwardly and then lurched off back toward Fort Amarea, a weathered mass of mossy stone. The man had accustomed himself to walking with the unnatural clank of a wooden leg.

Umariel walked on. The breeze picked up, and the shivering rose beds soon gave way to endless mounds of sand and wind-tossed waves. And there, suspended by the seaside, a wooden pier dared out over the chaos of the waters.

It was here that Umariel realised he was wrong on two counts. There was colour elsewhere. And there was a place of peace. There was her.

Frìriël darted around the pier, her eyes on the water and rusty bucket in hand. He did not want to guess what sloshed inside, whatever she was using to bait the beasts she affectionately treated as pets. She was eccentric. But considering what she had been through, he could not blame her. Even so, there was no one whom Umariel felt closer to.

When he drew nearer, her features captured him like the dawn of a new day. Small and slender, Frìriël donned a billowing cloak that moved like fire in the wind. It was black on the inside as though singed and blood-red on the outside. Her lengthy sanguine-red hair blew wildly about her gentle face. She focused on the seas with gleaming brown eyes of chrysanth-stone, and when she called for ‘Tiama’ her voice was clear and warm as the rising sun.

Umariel halted. He had to remind himself. This girl was dread and death. But he could not deny that she was beautiful.

He took his first steps onto the wooden planks of the pier, distracting himself with a small woodcarving in his pocket. He drew out the small spinning top and twirled it between his fingers.

Frìriël turned to face him. She was a patch of bright against the grey.

‘What do you have there?’ she asked.

Umariel smiled. ‘You’ll have to come and see, Riri.’

Just then, there was a movement beneath the waves. Something broke the surface and bobbed underneath as quickly as it had come. Umariel caught glimpses of spines, scales, and fins. Something large. Far larger than any fish or sea serpent. A guardian of Sheneh-Adrani.

‘There you are, Tiama!’ Frìriël exclaimed, her attention temporarily averted from Umariel’s toy. She leaned over the right side of the pier and dumped the contents of the bucket into the sea. Various chunks of meat splashed into the murky water. A shadowed shape converged upon the meal and dragged it under.

Frìriël placed the bucket on the wood and walked over to where Umariel performed feats of sleight-of-hand and other curiosities with the spinning top.

‘Show me what you have!’ Frìriël demanded, but her voice was curious, almost childish.

‘Catch, Riri,’ he said as the top sailed toward her.

She did so, but something else was on her mind as she tromped over.

‘Don’t call me that,’ she protested, pounding Umariel lightly. ‘I’m not a girl anymore. I’ll have Tiama eat you!’

‘You’re right,’ Umariel said with a laugh. ‘What should I call you, then?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Princess Frìriël of Sheneh-Adrani, Tamer of Seas and Serpents.’ She grinned proudly.

‘That’s it?’

‘It sounds royal, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s boring.’

‘Whatever, Umariel,’ she said, pouting.

‘If you would grace me with my full title, please. You shall address me as Umariel the Unmarred, Lord of Shadows and Conqueror of the Twilight Ocean, Heir of the Roselands and Foremost of the Seven.’

‘That’s grand.’

‘I thought so.’

‘I was kidding. It’s silly. As silly as your little toy.’

‘Oh. That’s not nice, Riri.’

She stomped her foot. ‘Fine. I’m not a royal, and you’re not a… whatever you called yourself.’

‘What are we, then?’

Riri pondered for a while. ‘We are fire and shadow.’

‘I like that.’

‘It means that you follow wherever I go.’

‘Well, you can only appreciate the shadows where there is a bright fire.’

‘When one dies, the other does also.’

Umariel looked at her, but she only smiled. Then she squeezed his arm jovially and placed her head on his shoulder. He could almost feel the flame of her presence. In the distance, clotted clouds were arguing. Soon, the results of their altercation would rain down on their hapless islands. But he did not care. Not now.

‘I don’t see the Moonbreaker, Riri.’

‘Lord Despreaux’s taken it out again. He loves this weather.’

Umariel grunted noncommittally.

‘But I think there’s more to it,’ she said. ‘He seems troubled and restless to me. I don’t know what bothers him.’

‘Well, with such a great task ahead, I would be as well.’

Curtains of tender rain came down, as if the grey above collapsed in great veils of water. And like the ceaseless rain, the songs of starlight were vivid in Umariel’s mind, scraping constantly. But they would break these songs. They would prove them wrong.

‘There’s a storm coming,’ she said, leaning closer and closing her eyes.

‘Yes, there is.’

No, Frìriël was no longer a girl. Yet Umariel was afraid. Of her. Of what would happen when the songs ended. Of everything. He snuck a trembling hand around her and pulled her in.

He was closer to the fire.

They stood there on that pier, swaddled in a rainstorm that could not drown their flame, and watched the end of the world.

* * *

Sanah’ël hated days like these. Days when she felt out of place. When the oppressive opulence around her reminded her she was second rate. She ignored the fixtures of her room. Today she did not want to be here. She wanted to run. She picked up her closest companions, her weapons. A shortsword and a shield decorated with an avian crest. She threw a worn brown cloak over her form—neither sensual nor fearsome, she reflected—and Sanah’ël was out the door.

A note lay scrunched and discarded in the corner of her room. A message informing her of Shurun’el’s attempt and failure.

She ignored that as well.

Sanah’ël walked down elaborate staircases and into the star-like light of a great hall where everything was golden. But there was no music to wind its way through the hanging chandeliers. No dance graced its crystalline floors.

There was only weeping.

Lady Isila wept with the weight of what was about to happen. She howled like an autumn wind. Her golden face was drenched in bitter tears. Her voice carried through the empty hall. As hollow as the endless night peeking in through the stained-glass windows.

‘My lady,’ Sanah’ël said as she approached and kneeled before the winged throne.

‘Soon he will come here,’ lady Isila sobbed, seemingly disregarding Sanah’ël’s presence as if in a trance. ‘And he will know. He will know.’

‘I will ensure things still go according to plan.’

‘That is what scares me, child,’ lady Isila said, suddenly lucid. Her eyes were a mess of tears and make up. ‘But go.’

Sanah’ël kissed her lady’s hand and rose. She faced the great doors leading to the outside. An old, old story was carved on these gates, a story on which she would not dwell now.

‘So, you’ve heard that your brother screwed up,’ someone said. The voice cut the air like sharpened steel. ‘Looks like failure runs in the family.’

Rubiël. The last person she wanted to see today. Sanah’ël kept her composure as she spun to face the woman leaning casually against one of the hall’s pillars. Rubiël was accosting her with those perfect eyes of piercing sapphire, a flawless complement to her jet black hair which fell in immaculate waves. Tall and lithe, and often snugged in tight leather, Rubiël drew the gazes of every man around and held them long after she disappeared from sight.

Compared to her, Sanah’ël was plain. Average in every way.

‘I don’t need this right now, Rubi.’

‘So what, you think you can just go out and make amends? Do you always cover for his mistakes?’ she said in a dangerous tone. She was not only beautiful, but deadly. An ornate rapier hung loosely at her side. Even in swordplay, Rubi outmatched her.

‘I’m looking out for the interests of the Order!’

‘Am I supposed to be impressed by your altruism? Please, like we don’t have many cards left to play.’

‘Maybe I choose to play mine now.’

‘If you’re going out just to see—’

‘Drop it!’ Sanah’ël screamed and burst through the gates into the outside. She stomped through the outer courtyard, past the Lord’s Tower—a building of bizarre purpose, for the lord was often not around—and on toward the landing platform.

She would not deal with that woman today. Rubi was a constant thorn in her side, so Sanah’ël relished days when she could go out on missions. Often she would do it for the satisfaction of being away from here.

Was this it? Was this her new world? Was this better? The panged memories of begging and crying and starving told her that it was.

She trudged on, stepping up to the pedestal where her chariot waited. The rock-chariot was a curious thing. No horse pulled this contraption. Precise holes were bored out of the surface and precious gems of all cuts and colours were set all along its outer rim.

Sanah’ël climbed in. She stared out into the cloudless night. Here, miles above the world of men, the scars within the sky were far more vibrant. Every star was a diamond cut with the skill of a celestial lapidary.

But she was not going up. The fear always got to her. The plunge terrified her. She chastised herself. She should not be scared. After all, Rubi never was. And he had gone out already. Taking a deep breath, Sanah’ël stilled herself. She sang a rhyme that never failed to comfort.

It flows alight through living stone

In not just flesh and fragile bone

If trust you give and true you stay

The wind will take you home

Her voice was carried by the air currents, and then she pushed. The stone hummed to life. She took off into the night, falling through the sky in an exhilarating descent. Falling, falling toward a land whose dying breath signalled its last days. She could still hear lady Isila’s wailing.