Silence.

Midnight stirred awake.

Endless silence.

She wept.

Dark in the endless silence.

Alone.

Silent in the endless dark.

Nothing left.

Endless dark.

Everything had ended.

Dark.

* * *

Clouds laden with moon-glow shone onto a dark sea stretching like an endless, rippled carpet. Fuzzy stars, arrayed in their bleary golden dress, guided a lone vessel treading these waters with a shine one could almost touch.

And in this velvet light, the assassin paced a silent deck.

The Moonbreaker, true to its name, sliced across the waves bearing the image of their lunar light-giver. Its ragged sails breathed with a furious wind, driving onward, onward though it seemed there was nowhere to go on this vast, vast ocean.

They had left the rosy-pink cliffs of Sheneh-Adrani behind, and there were no shapes on the horizon anymore. There was merely the great, encircling line to see, but all it said was that you were nowhere and the sea was everywhere.

These sights bored Umariel now. To break up the monotony, the assassin played with a wooden trinket. Today, he favoured a set of cleverly-interlinked cubes. Half acute puzzle, half mindless distraction, they clicked along in his hands with the breaking of the waves.

His mind was elsewhere. Not on the sea, or their destination, not even on the task ahead. It was on what was to come after. The assassin had never expected the storm would end, but here he was, longing to see the bright rays after the rain. It did not seem right to one who was to be shadow, only shadow.

He began a song. A song, lost in the wind, lost to the waves.

Your eyes afire with glint of stars and moon

One moment dark and keen as veiling night

The next alive with song and piercing light

I’m broken when their gaze departs too soon

Your lips ablaze with hint of salt and rune

One moment close and sweet as magic’s bite

The next afar and locked with shutters tight

I’m broken when their touch provides no boon

Encompassed in the assassin’s tune were the steady tides and the perfect, balanced motions of the world: the sea in sway, encircling clouds, and the stars in all their constant light. The rest of the crew was unseen, unheard, so Umar had no human audience. But a growl that was almost music echoed back, beneath the ship. Tiama was somewhere in the water, he knew. How many other denizens were there in the deep below, perhaps escorting the vessel through this featureless embrace?

‘She likes singing, did you know that?’ a voice asked. A voice that cut through the night’s mist and the cold which had fallen and threatened to touch all with its snapping, curious fingers.

Umar turned, heart aflutter. He felt stupid. Before, there was no end to the road his heart had put him on, like a map with no markers. But now, there was clarity and purpose.

And all at once she fell into focus. Beneath her cowl, Frìriël’s eyes and cheeks were lit up by starshine. Hints of her red hair peeked like autumn leaves. The night seemed to give way around her as she stepped forward.

Umar collected himself. ‘Riri, you’re supposed to be resting.’

‘I did, and now I’m restless. And you’re not supposed to call me—’

‘I know,’ he said, hands up in defeat. ‘I never learn.’

Frìriël focused on the wooden object in his hand. ‘Still playing with your silly toys, I see.’

‘No, tonight I have something much better.’ Umar stepped over to her. In a flash, the trinket disappeared in the pockets of his coat and his hand produced a rose. He held it out to her.

‘A rose for your rumination, Frìriël?’

‘I’m not a cow, Umar!’ she snapped.

Umar laughed. ‘I mean no offense, Princess of Seas and Serpents.’

Frìriël beamed. ‘You are learning.’ Her voice softened. ‘But I have been wondering…’

In the brief silence that followed, the stillness of the sea and night were heightened. An echo of Tiama’s song rolled in like a distant bell. Rope and sail creaked.

‘…Where will we live, once this is all over?’ she asked. The look in her eyes dimmed the stars.

‘In the loftiest storey of the tallest tower on the highest mountain, so we can see the whole world spread before us on that farthest shore.’

‘Is there such a place?’

‘Sure. Beyond this Black Sea where corsairs run rampant, many fathoms across the ocean. To the north, past all the lands whose names we know. We’ll find it.’

‘Where will Tiama live? Will she be with us?’

‘Your crazy serpent-fish can live in a bowl.’

Riri pounded his shoulder. ‘That’s not funny.’

Umar could barely contain a burst of laughter. ‘I kid, of course. Yes, princess, your pet will be with us. We’ll have whatever we desire.’

Frìriël smiled. ‘We’ll be fire and shadow still.’

Umar nodded. Frìriël took the rose from his hand. Her tender touch burned his chilled fingers.

‘We’ll be more than that,’ Umar said. ‘More than endless flame and prolonged dark. More than we’ve ever been.’

Umar cupped his hand around hers. He pressed the rose closer to her chest. This fragile token was given her as affirmation that she could be beautiful and gentle. Umar wished he could say as much. He wished he could say she did not have to be as she was that day…

The sky had closed in around Ralinesh, a forsaken island in the west none cared to map. Clouds loomed with dark but empty threats. The weather scowled at the new arrivals.

Heedless, Lord Despreaux stepped off the Moonbreaker. His feet tromped marsh as he beckoned Umariel to follow. The assassin obeyed, sinking knee-deep into mud as he hopped off the solid gangplank. As he left the vessel, he could not help but be impressed by the ease with which Despreaux had moored it. Without crew or aid, his immense lifeforce pushed the ship along. The Moonbreaker sailed at his will. Rightly was he called the Lord of the Sea. Sometimes, Umariel wondered why Despreaux even kept others around. But it was not the time to dwell on this. He simply counted himself lucky. Birds did not argue with a billowing wind. When such a force called, one simply followed.

On the shore, they had donned cloak and hood to blend in with the island’s sparse residents. Though Umariel did not know much, he was aware a sectarian society lived here, entrenched in their arcane and archaic ways. But more than not wishing to draw attention to himself, Umariel was glad when his lord hid his face. For he found that he could not look at him long, could not bear that unearthly face.

Umariel focused elsewhere. As they touched down on firmer soil, they passed remnants of structures. They might have been orchards once, now mere rotten skeletons of wood and wire. Lichen-consumed stones filled in dysfunctional irrigation ditches. There was nothing remarkable about this place.

‘Why are we here, my lord?’ Umariel asked as the woods thickened ahead. No birds heralded their arrival. It was a forest bereft of joy, and the trees themselves were barren and sagged as if they had surrendered.

Lord Despreaux did not look back as he answered. ‘Where fire treads, ashes follow.’ The captain grabbed overturned trunks and branches, snapping and turning them aside to clear a path. If his lord thought this was enough of an answer, Umariel had to accept it so.

Between the cracking sounds, the assassin thought he heard other movements among the branches. There were echoes like the dim crackling from a fire he could not feel. How strange it felt to seem watched to one so used to stalking his prey.

The island’s first resident only met them after a half-hour hike through sylvan glade. Lord and servant chanced upon a settlement which bore the barest resemblance to a town. Here, a lanky mutt yapped and announced their entrance. A hunched figure stopped sweeping a dirty courtyard, dropped his implement, and approached.

The man hailed them but he was not quite speaking to them. He looked at them, but his unfocused eyes did not quite take anything in.

‘Are ye here to witness the Devouring? Glory be, glory be.’ The man’s head whipped from side to side erratically as he spoke. Whorls of wispy hair a colour even uglier than the sky bobbed as he did so.

When Despreaux spoke, his voice sounded like the grave, like crushing water in the deep.

‘There is glory of which you know nothing. But you can still be of use.’ He drew his hood back.

The man before them stopped twitching and twisting and cowered in his frame, though his other senses seemed as unreceptive as before. The dog shrunk back and was silenced.

Trembling, the man opened his mouth. His voice was changed. ‘The serpent wakes, the eagle swoops, the boar slumbers.’

The man went stone-still but kept talking, as if someone else were moving his lips.

‘A star shines. A star shone. A star… will shine? A star is gone.’

The man’s next words were broken by fits of laughter.

‘But sparks – sparks remain – remain to light – light calls darkness – darkness rewards – rewards the faithful – faithful dragon, dragon, dragon.’

The man fell to his knees and breathed hard, showering spittle over Despreaux’s boots. He looked up with newfound eyes and said, ‘You are of the dragon. Glory be, glory be.’

The captain simply stepped over the man, seemingly pleased with what he had extracted out of this simple villager. Umariel, moved by some deep-seated pity, helped the man to his feet.

‘Thank you,’ Umar said, uncertain what he was thankful for.

The man pushed something into Umariel’s hand, reverently, as one would pass on an heirloom. The assassin felt something sinuous and furry in his palm. Looking down, he recoiled and nearly dropped his gift.

A small rodent lay in his hand, wheezing a tiny wheeze, alive but clearly suffering.

‘Best one around,’ the man explained. ‘Not dead. Not dead. Still good.’

‘What is this for?’ Umariel asked.

The man leaned in close and whispered, ‘They watch.’

Then he simply shrieked with laughter and patted the assassin on the shoulder with bony fingers. ‘Glory be, glory be.’

Disturbed, but not wishing to affront the island’s morbid sensibilities, Umariel wrapped the item in a small cloth and pocketed it. He wiped his hand on his cloak and joined his master up ahead. Together, they left the man behind them as they went on. The villager returned to his fruitless sweeping, in coughs and spasms. Then they were over a hill and the man was gone.

The path out of the village was better-tended but still bore displays of the island’s peculiar ways. Fences and signposts carried strange mementos. In other places, decomposing remains hung up on mouldering stakes. Umariel could not tell if they were animal or human. Other fetid offerings were left around these altars, and the whole affair was disturbing, even to one such as Umariel.

As a killer, first awakened and then trained, Umariel had spent many nights justifying his outlook and operation, and knew many would perceive him as unhinged. And still he encountered perspectives and styles of life which baffled him. At least there was a rightness to what he did – life had beginnings and endings. There was dignity in his trade, not defilement. If he was a tool in the hands of those qualified to determine when life deserved its closure, he would be proud. For he had learned the hard way he could not trust his own judgment in such matters.

As if reading his thoughts, the captain spoke. ‘This night, you will be tested, Umariel. Flit not, my shadow, though the flame ahead be bright. Do you understand?’

Umariel was honest. ‘No, my lord. How could I?’

‘Good,’ came the reply. ‘To claim understanding before a trial would be arrogant. Resolve is what I seek. Knowledge will come later.’

The next hours passed in silence as grey haze darkened into black. They crossed over grassy knolls, not tall or difficult to traverse of themselves, but the hills seemed to scrape the murmuring sky. With each summit, the faint sound of the ocean grew fainter. Night fell.

Enclosed by the sea, enclosed by the dark, Umariel sensed this island was cursed. He knew it as sure as he knew there were eyes in the shadow watching him. Though, there were no other visible inhabitants around other than frazzled animals which took shelter in grey bowers and sparse thistles.

At length, after the road became straighter, twinkling lights shone ahead, but they were not stars. In the cloudy night, torch-fire from a village down the road came into view. They entered through a collapsed gate. Voices rose.

If this was the capital of the island, it was not much improvement on the previous village. The same rotting log-cabins and crumbling stone houses were arrayed around a central space. The same stink of animal permeated the air. A gathering was happening presently in the town square, and many villagers, chiefly men, were congregated around a bonfire. A few attendants were seeing to the fire, throwing on wood and stoking flames. The crowd pressed in closer.

Despreaux and Umariel were funnelled nearer to the flame, but unheeded for now. The assassin’s grip on his daggers tightened under his cloak. The flickering fire lit up a blur of faces beneath black hoods, all speaking or chanting, shoulder-to-shoulder. But for his size, Lord Despreaux blended in with the rest now that he had donned his hood again.

Suddenly, he drew out an arm from beneath his cloak. His gloved hand held a shortsword. In the firelight, Umariel saw a serpentine handle and notches along its glinting edge. He took it and immediately felt the blade was not for him. It did not settle in his hands and would not answer him. It was cold and stone-heavy to the touch.

‘It is time,’ Despreaux said simply. Then he shrunk back and disappeared behind the crowd. Umariel was left alone in a sea of black hoods and dark faces. He hid the sword as well as he could before someone accosted him.

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‘It is time indeed,’ one said. ‘The Devouring comes.’

Umariel was herded still closer to the fire. All about him was orange and red, and there was naught that he could make out in the darkened distance.

On a platform by the fire, someone stepped up and raised ringed fingers, stilling the chants of the congregation. Now that he was closer, Umariel could see that the ground had been dredged out and the flames filled a pit. The speaker stood as if on a bridge over a burning moat.

‘Malady speaks, glory be, glory be,’ said a voice from the crowd.

The man called Malady motioned his hands to silence the crowd completely. He drew back his golden hood and the flame revealed a face riddled with warts and scars. One eye hung useless in a shrivelled patch of skin.

‘Friends,’ he said in a scratchy voice, ‘acquaintances, and strangers,’—he added with a glance to where Umariel stood—‘Welcome. Welcome.

‘You stand on the precipice of glory. We are the chosen who will wake the Dragon, the Worldender of old, Breaker of Dreams, and Bringer of Desire.’

‘Glory be, glory be,’ chanted the crowd.

‘Such power has a price, of course. Such glorious girth requires a great sacrifice of lifeforce to stir its slumber.’

‘Glory be, glory be,’ chanted the crowd.

‘But you will be rewarded upon His awakening. Crops and bounty, pleasure and wealth, all yours, all yours.’

‘Glory be, glory be!’ chanted the crowd.

Malady signalled with his hand. Red-cloaked men appeared around the fire, plainly armed. They directed the crowd into file and had them pass by the fire. Each villager threw in a bundle into the flames, some a pet or other household animals, others hunted game and such acquisitions. The bleat and shriek of animals was unbearable.

It was Umariel’s turn by the fire. He paused by the burning pit. A red-cloaked guard stepped up, menacing. ‘What will you offer?’

Umariel reached into his pouch and produced the small rodent. He looked it at with pity, and with sickness in his heart. Then he threw the writhing creature into the flames.

As he turned from the fire and followed the members who had laid down their living offerings, he felt empty. What was the point of this test? Was this success or failure? Lord Despreaux was still nowhere to be seen. He looked up at Malady, who was observing the sacrifices. He seemed dissatisfied. He wrung his hands together.

Umariel scanned the assembled people for signs of his master but did not spot Despreaux’s distinctive shape, and could not even feel his dreadful countenance watching. Umariel flicked his gaze over the crowd, but it only fell on empty face after empty face.

Nearby, a drumline began, a deep thump-thump-thump which sounded like the earth’s heartbeat. Malady raised his voice once more.

‘It is not enough, friends,’ he said. ‘The Dragon desires more. Who among you shall be the one to offer more, and thus be greatly rewarded?’

As Malady continued his sermon and his rhetoric reached a crescendo, a group of hooded pallbearers came out of the darkness. On their shoulders, a bier carried a young girl, bound up and very much alive. Her hair was livid red, redder than the hungry fire. Fear was in her wet, pale eyes.

The pallbearers continued their funeral march toward the flames.

‘Yes, the Dragon shall feast,’ Malady said, hungry as a beast himself. ‘The Dragon takes what once lived to live once more!’

‘Glory be, glory be,’ chanted the crowd.

The lovely girl on her pyre was brought forward, a living effigy in a senseless ritual. Somewhere, a wailing mother could be heard.

Umariel acted before he knew what he was doing. He pushed through the stream of people, shoved his way to the front. One of the pallbearers grunted as Umariel clambered onto his shoulders and then onto the wooden bier.

The crowd gasped and Malady stopped mid-sentence. The girl on the bier eyed him with suspicion and a muffled cry escaped her lips. In a blink, before anyone could react, Umariel drew his wintry daggers and cut the girl’s bonds.

‘Burn them!’ Malady growled.

The fire was close. Umariel could feel the testing touch of its heat. As the platform under their feet started to sway, he handed the shortsword to the girl. She took it with startled, trembling hands.

The girl screamed as the bier was thrown into the furnace. But it was not a cry of fear or helplessness. It was the roar of a prisoner who had been given the tools to fight back.

And oh, did she fight back.

The scream of an explosion cut through all voices, animal and human. Umariel fell into the pit and braced himself for burning impact. But the fire did not come. He landed in singed but quite unburning piles of smouldering wicks. He rolled to a stop and looked up.

The girl with red hair was standing amid flame. Torrents of fire streamed around her and into the length of the blade in her hands. The worst of the flames had been diverted from where the pallbearers had collapsed and now shot upward and outward.

The bonfire had become a fountain of flame, and the girl was the spout.

‘Get them!’ Malady yelled.

The red-hoods began moving. She screamed again. Umariel covered his eyes as a blinding arm of fire erupted and engulfed the platform on which Malady was standing. The last thing he saw was the mad priest’s one shocked and startled eye. Four of the red-hooded guards dropped their weapons and ran madly, their clothes aflame.

Umariel climbed out of the pit. The girl, with more vocal but illegible commands, directed the flames to sprout once more and pursue some who had begun fleeing. Like a many-headed serpent, the fire obeyed.

More red-hooded fanatics approached, weapons drawn. Those who passed the barriers of fire tried to strike her down. The girl fought back with her own sword. Her motions were crude, but her aim and strength sure. The assailants collapsed by her side, as the fire and blood continued to flow.

Umariel dared to run closer to her. ‘How are you doing this?’ he asked.

The girl turned on him, her eyes burning bright and angry. She struck him with her sword. Umariel brought up his daggers to absorb the blow and was knocked back into the dirt.

Those villagers and attendants that had not fled now turned their attention to Umariel. ‘This is your fault,’ they drawled. ‘Inglorious, inglorious, you will die.’ They raised pitchforks and hoes, clubs and spades.

Umariel coughed as smoke covered the town square. He fended them off with daggers. He felt sorry as weak villagers fell, one after the other. More blood spilled this tainted ground.

More screams came from the girl. Her voice was ragged and giving out, but the fire flared and her sword danced. She took vengeance on any and all who crossed her, took vengeance on the land that had robbed her of life and would have robbed her of breath. In her hands, that cursed blade belonged. The shortsword was alight and alive.

That day, the fire consumed more wretched folk than were felled by the blade.

Then the girl started to limp and stumble. Her screams stopped and the fires dwindled. Cowering villagers and guards came out from behind posts and walls. Retribution was in their eyes. They stepped out onto blackened, charred cobblestone.

Umariel made his choice. He ran to the girl. As a villager raised a hammer to strike the girl down, Umariel’s daggers snuck their way to the man’s throat.

The fire died down, and the raging bonfire behind them seemed a weak flicker now. Umariel’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the growing darkness. The girl had collapsed, sword in hand. Before other villagers came near, he picked her up. She was feather-light but warm, like holding embers.

‘Give us the girl,’ they said. ‘Return the Offering.’ But they had made no move to take her by force. They seemed snapped out of their stupor and some semblance of rationality returned. Whether deterred by Umariel’s show of strength or the memory of the girl’s rage, they stayed put.

He carried her and ran through those muck-filled streets. No footsteps followed. He ran away from fire and into blackness.

But as Umariel rounded a corner, he felt a blow on his side and a sharp sting. He collapsed, dropping the girl and their weapons. He felt his bleeding shoulder as he righted himself to catch his assailant.

Malady crept out of some dark crevice, his cloak torn and burnt, his face charred and even more disfigured. He carried a gilded knife, wet with fresh blood.

‘The Devouring must go on,’ he said. ‘The Shadow must be fed.’

Umariel felt for his daggers but they had fallen from their holsters. In the dark, he could not see them.

Malady rushed at him. With no time to grope around for a weapon, Umariel faced the mad priest. Malady’s skill was no match for his fervour, and Umariel easily knocked the priest’s hand aside. He stepped around as Malady charged.

Then Umariel noticed that Malady was not making for him. With a jolt of terror, Umariel sprang after the priest and tackled him before the knife came down where the girl was laying. Assassin and priest tumbled to the ground in the dark. Umariel fastened his hands around Malady’s neck. He tightened his grip. He strangled the priest until his life drained out and he was eased into the fathomless abyss.

‘Glory be, glory be,’ Umariel said softly.

After he finally let go, the assassin heaved himself against a wall and breathed. He breathed again, feeling life. He was not sure why he had acted so this night. But it was right. That he knew.

Above, overcast skies became thick with clouds of smoke and ash. Dawn arrived, but the light barely broke through the dense layer of smog.

In the spilled light, Umariel saw Malady’s lifeless body and the unconscious girl. He recalled her sad eyes in the midst of fire and blood. She was so young, barely fifteen, perhaps. She reminded him of another red-headed girl, standing shattered in fiery wreckage.

The sword was still in her hands.

Umariel got up, collected his daggers, and prepared to leave. He knew that with break of day, villagers would come searching again, their vigour and cultic determination renewed. What to do about the girl?

Heavy footsteps sounded nearby. Umariel spun, only to see Lord Despreaux approaching. So this had been a test, indeed.

‘Well done, my shadow,’ he said. What pleasure could be discerned in his master’s voice was drowned by the grating, salty force of the ocean in it.

The girl stirred. She came to and breathed hard. She scrambled up against the nearest wall. Her brilliant hair was flecked with dirt, but her eyes were keen and alert.

‘Do you like your sword?’ Despreaux asked. ‘Its name is Denethris. You may keep it.’

The girl suddenly frowned and sprang to her feet, weapon in hand. She yelled and charged at Lord Despreaux, point of her blade out. The pirate grabbed the weapon with his glove and stopped the girl in her tracks. She grunted with effort, trying to drive the blade into Despreaux’s body.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

The girl hesitated. ‘Frìra,’ she said at last.

‘You are a bright flame, Frìra. What would you most like to have in this world?’

‘I have nothing,’ she spat. ‘My mother is dead. If I lived, she wouldn’t. That was the arrangement. So now I… now I…’

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

Frìra did not reply.

‘Come with me, and I will give you enemies to fight.’

Frìra’s grip on her sword slackened.

‘And then, you will have true rest.’

Frìra let her hand loosen. Despreaux released the sword, and it dropped to the girl’s side.

‘My fire. My Frìriël.’

Lord Despreaux turned and left, cape trailing. The girl fell to her knees. It was as if she only now noticed the priest’s corpse nearby. She growled, and hacked at it with her new weapon ‘til it was red and raw. Then she tossed the blade aside and threw her hands up to her hair. She let out a whimpered choke through a tightened throat.

Umariel drew closer. ‘Here,’ he said. But it was not the weapon that he handed her. Into her hands, he passed a set of wooden rings wed to a metal chain. The rings clinked and entwined about themselves when pulled.

‘You just want it to be over, don’t you?’ he asked.

Frìriël’s eyes flashed, but she took the assassin’s toy. She looked at him. Something of the storm inside this girl was quelled.

‘Come, Frìriël,’ said Umariel. ‘Your new life is waiting.’

A wave crashed, and Umariel was back on the Moonbreaker. The imagined fire, dust, and smoke dissipated. It was clear and cool now, and the solitary moon shone bright like a proud pearl set in a sapphire sky. Frìriël was still next to him.

They were leaving Despreaux’s Domain presently and crossed into still and peaceful oceans, a strange band which formed a cleft between the waters of the Lord of the Sea and the rest of the world.

Behind them chaos. Calm ahead of them. And a song which parted wake and waves before them. Umariel sang these secret words now.

None would breach the road to Sheneh-Adrani. And none were now prepared for their arrival. Storm and blade. Fire and shadow.

That is who Umariel was. A force made by forces yet greater.

But in all this, he told himself that even though he had been driven into that dreadful night, pulled along by powers higher than himself, it was his will and choice that carried him along. The assassin told himself that saving Frìra was the first thing he had ever done right of his own accord.

Below, Tiama was still singing.

* * *

Sanah’ël peered out of her safehouse window like a rat out of a hole. A tide had passed since her encounter with the Imperial emissaries. She knew not what had befallen them, and she did not care. Short work for the short-lived. All that concerned her now was that she should not be seen emerging. But time was of the essence, as Lady Isila would shortly be expecting a report covering what had transpired on the surface. The Empire’s sniffing out of the Order’s trail was bothersome, as was Shurun’el’s less-than-satisfactory covering of his tracks. She cursed her carelessness and her little brother’s rashness. But she would not sit idle. It was time to rectify mistakes.

More promising was Nathariel’s engagement with the targets at Taeladran. A dangerous assignment, but she had high hopes for the man’s capabilities. Sanah smiled to herself. There was more than one reason to rendezvous with Nathariel before setting out for the sky again.

Outside, nothing moved in the mustard-coloured morning. She drew the musty curtains shut. Her things were packed and ready for departure. With thoughts heavier than her baggage, Sanah picked up sword, shield, satchel, and cloak.

She passed through a couple of false walls and down concealed staircases before stepping out to a dim foyer of sorts. The best part of Sanaros’ shifting suburbs was that many places fell into disuse and were forgotten. Such derelict hideouts became dens for the crafty and attentive. And such services could be purchased by those wishing to remain unseen. Dark was the economy which kept this unhallowed placed turning.

‘I was never here,’ Sanah’ël said, dropping a few coins on the counter on her way out.

‘For a couple more, I won’t even know your name, love,’ said the greasy-haired woman at the bench.

Sanah’ël scowled, but complied. A fair price for fair service. Getting messages out to Despreaux’s Domain and Borboros’ Den via trusted agents was costly work. The risk of exposure was paid in gold.

‘Thank you, whoever you are,’ the woman said.

Now outdoors, Sanah’ël kept to out-of-the-way passages and narrow alleys. She knew to recognise the secure paths from those frequented by the truly undesirable. From here, it was a straight shot (meanly speaking) to the docks and then on to brighter, broader lands over sea.

But winds rarely blow the way one wishes. And on one such inscrutable wind, Sanah’ël caught voices of interest. She deviated from her path to a courtyard in the cold morning, where two men, barely recovered from a night of drink (from the slur in their voices) were gossiping about things beyond their grasp and influence. She stuck like shadow to a wall and listened.

‘Darius has gon’ mad, they say,’ said an inebriated voice.

‘A minute! Who is they, do ya ever wonder?’ said a second, more shrill but no less drunk.

‘Whoever they is, they is always got the mos’ interestin’ things t’say.’

‘Ain’t that right. So wha’ was this about Darius?’

‘Right. So, it turns out he offed some important fellow up north, not a tide back or so. Right gruesom’ it was.’

‘But he’s one of them Amrans, what’s he doin’ doin’ somethin’ like that?’

‘Right. But y’forget he’s Kerenan. His blood is right old mad, it is. It ain’t the first time he’s killed quick and cold.’

‘Ye’re the mad one, I says.’

‘No, truly. It’s all up at the Hunched Dragon. Go an’ see.’

The other man grunted. There was a clink of bottles and a swig.

‘The talk’s darker, though,’ said the first voice again, after a beverage-filled pause. ‘They say Darius is interested in th’Order, if y’can believe.’

‘Oi, now ye’re getting’ right queer. We ain’t supposed to talk about that.’

‘Right. But if that blade-for-brains Darius is after th’Order and wants t’join… he’d be right deadly, he’d be.’

‘Darius, leavin’ the Empire?’

‘Why not? A wolf looks out for none but heself.’

‘Ye’re addled, man.’

Clearly fed up with his companion’s gossip, the second man left. Sanah’ël heard his stumbling footsteps fade. The first man whistled a tortured, one-note tune and walked away also. She peeked out from her vantage point by the crumbling, stony wall to make sure they had gone.

Another distraction, another wrinkle. Darius back on Sanaros? Impossible. But there still may be something of import to the drunkard’s words. Sanah’ël weighed her options. She started to suspect that one’s mettle could be measured not in how well plans were laid, but how tactfully one dealt with delays and deviations. The last time she had chased a lead, it resulted in bruises and a narrow escape. She sighed and hoped for better. Hoped that this was an opportunity.

Sanah’ël changed course. Her cloak flapped like a sail in headwind. Switching directions, she took shadowed byways toward the district housing the inn.

It was barely eighth watch when Sanah’ël stepped over the inn’s threshold. So much for being discrete. But straight away, heeding the drunkard’s words seemed to have paid dividends. The crowd was denser than usual, and many people were packed around one of the counters. It was not for drink that they were gathered, however. The stench was worse than usual, and it was not just mead which wafted.

Barely an eye fell on to Sanah’ël as she made her entrance. Nervous chatter was in the air and glances shifted and fell.

‘This ain’t right,’ someone said.

‘Deserved better,’ came the snippet of another’s conversation.

As people parted and moved around, a chest fell into view on the benchtop. The box was of a dried and splintery wood, in worse condition than the oft-used counter. It was no larger than a crate of ale, but the dark faces gathered around it took the simple object as an omen.

‘He really means to do it,’ one said.

Sanah’ël’s footsteps rang loudly in her ears as she approached. A dread fell on her that she could not explain. Someone near the box was holding a parchment of sorts, reading. Others looked on and shook their heads.

‘Enough gawking!’ cried the bartender. ‘We don’t know what this is, so don’t go off flappin’ more than you rightly know!’

‘Then move it off, man!’ a grumble arose. ‘Some of us want to drink here!’

‘An’ be cursed thrice over?’ the bartender said, raising an eyebrow at the dissenter. ‘I ain’t touchin’ it!’

Whatever the complaining man believed about curses, he made no further move.

Sanah’ël got closer.

At last, as the bartender successfully shooed away some onlookers, Sanah’ël saw inside the open-topped container.

It was a human head.

Russet curls.

A pale and once lovely face, crusted with blood.

Indigo eyes, lifeless, twisted, and still.

Nathariel’s head.

Her dear Nathariel.

Sanah shuffled back, knocking over stools. In the chatter which ensued, no one noticed her. She collapsed and found herself in her own embrace, wishing it was Nathariel’s strong arms which held her. She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine him as he had been. But the horrid image in the chest is all she could see.

Through her tears, her sunstone eyes burned with hatred.

‘Who did this?’ Sanah mouthed the words, but could not speak. ‘Who took him?’

As if in answer, one of the bystanders waved the nearby note.

‘This surely bears his mark,’ he said. The man seemed to be promoting a theory, and some who looked on appeared convinced.

Sanah raised her head and strained to see through her crystalled vision. She averted her gaze from the box with all her strength.

A scuffle broke out in disagreement. Someone knocked the parchment out of the holder’s hands and it fell to the ground and settled like a leaf. Sanah read the short, cursive writing.

Unworthy.

D.

A word burnt itself in her mind, alongside the image of her departed lover. A name.

Darius.

Darius.

DARIUS.

‘Pardon, miss,’ the bartender said as he bent to pick up the note and took notice of Sanah slumped over, defeated. ‘Are you alright?’ She noticed a small bronze article tucked into the bartender’s waistcoat pocket. Nathariel’s brooch, twin to the one she had lent a tide earlier, down to the design bearing an eagle in flight.

The bartender began to speak again, something about being sorry for having such a morbid token on display, something about sincerely wishing to close business but needing the coin from strong-stomached patrons. Sanah did not really listen. She rose and thanked the bartender for his concern, and swiped the brooch from his pocket. Then she left the blasted inn, feeling tricked a second time.

It seemed a silent day. Sanah reached the docks not hearing the froth of the waves, not smelling the salt of the sea, not feeling the blow of the breeze.

The thin and leery boatswain from earlier awaited. She hopped aboard.

‘Do you have it?’ Sanah asked.

The boatman produced a small item in his wrinkled hands. Sanah retrieved the brooch which had bought the poor boys’ passage and fixed it to her shoulder.

‘Where do you go?’ he croaked.

Sanah thought of the Dragon’s Eye, that fortress which awaited. ‘Ashore,’ she said simply.

The boat took off, cutting a small wake in the large, grey ocean and setting out into mist.

Nathariel was gone. What had been left behind in that box was just a shell, a vessel. She hoped his spirit was flying free over kinder seas. She brought together the two bronze articles in her hand—her own brooch and Nathariel’s. It was the closest she could ever be to him again.

Distractions, indeed. Opportunities, perhaps. Recompense, certainly. The trap would be sprung. The Empire’s hope would be broken. And if Sanah took down the Empire’s proud mascot while she herself fell, it would be a small, cold comfort. An Eye for an eye.