Ethan had never felt so frightened in his life. Never felt so helpless. He sat beside a barrel on the step of a darkened doorway and cried. The bells were louder above ground, and the clamour made his head pound.

He didn’t know what to do. The heroes of his stories had always won the day. Had always slain the fearsome beast. But how do you slay a ghost? How do you fight spectres that creep up through floors and pass through wood and stone as easily as fish through water?

How do you fight monsters that make you want to follow?

Ethan sat and shuddered as he struggled for breath, panic clawing at every nerve, begging him to flee. Yet his mind knew nowhere was safe.

Was it better to move, or sit still? Was it better to turn back, or would the doom follow him home? He felt he would be sick again, but there was nothing in his stomach.

He was no warrior, no matter his fantasies. He was no hero, no matter his dreams of glory. He was just a scared little boy who could only run away.

There was movement at the end of the lane where it met a broader street. The sound of shouting and thundering footsteps approached as a group of men raced up the incline. Ethan kept his back to the wall and edged towards the arched mouth of the lane. Ethan ducked as he watched several of the singing lights flitting about the street, drawn to the group of men wearing boots and nightclothes, wielding tines and cleavers.

Several small fires burned in doorways and chased across the roofs of nearby houses, filling the air with ash and sparks. The colour of the flames was an unnatural, mercurial silver, and looked like blazing death.

Ethan peered up and down the street for Rangers, but none were in sight. He crouched low, hunched against the soot-blackened wall, watching the three men swing their weapons at the encroaching lights.

An occasional lucky blow with the blunt edge of a cleaver bunted the lights away, but they quickly regathered, twisting through the air to swarm once more.

Ethan gritted his teeth, tugging at his hair with helplessness, clamping his ears against the siren call though it made no difference. The song was too strong, too deep, flooding him from the inside out with soundless, merciless melody.

The men stilled, their parries sluggish as they slowly lowered their weapons, helpless against the haunting thrall.

They were going to die. The pearls would drain them of their colours, the life spirits Ethan had always thought been myth, and cast them to their tombs.

Ethan couldn’t abide doing nothing. The lights were far enough away that, though slow and heavy, Ethan could force his limbs to move. Ethan flung himself out into the wider street, buildings burning above and beside him.

Debris fell in showers of sparks from tall roofs and burning sills. A long piece of wood that looked to have once been the edge of a window lay by his feet. Picking it up, Ethan pushed the end into a nearby fire, holding himself as far back from the blistering heat as he could.

A pearl was already stripping colours from one man’s fingers. The man sank to his knees with a scream, and Ethan dashed forward, stumbling over the rough cobble.

Ethan brandished his makeshift torch towards the pearl, which twisted away from the flame. Ethan screamed as he swung his torch back and forth, jabbing it towards the pearls as they gathered.

Jolted from their stupor, the men rallied, shaking the heaviness from their own limbs. The one kneeling struggled to his feet, grunting in pain and cradling his hand. The skin was waxen and lifeless.

“The flames, the silver dragon fire, it hurts the lights,” Ethan shouted at the men.

“My hand...” the injured man groaned as the others scrambled for their own pieces of timber. “I can’t... My hand, it hurts.” Tears streaked his face as he whimpered, eyes unfocused with pain and shock.

Ethan didn’t know what to do for the man. He didn’t know what happened when your flesh was rendered lifeless by a siren ghost.

And so he continued brandishing the burning stick at the swarm of pearls, attempting to catch them alight. Yet they were too quick, twisting away too erratically. He swung until his arms grew too heavy with the effort.

Before he could once again panic at his own helplessness, one of the other men returned with a flaming plank of wood, swinging it towards the cluster of lights, dispersing them further.

“Go’on then, Caleb, get behind me now. You too, little lad. Rufus will bring up the rear.”

True to word, the one named Rufus, a broad-shouldered man with a scraggly black beard, hulked at the back. They all spun in place, wielding their flaming planks like swords against the life-eating pearls.

They all froze as a dragon circled overhead in a glittering flash of silver and rainbow iridescence. It passed over them quickly and without notice.

Miraculously, the lights that swarmed them flitted away, chasing after the larger game and leaving the exhausted group behind. Weary with fear and exertion, they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“We need to get to shelter,” the man at the front yelled. “And away from the fires.”

The smoke was thickening further up the hill, so they tracked their way down the street, back the way the men had first come.

“What’s yer name, little lad?” the man in front called.

“Ethan,” Ethan yelled back.

“I’m Aaron. You did us a mighty favour back there, Ethan. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ethan replied. It seemed a strange thing to say under the circumstances, such a mild and automatic courtesy. Aaron seemed to think so too and chuckled. Ethan smiled, feeling giddy with the rush of victory. He hadn’t saved Caleb’s hand, but he had saved their lives. He hadn’t run away. He could be more than a boy playing at hero. He could help people.

Ethan squared his shoulders, keeping his eyes peeled for danger as the group made their way through town. Ethan hadn’t thought they’d had a destination in mind, but the sound of bells grew louder and he realised Aaron was leading them towards the Central Citadel on the edge of Midtown.

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Ethan was relieved.

Without cloth and oil, their makeshift torches burned quickly. The group stopped regularly to fetch new pieces of wood from piles of debris. Though they moved slowly, Ethan’s tension eased as they encountered no more of the singing lights, and the great dome of the Central Citadel came into view.

As they approached, they saw more people. Many wore night clothes with hastily donned boots and jackets. Others were outfitted in the ribbed armour and carved bone masks of Grimwood Rangers.

The Rangers stationed in the front grounds were ushering people into the Citadel, yelling instructions to move down to the crypt levels. Most hastened to follow the commands, though others ran about the building and streets calling frantically for lost loved ones. More Rangers lined the upper balconies of the large building, bows drawn and arrows notched.

“You there!” A Ranger with a bird mask carved with pointed stars beckoned them towards the Citadel doors. “Move in, quickly, but calmly. Get settled in the lower crypts.”

Ethan’s companions charged forward, passing through the ornate wood and bronze doors into the Citadel, but Ethan balked.

“Go on, boy. Follow your friends, quickly now!”

“Sir! Sir, the ghosts can get in anyway. The dragons, they move through stone like nothing, and the singing lights, they can appear even in locked rooms with no open doors or windows— sir, please! Please listen!”

The Ranger hesitated, gazing around the street before crouching down to Ethan’s level.

“Listen, lad. There are fires everywhere. People are unsafe in their homes. People are unsafe on the streets. The best chance we have to survive this is to wait it out together. We can protect people better if they’re sheltered in one place. Now—”

“Please, please don’t make me go down there. I can help! I can save people, look!” Ethan held up his flaming stick, burning now to smouldering embers.

“The silver fire hurts the singing lights. I’ve seen it! It burns them all away! If you can catch them…”

“We’ve seen it too, lad. But we’ve never met the like of this before.” The Ranger gently shook Ethan’s shoulders. “We’re fighting these things as best we know how, and orders from on high are to move everyone to the lower crypts.”

As he spoke, a Ranger loosed an arrow, its tip of flaming silver streaking like a star through the smoky night sky. The arrow hit its mark, engulfing an approaching ferrifae in a concussive flare before flame and fae both winked from sight.

The bird masked Ranger grinned at the small victory and made to stand, clearly ready to herd Ethan towards the Citadel doors before he tilted his head and paused.

“What’s your name, kid? You look familiar…”

“Ethan.”

“Wait…” The Ranger peered closely at Ethan’s face, caked with grime and dried tears as it was. “Prince Ethan? Prince Edrick’s eldest? You're the young lad we took out to drills the other week. I didn’t recognise you, your hair is— what are you doing all the way down—”

Another Ranger in a fox mask strode over, interrupting the interrogation. Bird Mask stood, but kept a firm hand on Ethan's shoulder.

Ethan reached up, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. It felt the same, if brittle with dust and ash.

“Princes Asten and Callum are dead,” the new Ranger reported, her fist clenched tight around her bone club. “Last I saw, the King was fighting in the Lower Sprawl while Prince Edrick was tracking back towards the Palace.”

Bird Mask swore, and the two spoke in rapid whispers.

Ethan lost the thread of the conversation. The news of his uncle’s deaths felt like a hammer blow. The world around him seemed suddenly murky, details all blurring together in a whirl of smoke and darkness.

But his father and grandfather were still alive. Dimly, Ethan had the thought that his father was now First Scion, next in line for the throne. If he survived the night.

With a hiccuping sob, Ethan wrenched from the Ranger’s grasp and fled. He had to find his father. His family.

“Prince Ethan, stop! Come back!”

Ethan ignored the Ranger’s commands and bolted around a corner, chasing through the labyrinth of smoky streets.

He dropped his burnt out stick, scrambling to find another. He lit the tip in a spot fire billowing from a nearby window.

Ethan refused to sit and watch as people died in their sleep. He wouldn’t lay in idle stupor as the living colours of everyone around him were torn away piece by piece, nor stand by as his family was slain.

Ethan gasped as he caught his reflection in a pane of cracked glass. Underneath the ashen filth, his usually black hair was bone white.

“What…”

Screams echoed from an alley ahead. Ethan started and kept moving. He twisted down a narrow lane, skipping over debris and discarded belongings. Passing into another winding street, steep and narrow, Ethan stumbled to a halt.

Singing lights were erupting through the cobbled earth, surrounding a father and his two small children. The man was swinging the lid of an iron pot, struggling to fend off the lights as they encroached from all sides.

The power of their song was disrupted by the shrill cries of the children, and the occasional harsh clang of iron against the wood of a window sill or the stone of a wall.

The man swung wildly, bellowing his fear and rage at the encircling sprites.

Without hesitation, Ethan raised his flaming stick and roared. Charging down the narrow path, Ethan thrust his flame towards the nearest light, driving it up and away from the children. The lights retreated from the flickering silver, before twisting in place and circling closer once again.

Ethan brandished and swung, fending the lights further and further away.

“That’s it lad, well done!” The man sounded close to tears with relief. “Here, lad, my reach is longer.”

The man dropped the iron lid with a clatter as Ethan passed him the torch. The children’s cries had subsided to tearful whimpers and Ethan ducked to shield them as he looked around for another piece of wood.

There was a pile of debris further down the lane, unreachable beyond the swarm of lights.

The man’s swings began to slow, becoming sluggish, and Ethan thought perhaps the man was tiring despite his strength and size.

Then he realised the song of the lights rang deeper, more intense than before. Ethan felt himself droop, arms becoming wooden as false peace sank into his bones.

The twisting lights swarmed closer.

Ethan shook his head clear and, picking up the discarded pot lid, slammed it down onto the black quartz cobbles as hard as he could.

The resulting clang jolted them all, disrupting the power of that euphoric chorus.

Determined, Ethan raised the lid again, slamming it down on the stones over and over. The man above him continued to swing, though Ethan could see the flame was beginning to sputter, belching smoke as it dwindled to embers.

Ethan huddled over the younger children. They pressed their small hands over their ears as he smashed the pot lid against the stones.

They needed to move, but the lights were too close. There were too many, and more kept rising, bursting up from the ground like blooming stars.

Ethan closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable as the blackened stick dropped from the man’s grasp with a clatter.

The lights closed in and the man screamed. Ethan didn’t look, though colourful lights flashed through his closed eyelids. He allowed the lid to fall from his grasp with a feeling of defeat and wrapped his arms around the wailing children.

“Ethan! There you are!” A loud voice roared. The sound of charging footsteps echoed down the lane. “Hold on, we’re coming to get you.”

Ethan knew that voice.

“Grandfather!” he shouted, relief flooding his chest.

Ethan looked up to see the King break away from a tight huddle of a dozen Rangers and sprint towards the children bearing a torch of flaming silver light.

The children’s father lay on the ground, motionless and stripped of all colour. As the lights twisted towards them, the King hoisted the children up and towards the Rangers before throwing himself into the swarm.

“NO!” Ethan screamed, fighting to his feet as his grandfather was engulfed by the lights. Ethan caught a quick glimpse of the King as he swung his torch in a swirl of flame. Then Ethan was shunted to the middle of the group, view blocked by the surrounding Rangers.

“Grandfather!” Ethan shouted as the Rangers around them held their own torches aloft. “GRANDFATHER!”

The two smaller children were screaming, and the Rangers struggled to contain them as the group edged forward.

The Rangers at the head of the group arranged their torches, properly cloth-bound and burning bright, into a wall of flame. Slowly they pushed forward, driving the lights back measure by measure.

They stepped past the fallen forms of the children’s father and the King. Ethan sank to his knees and sobbed, before a gentle hand lifted him upright.

“We have to keep moving, Prince Ethan.” A familiar bird mask carved with stars filled Ethan’s blurred vision. “We will come back for him. For all of them, but we have to keep moving now.”

Ethan gulped, trying to swallow his sobs as he wiped his eyes clear and nodded. Crouching once more, he lifted the pot lid and, after a second’s hesitation, withdrew his grandfather’s bone club from its holster.

Sniffling, face crumpled in misery, Ethan nodded to the Ranger and the group pressed on.