Reserve system analysis commencing…
Prison breach detected.
Threat level: SIGNIFICANT
Threat threshold reached.
Directive to the Weaver…
Authorise the immediate deployment of [Legendary] and [Mythic] guides from the receptacle.
System message: Directive executed.
Directive to main system…
Unseal the [Archcity of Time].
Upon reaching Threat Level: EXTREME – unseal the [Archcity of xxxxxx].
Error: Main system offline. Requests unsuccessful.
Sending message to Elucidor….
Fearshapers. Insanity stirs.
Descend, or perish.
Error: Main system offline. Message unsuccessful.
---
Shiver watched quietly from a rooftop as the carriage rolled down the cobbled streets of Brimstone, the Archcity of Flame.
She noticed flickers in the shadows beneath her, a motley gang of muggers and thieves waiting to pounce on their prey. One of the shadows strode into the light, in the path of the oncoming carriage.
She licked her popsicle in anticipation.
‘Ho there! Out of the way!’
The driver, anxiously noticing that the man had no intention of moving, pulled on the reigns of his horses calling them to an abrupt stop.
‘What is the meaning of this? You are interrupting the official business of House Flora!’
The hooded interloper picked his nose nonchalantly, flicking a hardened ball of snot at the driver. Shiver hummed as she admired his nonchalance. She recognised him as Dag – short for Dagger – the local ringleader of the slum’s finest.
‘I just so happen to be on official business too, my good man.’
The driver glanced apprehensively at the flickering shadows lining the street.
‘Who sent you?’
Dag smiled and bowed.
‘My wallet of course. It’s in dire need of some funds and you know how harsh a mistress it can be sometimes; I hope you’ll forgive me.’
Shiver sniffed – taking another lick of her popsicle.
‘Hmm… I’d give him a 4/10. He should talk less and stick to the nose-picking.’
The hooded man burst into action, drawing a sword from his overcoat. His accomplices around him closed in on the carriage from all sides. The driver however, having fully appreciated his predicament, relaxed, strangely calm.
He tapped his cane twice, on the floor of the carriage.
Two men burst forth from within, garbed in strange armour.
Shiver’s eyes widened, this was way above Dag’s paygrade.
Their armour looked like a living, writhing mass of dark brown vine and root that encircled their bodies. Each tendril was as thick as her arm. The armed guards extended their hands towards the oncoming muggers, and vines shot outwards from their armour in every direction, spearing them through multiple points in their torsos.
The driver, seemingly prepared, whipped at his reigns and sent the carriage straight into the hooded mugger.
Shiver winced as she witnessed the trampling.
‘Oh come now, his line wasn’t that bad.’
She sprung lithely into action, leaping for the building opposite her while keeping her eyes on the escaping carriage. As she caught the edge of the roof, her popsicle fell into the darkness below.
‘I’m sorry Mr Popsicle, looks like I won’t get to finish you this time.’
She stared forlornly into the darkness below.
Anyone who happened to catch a glimpse of her expression might have assumed that she had lost a dear friend.
Shiver would tell you that she had.
Flipping dexterously onto the roof, her eyes trailed after the carriage and noticed a small shadow running across the rooftops in chase. It seemed like she wasn’t the only one that had sniffed out a potential haul.
In contrast to her own practiced, swift and silent steps, the figure awkwardly leapt over chimneys and fought to keep up with the carriage.
Shiver adopted a pensive expression.
‘Hmm… You don’t look like a popsicle… But I’ll bite.’
Silently trailing the figure, Shiver noticed that the carriage had come to an abrupt stop close to the city’s bustling night market as it rounded the corner.
A hooded figure – the second one that night – exited the carriage, a bag clutched in his arms, out of sight from the pursuing thugs that had yet to catch up to the carriage.
As he walked calmly towards the market, the carriage having resumed its furious passage through the streets.
It’s serving as a distraction. They don’t have cause for worry – Dag and his thugs don’t pose a threat to them. Yet… it looks like they aren’t taking any chances.
Her eyes glinted in the melding of golden and silver moonlight cast by Elucidor’s twin moons – Idriel and Valefor. It was a rare night that the Archcity was not enshrouded by a blizzard.
The man hooked the bag to his belt, casting a furtive glance behind him. The lack of oncoming pursuers made him visibly relax, and he shifted his attention to the bustling night market he found himself in.
Shiver chuckled softly.
‘Go get him, little firefly.’
As if obliging, the small shadow crouched on the rooftops with her leapt clumsily down into the streets below.
Her fall revealed mousey brown hair tied into clumsy pigtails. She disappeared into the mass of people roiling about in the night market. Shiver smirked as she stretched lazily, giving up on the chase.
‘Not bad, not bad… I wonder what they were carrying. Now where did Mr Popsicle fall…’
---
Blaze anxiously clutched the bags she had pickpocketed as she made her way down another one of Brimstone’s alleyways.
She was drawing close to the orphanage and her cheeks were flushed with the rush of pulling off her first successful theft in a while. Not to mention, one of the bags she was holding was heavy, and clinked with the telltale sign of gold. She couldn’t wait to examine the goods.
She slowly opened the door, entering the orphanage. She sighed in relief as the door softly clanked shut behind her.
She let out a little yelp and hopped, fist pumping in the air.
I’ve done it! My first successful solo heist-
Her thoughts of glory were interrupted by a familiar chuckle.
‘I’m impressed little firefly, you did well. But a good heist is nothing without some feedback.’
Feedback.
If there were two things that a young orphan in Brimstone’s lower circle feared, it was starvation, and feedback.
Blaze froze, her head whipping towards the dark corner from which the voice had originated. Her breath caught as her eyes adjusted to the dark.
She made out Shiver’s characteristic cerulean irises, the colour of snow in a thunderstorm. Or at least, “snow in a thunderstorm” was how the older orphan had dramatically phrased it.
Blaze thought it was a stupid description. In her humble opinion, the colour of snow didn’t change whether it was in a thunderstorm or not.
‘The first thing you did well – you noticed those muggers and laid low. You escaped even my keen eyes, initially.’
Shiver’s eyes sparkled in the meagre candlelight as she drew closer.
‘You also used your knowledge of the city roofs to your advantage to cut across to the carriage as it made its way around. Even waiting for your mark to grow more relaxed before you emerged, taking advantage of his complacency. Very impressive.’
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Blaze pouted as Shiver extended a hand to ruffle her messy and sweat-slicked hair.
‘Lastly, you weren’t fixated on the carriage and identified the passenger with the real goods.’
Blaze shone with pride at the older orphan’s glowing review.
‘Did you see how I pickpocketed him? He had no idea! He was staring at Madam Knifely’s bosom when I made the pass, silly man. I got both of his bags!’
Shiver nodded knowingly, despite having seen absolutely none of it. She’d been too busy attempting to retrieve her crucial artefact.
The popsicle.
Exhibiting a dexterity far beyond that of poor Blaze, she snatched the bags out of her hands. The first was made of a rich purple velvet and clunked with the sound of gold and silver.
The other was a small, nondescript brown bag. The one he had hooked to his belt, assuming it would have been more secure as he braved the bustle of the market. It had hardly any weight to it, and as Shiver peeled back the edges, she caught a familiar, welcome scent.
‘However, there were a couple of things that you failed to do. You didn’t take care to notice whether there was anyone up on the roof with you. You also made a racket climbing down from that roof, you were lucky that Dag’s bunch had been taken care of by those guards.’
Blaze’s mood immediately dampened as her spoils were taken from her. The older orphans often exacted a tax when they caught the younger ones stealing. It was all for “their own good”, after all. An orphan who couldn’t steal wouldn’t last very long on the streets.
Constructive criticism, they called it, which usually followed the “feedback”.
Constructive for their wallets, maybe.
Shiver was the closest thing to an older sister to Blaze. She was her older sister, even if not by blood. Which meant she was especially hard on her when she caught her.
Shiver’s mischievous smile gleamed in the candlelight.
‘See… I’m in a particularly poor mood tonight. You won’t believe what happened.’
Blaze’s shoulders shrunk further.
‘I dropped Mr Popsicle while I was trailing you… and I couldn’t find him anywhere! A true tragedy…’
Shiver dropped the purple sack of gold coins, catching it deftly with her boot on the way down.
She laid it down softly before its fall reverberated throughout the orphanage.
Blaze’s eyes widened.
‘Good thing he had some chocolate on him. Off you go now.’
She gave Blaze a wink as the little girl blinked, stunned at her good fortune.
Then she broke out into a bright smile that did her moniker justice. Grabbing up the bag of gold protectively, the little urchin scuttled off to deposit it in her very secret spot.
Shiver hadn’t the slightest clue where she could have stashed it. It certainly wasn’t lodged in the space between her bed’s headboard and the wall… that would be preposterous.
Shiver chuckled.
Then her smile abruptly flattened, as she heard a door creak. The matron of the orphanage had entered the room.
‘Mother.’
‘Shiver, there’s no greed to greet me so…coldly.’
Shiver rolled her eyes.
‘You know, we have plenty of food here and a bed for you as well. I know what you do for the little ones.’
Mother Ventra, was a portly, short woman – the very picture of a friendly grandmother. But her eyes revealed the characteristic glaze of a Tranquillity addict.
‘Now I know that you don’t like Tranquillity, but a little now and then would go a long way. You don’t have to force yourself to face your Fear lik-’
Shiver’s eyes burned as she glared at the orphanage’s matron. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palm.
‘You’re still giving Tranquillity to the children.’
‘Only when they need it. Not everyone is as… resilient in the face of their Fear as you are.’
‘Do I need to remind you of the risks, oh mother?’
‘Still preferable to Insanity. Shiver-‘
Shiver chose not to dignify her excuses with a response, roughly brushing past her to exit the orphanage, back into the night.
---
The cold. Brimstone, despite its name, was surrounded by it. The Archcity of Flames was bordered by mountains of towering ice – the Verscallian Peaks, situated at the heart of the Winterlands.
Home to the plentiful mines that House Brimstone derived their vast fortune from. The Archcity was built into a dormant volcano, reflecting the folly and arrogance of one of the great elven houses.
Squat buildings of dark blue stone peppered the city’s slums. They stood in stark contrast to the elegant and imposing structures that layered the city’s upper circles.
Aqueducts of lava flowed down from the upper circles to the slums, supplying warmth to the city’s residents in their homes and along the city’s streets.
The lava flowed underneath cobbled pavement through the city’s ingenious lavaways, feats of ancient engineering that the city’s brightest minds had failed to replicate.
Warmth was not denied even to the slums.
Shiver walked along warm, cobbled stone, lava peaking out from the glass-like substance that sealed the stones together, separating the surface from the lava beneath. She loved the way the orange hues melded with the dark-blue tones of the city.
Crouching out of the sewers through her secret exit from the city, Shiver was immediately met with a gust of cold wind, in stark contrast to the warmth of the city.
In response, her heart raced with anxiety, her vision tinged red and she was overwhelmed with a sense of claustrophobia.
She was revisited by a familiar terror.
Her Fear.
She yawned, lazily scratching an itch on her neck. Her Fear had always been more pronounced after enjoying the comfort of warmth.
Trudging through the snow, Shiver’s heartbeat began to escalate with each stride. In the peripheries of her vision, she saw flickers of movement.
Denizens in the snow, waiting for her to trip.
They came in various sizes and forms.
Most took on the form of nondescript ice shades, with fingers like razors. More recently, they had begun to resemble people she knew, blood dripping from frozen orifices.
Shiver looked their way, giving them a merry wave.
As she approached the dark forest which bordered the city, she took her usual route through the trees, towards her grand residence – a cave nestled in the nook of a mountain. As she nonchalantly walked into the dark, her Fear continued to torment her.
She saw herself in the shadow of the cave before her. Frozen solid, eyes bloodshot, limbs lost from hypothermia.
Her cadaver’s face was stretched in a rictus of a grin.
‘You look pleased to see me. Are you Mr Popsicle’s replacement?’
Her frozen caricature made no response, its eyes moving to meet her own.
She sighed, leaning against cave wall, guarded from the icy gale outside.
She reached her hand into the small brown bag, fingers coming into contact with the chocolate.
‘Only a single piece?’
She turned it over, her face pulling into a grimace as she realised that it was mouldy.
An audible protest erupted from her stomach. Looking further into the small cave, she examined her meagre possessions.
A thin sleeping roll, a bag of coins beside it – magnitudes smaller than the pouch Blaze had stolen – and some mouldy bread.
A choice between mouldy bread, or a single piece of chocolate.
With a sigh, she chose the bread, sequestering the chocolate back in her pouch. Who said beggars couldn’t be choosers?
‘I’ll save you for next time.’
Taking a bite of the damp loaf with a wince, Shiver closed her eyes and settled into her sleeping roll.
In place of the respite of sleep, came familiar nightmares of ice.
---
Silas walked through one of the dark corridors of Brimstone Manor, ignoring the bodies that hung from the ceiling. They were suspended by thin, almost imperceptible silver strings.
It had been many years ago, when he had first visited the toyshop with his mother and sister as a young boy. His mother had doted on his sister, who had whined for a new doll. He remembered being jealous of how his parents spoiled Silvena.
On that day of their visit, however, they both gained something from the toyshop.
His sister, a beautiful doll, and him?
With a Fear.
The puppets turned their heads to trace his route through the corridor. They dripped in viscera, and his steps left bloody footprints that only his eyes would perceive.
His family was strung up before the entrance to the Highlord’s door. They stared at him with empty eyes.
Silas paid them no heed. He knocked on the door.
‘Highlord Berevan, a moment if you please.’
‘Silas. Enter.’
Silas entered the office of the Highlord of the Brimstone family in the middle of the night.
The Highlord sat at a simple wooden desk, an elegant metal pen in hand. His humble desk stood in stark contrast to the beautifully furnished room around him.
He was, for as long Silas had known him, a practical man. A humble and kind leader, devastatingly competent in matters of lordship and life alike.
‘The package from Flora was intercepted, my lord. Five dead and ten incapacitated in the theft.’
The Highlord rose with a heavy sigh.
He was a burly man, sinewy muscle evident through the light shirt that he wore, exposing a hairy chest. Stroking his beard, he walked to the sole window in his office, which spanned almost the entirety of the wall.
Silas, who had served the Brimstone family since had had been just teenager, knew the mansion like the back of his hand. He also knew that the window was supposed to provide an excellent view of the city circles beneath them.
Instead, it depicted a beautiful garden, with a quaint cottage sitting in the middle, the entire scene bathed perpetually in gentle, golden sunlight.
The work of Fearshapers from Somnolence, the Archcity of Dreams, at the request of Highlady Appella.
A reminder of her home.
The Highlord turned, to face him, his eyes tinged with a red glow. As he walked closer to Silas, he noticed the hazy patches that surrounded the Highlord, a result of the heat created by his aura.
Accompanying the sight, was a wave of warmth that burned uncharacteristically hot, betraying the Highlord’s barely suppressed frustration.
Silas felt his sweat surface in response.
‘With so many dead, I’m surprised the theft was successful.’
Silas nodded.
‘Flora’s Knights of the Dreadwood dispatched the thugs, they were not the ones who stole the package. Lord Semille left the carriage in the hopes of losing them in the night market while they gave chase. He believes he was pickpocketed.’
‘Lord Semille Flora… the worst of her children to have been entrusted with this responsibility.’
‘Also, the one least likely to question. The most, expendable.’
‘Indeed, Silas. I’m certain his rush was driven by an urge to visit the pleasure houses, rather than by his commitment to his mission. And the thief?’
Silas frowned, ignoring the bloodstained wires of silver that crept into the peripheries of his vision.
‘It was the handywork of an orphan by the name of Blaze. Mother Ventra offered me the information in exchange for an agreement to… subsidise her Tranquility purchases.’
The two exchanged a glance, their discomfort clear.
Many of the orphans in the slums had particularly acute Fears – which were, putting it lightly, difficult to manage. The matron was cooperative and ensured that her charges stayed away from crimes of a more egregious nature. It came at a cost.
‘She informed us that Blaze had stolen Semille’s gold pouch, reporting on other spoils. It’s quite possible that our package was stolen by someone else during his venture into the market.’
‘Or, it could have been taken after the theft.’
Berevan nodded to him, and he felt the heat of the Highlord’s aura intensify again.
‘I know that you think him an incompetent, hedonistic bastard, Silas. But do not underestimate Semille’s cruelty. Should he find out that he was thwarted by an orphan of all things, we are certain to have a tragedy on our hands.’
Silas nodded his assent.
‘A discreet and thorough examination of the orphanage will be conducted. I will report to you with the findings shortly, Highlord. Lord Semille also “kindly requests” an audience.’
Berevan let out a booming laugh, his expression softening for the first time that evening.
‘Something tells me those weren’t the words he used, my friend.’
The burly man, stood his arm extended in a casual gesture.
The space beside his arm started to fill with a haze of heat, which gradually intensified. In a flash of brilliant red and gold, the Highlord manifested his Phobia, a burnished greatsword of the same colour.
Running through the middle of the blade was a perpetually rotating vortex of flame.
Evidence of his bond with the eternal phoenix, his guide, and of his status as a Fearshaper.
Highlord Berevan Brimstone’s eyes burned.
If what its sender had claimed was true, the package that he had expected to receive from the Dreadwood had the power to change everything.
To right the sins of the past.
‘By all means, Silas, send our esteemed friend Lord Semille in.’