The sun shone brightly through the windows. A storm of leaves scattered in the wind, marking the passing of the seasons. Inside the dorm was a different sort of storm altogether. “Ugh,” Lucas groaned. It was too much for him. He was lying on his bunk bed—the top bunk closest to the windows on the left of the room, head dangling upside down off the bed, reading a book. 

The book, entitled Everquest, seemed like a typical fantasy novel. What set it apart, however, was its extreme focus on a love triangle, and the extraordinarily amounts of attention devoted to describing their appearances. “Spun-gold hair…sky blue eyes…aquiline nose…sharp jawline…” Lucas recited quotes from Everquest. “A face that was as radiant as the sun and as mysterious as the moon⸺Ok, I’ll stop there.” He hoisted himself onto the bed, so that he was sitting, his laptop on his, well, lap. How am I supposed to write the report? Lucas thought this through. “Best wait ‘till morning.” It was ten minutes away from midnight. His roommates had gone out for the night, probably to get drinks at the nearby bar.

Lucas was in his fourth year of university, and yet somehow never managed to learn how to stop procrastinating throughout his entire educational career. “Utterly derisible,” he muttered. He sighed, before leaning down and putting his laptop onto the nightstand, knocking Everquest-which he had previously placed onto the stand-to the ground in the process. He yawned, stretched, before almost immediately falling asleep. That was a skill he learned during his time in the military: to sleep efficiently and wake up on time. 

There was a clock hanging on the wall opposite of the windows. Its red second hand ticked ceaselessly. Tick. Tick. Tick. A cloud drifted over the luminescent full moon. Tick. Tick. The minute hand shifted. Eleven fifty-seven, the clock read. Tick. Tick. Eleven fifty-eight. Tick. Tick. Tick. Fifty-nine. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock. Now, all three hands moved in unison, all of them pointing directly upwards. Twelve o'clock. 

For a second, nothing happened. Then, a flash of bright light.

When Lucas’ roommates entered the room, all they saw were two empty bunk beds, a laptop gathering dust on the nightstand, and a book, lying upside down on the floor, the words on its cover and spine bathed in the ethereal light of the moon.

Everquest, it read.

XXXXX

The sun shone brightly through the windows. Birds chirped on a nearby tree. A storm of leaves scattered in the wind, marking the passing of the seasons. Inside the room was a different sort of storm altogether. A baby’s wailing rang sonorously throughout the lavish chamber. Where am I? Lucas thought, groggily. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep, safe in his university dorm. And yet here he was, surrounded by these people he didn’t know, and in a place he didn’t know. 

The baby’s wailing grew. Will you cut that out? He thought, annoyed. Instantly, the baby stopped. Lucas calmed himself, before trying to figure out what in the world was going on. There were two men nearby, one dressed in medieval robes, long, rich and royal, while the other wore a black suit and was adjusting his monocle. There was also a woman in the room. She, like the robed man, had fair skin and blonde hair. The woman and Lucas were on a bed. Realizing that, he tried to push himself up, to escape from these strange people, when he couldn’t. His hands were grasping the bedsheets and he was straining against all his might, but he felt so heavy, so clumsy. Lucas looked down at himself. Dread coiled in his stomach. 

I think…I think I was the crying baby.

“Shh. It’s okay, Caelus,” the blonde woman smiled, reaching for him. He tried to back away, but once again, he couldn’t. His brain registered something, though. Caelus. I’ve heard that somewhere. Wait.

Caelus Ferros, second son of the imperial throne. One of the side characters of Everquest. He was known to be the most attractive, having inherited the blonde hair of the royal family and the Merrigold’s rich blue eyes. Lucas had enjoyed reciting snippets about his appearance to his friends, which the author had annoyingly taken time to elaborate greatly upon. However, he had an arrogant and unpredictable personality, that led to his premature death. It was mentioned that the female lead was enraptured by him in the past, only to find out his psychotic personality. Wait. If I am Caelus now…

Suddenly, a blue message screen popped up in thin air.

‘Activating System”, it read.

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The sun was rising as they sat, poring over a game board. They sat, surrounded by the portraits of kings and great knights of old. They sat, in hastily drawn up chairs, surrounding the sprinkling fountain, providing them some relief against the overbearing heat of the Island of Eternal Summer.

“This will mean war,” the woman said. She twirled a white knight in her hand, before deftly knocking away a pawn, and replacing it with the knight.

“Perhaps,” he replied, pleasantly. “But if my intuition serves me justly, it can be avoided.” His gloved fingers clasped around a bishop, before proceeding to capture her knight with said piece. “Your turn.”

“I often wonder, what is your purpose for doing such things?” Sunlight bounced off the painted windows, creating kaleidoscopic patterns on the woman’s teawood skin, and casting a mirage out of the fountain. The man, hidden in the shadows, was not affected. 

“To see my seeds grow and take root,” he answered. “Nurturing them until they blossom into magnificent roses and daffodils as radiant as the sun.” A dangerous glint formed in his eyes. “I am most excited to see how Skyfall shall respond.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Tch.” The white queen moved to capture the bishop. “Check,” she said.

“Always so impatient, dear,” he chided, smiling. Soft, white silken gloves moved a bishop to defend.

“Always so craven, my lord,” she countered. He was no lord; both of them knew that well. She moved her rook. “Check.”

“Aye, but between the foolish hero and the craven, I’d rather be the latter, no?” His pawn advanced.

Like always, he won. 

XXXXX

Andeline shook her head. “One day, your relentless campaign of scheming and backstabbing is going to lead to your doom.”

“Not today, though, no?” Luther was not armed, nor did he have any aptitude for combat. This, at least, Andeline knew for a fact. Pale skin that had not seen an hour of sunlight, scrawny build, coupled with black hair and black eyes that glinted with dry amusement. Most of his body was draped in layers of clothing; long, knee-length robes shadowed by a black cloak. Black boots, to match a black bowler hat. He carried a cane—his knee had shattered once, and never healed properly—its handle fashioned in the likeness of a snake. He reminded her of a tale she had heard in her youth, of a conniving fox, who tricked lost travelers in the night to follow him, until they met their grisly demise, drowning in a quagmire.

She, on the other hand, was captain of the Nothr knights, and of the Nothr household herself. House Nothr had once been kings, before Ferros and Greyfell before them sought to correct that. Still, their power remained one of the best in the continent of Alqara. Many renowned swordsmen were born from her line. The legendary blade Fatum, passed down from generation to generation, was sheathed on her left hip. She wore her dwarven-forged mail, as she always did, except when she slept.

Comparing Luther to her would be degrading. 

She did not draw her blade.

And they say I am fearless, she thought. But even I know better than to prod a snake. 

“I believe my audience with your highness is over,” he said, excusing himself without waiting for Andeline to reply. He dipped his hat towards her, almost mockingly, before leaving. No guards barred his exit; she kept no in her private estate. 

And they say I am reckless. But even I know better than to wade in the quagmire.

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The fire was almost out. Helen quickly fed the flames some wood, even though that was degrading of her title as seer. Then again, almost everything she did was degrading towards someone who had the title of seer. She didn’t mind, though, and besides, it wasn’t as if she was given a choice.

The cucurrio knew war. This wasn’t the first time the cucurrio were forced to flee from their homes due to persecution. It was the first time for her, though. She’d joined the cucurrio only a year ago, due to her unique aptitude for the art of seeing and knowing that which could not be seen nor learned.

She didn’t mind the endless nights camping in the woods, shivering in the coldness, or the relentless march onwards. Behind her was only darkness and death; ahead, there was hope. 

The other cucurrio members were used to this. The religious order had first taken roots on the soils of Marwha, before the War for the Sun and Moon. Before Marwha became Menogol, or, as the native mainlanders called it, Dior Major. Helen had struggled at first, she couldn’t sleep surrounded by the noise of the forest in the night, nor could she bear the march laden with heavy goods. But she had learned, like they all had. War changed them, she thought. As it changed me. 

I belong not to the land, but to the people. The cucurrio were her family. Not Calledros, the city where the cucurrio had stayed, and where they were insulted by the cityfolk as menai. Outsiders. Aliens.

She wore her red cucurrio mask and her cloak of feathers proudly, not letting the insults in. Besides, menai was on the tamer side compared to the insults she had suffered in the past. The past. 

It would come to be known as the coldest winter of the decade, the winter that also heralded the longest spring, but at the time, all it spelled for her was death. 

Her worn-out boots and coat did little to shelter her from the bitter cold. And yet she could not return. All she could do was wander from house to house, seeking warmth and shelter. None took her in. The baker took pity on her enough to let her sit by the fireplace, but he was soon swamped with customers, trying to hoard bread for the coming winter. The baker’s wife appeared then, took one look at her, and promptly ushered her out, shrieking at her to never return.

 And so she could only flounder helplessly in the snow, lighting a matchstick, watching the fire flicker and dance in the wind, before the snow claimed its life. It’s so cold, she remembered thinking. Her breath created misty clouds in the air. So… cold.

That was before the cucurrio found her, took her in, and raised her as their own. She may be menai to the normal Alqarans, but she didn’t care. Not as long as she had her family.

“Come now, little wren,” one of the older priests called to her. His name was Cain. He was the one that found her in the snow, the one that brought her back to the order. Her village was near the port city of Calledros, which acted as a transit between Nothr on Triton’s Island and the Alqaran mainland. Warm southern winds blew from the Island of Eternal Summer; cool winds from the Rockshore Mountains in the northeast. Calledros’ climate had seemed like a paradise to her, who’d only known the blistering heat and the freezing cold. If only Calledros’ citizens could be so nice.

Nevertheless, her new life was paradise. She didn’t mind the mandatory chores, like scrubbing their dilapidated church, or following along with the prayers, even those in Old Marwai, the dead tongue of Marwha. None could deny that she dedicated herself to the order fiercely; she stayed up late reciting hymns and never shied away from wearing the red-and-black in public, knowing she’d be stared at and mocked. Once her gift for the seeing was discovered, she was elevated to the rank of priest; a year later, she became a seer. Cain was her mentor then. In the order, he was called bishop, even though the cucurrio only had only one church. 

And even that was taken away from them. Constant harassment, unfair taxes, intentional provocations, discrimination—the cucurrio had bore it all for two centuries, ever since the Great Migration. But now, open persecution—it was no longer safe to wear the red-and-black in the city anymore.

Some might complain that it wasn’t fair. Helen knew better.

In a way, the world was fair in its unfairness.