Encased in flesh and sun-white stone

The darkness grows, and grows alone.

Sunlight fell in thin, warm shafts across the cosily-appointed room. It brightened a section of maroon rug and ran across the face of a polished wooden dresser, glinting off a pale vase and simple platter of fruit. It sent dust motes floating towards the reddish drapes that softened the stone walls. In the cool shadows beyond the light, a comfortable bed stood, alongside a bookcase full of reading material. There was a tiny writing desk against another wall, chair tucked neatly beneath it.

But despite its homely appearance, certain details about the room were… wrong.

The rose in the vase was dry and brown as old skin, its head hanging forlornly. The food on the platter was shrivelled rotten. The books quietly gathered dust in the corner, unread. The carpet and wall hangings were ragged and frayed in patches; the sheets on the bed were in disarray. The window was small and narrow, too high to look out of.

And one entire wall of the room consisted of sturdy iron bars.

There was a door in the bars. Ten locks were set into it; all different, all crafted by a master locksmith.

No lock was unpickable.

But patience was a virtue that the room’s sole occupant had always lacked.

In the centre of the cell, a woman sat. She was silent and still, straight-backed and cross-legged, her hands clasped in her lap.

She wore a long, oversized military coat, a dusty beige colour with orange chevrons emblazoned on the sleeves and back. The coat was open at the front, revealing a glimpse at what lay beneath.

Black armour, dark as the night, lustrous with a sinister, oily hue that caught the light and twisted it in odd ways. The armour was made up of smooth plates that fit her body perfectly, hugging her figure.

But there was one thing particularly distinctive about the black armour:

It couldn’t be taken off.

Hair as red as bright blood fell about her face, and eyes as grey as stone stared forward.

On the rug beside her lay two rats. Their small furry bodies were not mutilated; there was no blood, no wounds of any kind. But they were dead.

When she had first discovered that she could take the lives of living creatures with just a touch, she was repulsed to the point of vomiting. But their tiny, warm souls had briefly flooded her with a rush of vitality, made her feel she was still alive. And then the feeling had faded into cold, aching emptiness, dissolving a little of herself with it, and leaving her wondering if she was still Human.

Some part of her quailed in horror, all while longing to touch that wave of brightness again.

Carmine wasn’t sure what she was. Concepts of life and death had become jumbled, their meaning lost. Often, her head was full of dark, whispering thoughts, and she did not know if they were hers or belonged to someone – or something – else…

Some of her memories were still there, but they lined the back of her skull like paintings on a distant wall, created by a different person, someone long gone…

But one memory was still very much alive. It was a red gash across all the others, a scar that would not stop bleeding, filled with the slow-burning magma fire of a red-hazed island. She had tried to seal it off, to bind the wound, to heal, but something black kept on ripping it open, demanding that she never forget. The pain of trying to forget made her scream, and tear at the carpet until her nails bled, or rip at her long red hair.

She had gotten used to the pain now, had given up trying to suppress it. The pain was a hard wall onto which she built her anger.

The anger was a decent substitute for a soul. It gave her warmth, sustained her.

She remembered Devandar Hawk, vaguely; remembered that she had loved him. She didn’t know what that meant, any more. She knew that others were trying to keep him alive; the other people who might have once been her friends.

How dare they! Hawk was hers, and she ought to be the one to determine his fate!

But they had locked her in this cell, like an exotic animal in a cage, hidden away in a private, depraved exhibition. The cell had been specially constructed for her when the Guard House had been rebuilt. Away from the other prisoners. Away from the Freeroamers and the townsfolk. Too dangerous to be allowed to roam free in the world.

The Freeroamers, in their black and blue uniforms, brought her food and water and tried to make her life, such as it was, as comfortable as possible. But no one was allowed to approach her.

One person made sure of that.

Her grey eyes burned, both with fury and lack of sleep. He was always there, a shadow lurking around every corner. Even when he wasn’t present, black feathers lingered in her thoughts, driving her to maddening restlessness.

Mekka.

She hated him.

Sometimes he dropped in just to check on her; sometimes he sat on a stool against the far wall for awhile, observing her. He rarely spoke. Once, years ago, he had started to leave and hesitated, turning back, looking as though he wanted to say something. But then he had changed his mind and left.

One day, she vowed, staring at the bars and past them, to their striped shadows on the whitewashed walls, I will get out of this cell.

And then she would know what an Angel soul felt like, when she stole it from him.

She wished she could dream of the possibilities.

But she had no dreams.

Only nightmares.

* * *

Everine Arva studied the face across from her anxiously, resisting the urge to drum her fingers. Bright sunlight fell between them, highlighting a mosaic of round beer-stains – decades of them – patterning the worn, scarred wood of the tabletop.

The Angel gave away nothing; he ate as though carrying out the most serious task in the world, but he always looked like that.

Is that good serious or bad serious? She couldn’t deduce which.

Finally, Mekka put down his fork and sat staring at the crumbs on his plate for an interminably long moment.

Everine’s nails started tapping of their own accord.

Mekka got up.

“Well?” she asked.

He folded his arms and frowned. “Didn’t like it,” he replied frankly. “Awful. Far too sweet.” He turned, striding towards the stairs. “Practically inedible.”

“What!” Everine got to her feet in surprise. “But… you ate all of it!”

Mekka shrugged without turning around. “I had to be sure.”

She glared at his black boots ascending to the upper floor, before turning back to the table with a sigh. “That’s the third pie you’ve had to be ‘sure’ of this week,” she muttered. Gathering up the plate and fork, she carried them past the bar and into the kitchen. There she plopped them into the soapy suds filling the sink.

She put her hands on her hips and stared at the dishes resentfully, as though wishing they would wash themselves.

Ben was right, she thought, her hands dropping to her sides in resignation. He isn’t interested. He never will be, no matter how many pies I try to seduce him with.

Grabbing the plate, she scrubbed at it in annoyance. I could probably stand butt-naked in front of him and he wouldn’t even notice, she thought.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

She paused for a moment, considering that idea, then went back to washing.

She had tried her best to distract the Angel, but it was no use. He was obsessed with that madwoman up at the Guard House.

Everine paused in her washing again. She had gone to visit Carmine once. Just once.

It had been a mistake.

One look at the other woman’s face and Everine had felt all the blood drain out of her. She had left in a hurry, disturbed and sickened.

Whatever that… thing up there was, it was no longer her friend. It was not the happy, energetic girl she used to know. It was something cold and dark and barely Human.

And those eyes: they were terrifying.

Feeling suddenly chilly, Everine finished up the washing, dried her hands on a towel and leaned back against the sink, hugging herself. She stared out the open back door of the kitchen. It was a warm day, the first hint that summer was approaching. The smell of jasmine and roses drifted in on a faint breeze.

For four years, she’d had a knot in her stomach, a sense of impending doom that wouldn’t go away. It had been there since she had helped Mekka bring Hawk and Carmine back from the Middle Isle, from the terrible battle they had fought with a crazed general turned into a wraith. Everine had never known that such horrifying things existed, until then. Her world had been turned around and so far upside down that she didn’t know which way she was facing any more.

She was still struggling to make sense of it all, even though Mekka had explained everything.

She’d returned to Sel Varence for a few weeks, on her own, leaving her young brother Ben here at the inn. She had an obligation to Duke Rufus. She had to check that he’d received his cargo.

To her immense relief, he had, and was so delighted with the quality of the counterfeit royals that he’d decided to overlook the fact that they were weeks overdue. He even paid her: though less than half the amount they had agreed upon.

Everine took the money without complaint. She’d closed her little shop in the market square and fled Selvar, never to return.

She had come back to Forthwhite instead, to the sun-drenched white town in the middle of the dusty Arlen Plains, to help Mekka and Ben look after Hawk.

Valeran, the portly owner of the Hungry Deer Inn, hadn’t been pleased with the arrangement, and was on the verge of kicking them all out on their backsides, until Everine had plonked Rufus’ bag of grubles down on the counter in front of him.

He let them stay, and only occasionally grumbled under his breath.

But the tavern was losing customers. At first, after Ferrian had destroyed the Dragon-wraith that had laid claim to the town, people had returned, rebuilt and settled in to re-establish their lives. The trigon appeared to be gone, the townsfolk were optimistic, and business was good.

But slowly, gradually, things changed. A tension crept into the air, a sense that all was not quite right. No one save the Freeroamers and the small group residing at the Inn knew about Hawk and Carmine’s devastating condition – and they were all careful to keep this from becoming public knowledge: Valeran in particular was sworn to strict secrecy – but nevertheless, whispers started to spread. There was an odd feeling about the Inn, they said; it was always too cold in there. And there was something shifty about the new Freeroamers, too, as though they were hiding something…

Trust in the Freeroamers frayed and finally disintegrated, paranoia took hold, and people began to pack up and leave.

Now, the town was mostly deserted again. Only a couple of stubborn farming families remained.

Everine gazed at the bright light outside the door, at the white speckle of flowers invading the trellised wall opposite. She wished that she could leave, as well. The heat baking off the dry land shrivelled her spirits. She wasn’t meant for a life so far from the sea. She belonged with the brisk wind and the salt, the slap of water and the cries of seabirds, the gentle rolling of her ship, the Blueflower as it sailed toward an infinite blue horizon…

She closed her eyes. She knew that Ben missed their old lifestyle as well, though he never complained.

Hawk and Carmine weren’t her problem, and neither was this increasingly lifeless tavern. She had no obligation to stay. Mekka had told her as much when they’d first arrived, years ago. But Ben had become fast friends with him, and wanted to help. And Everine herself…

Opening her blue eyes, she scowled down at the tea-towel in her hands. She hadn’t meant to become attracted to the damned Angel! Why was she trying so hard to catch his attention? It was clearly a waste of time.

But despite everything, despite the fact that the comatose man upstairs and especially his horrible creepy fiancée at the Guard House scared the living daylights out of her, she cared. Watching Mekka tend to his slowly dying friends while hoping impossibly for a cure was heartbreaking…

A sudden jingling sound interrupted her thoughts, and Everine looked up.

Someone had just entered the tavern through the front entrance. Judging by the continuous tinkle, a group of them.

Customers? she wondered in mild surprise. Perhaps they were travellers?

Tossing aside the towel and quickly removing her apron, Everine smoothed out her dress, fussed with her blond curls for a bit, then swished out to the bar.

She stopped dead in the kitchen doorway.

Four gleaming figures stood evenly positioned around the common room, resplendent in their silver and white armour, great pale wings curving elegantly at their backs. Short swords hung at their hips and long silvertine spears were gripped in their gauntleted fists. They were straight-backed and attentive as the bells jingled again, and a final Angel entered the inn.

He paused for a moment in the doorway, letting his gaze travel around, then strode casually across the room, his long white coat whispering about his legs. Reaching the bar, he gracefully seated himself on a stool, removed his silver winged helmet and placed it carefully on the counter.

“Greetings,” he said to Everine with a smile. “Warm day, is it not?”

There was nothing warm about his smile, Everine thought, though the rest of him was extraordinarily good-looking, with sun-blond hair falling about his shoulders and intelligent aquamarine eyes. His wings, rising at his back, were a beautiful, pure white. He wore a matching snow-white coat emblazoned with a silver spread-winged design, and his silvertine armour, beneath it, was exquisite and elaborate.

Their Commander? she guessed.

It was possible they were just passing through. Arkanian laws had been relaxed recently with their new Governor to allow Angels to wander abroad. They were still a rare sight, but it was not impossible…

Ignoring her thumping heart, Everine composed herself and sauntered to the bar. “Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly, while returning the Angel’s not-smile.

In other circumstances, she might have flirted with him, tried to find out why he was here. But she had a terrible feeling she already knew.

His expression didn’t change. He held her gaze easily. “Perhaps you can,” he replied. “We are… searching for someone.” He paused then, still holding her gaze. Everine folded her arms across her chest, hoping he hadn’t noticed her heart leap straight up into her throat.

“You may have seen him,” the Angel Commander went on. “He is very striking. Very…” he pretended to be searching for the right word, “… dark.”

Everine blinked her lashes in faux ignorance. “Well, we get a lot of travellers through here, sir,” she said. “Many interesting folk. Dark or otherwise.”

His smile remained in place. He could have cut someone’s heart out with a smile like that, she thought. And enjoyed it.

She had to remind herself that Angels didn’t go for murder.

She moved to the shelves of glassware. “Would you like a drink?”

“No,” the Angel replied, watching her. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure? Oh–” As Everine moved her hand away from the glasses, she allowed a finger to brush the stem of one. It toppled from the shelf and shattered loudly, scattering glittering pieces across the stone floor.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m so clumsy. I’ll fetch a broom.” She started towards the kitchen, but one of the guards had moved silently, unnoticed, to block the doorway.

The Angel Commander turned and made a hand gesture to two of the guards in the room. They headed at once for the stairs. Then he rose, gave her another smile and a small bow, and replaced his helmet. “Thank you,” he told her. “You have been most helpful.”

Turning away, he nodded to the remaining guards. “Watch her,” he ordered, and strode to the staircase.

Dammit! Everine cursed.

The room was sombre. As it was on the southern side of the inn, no sunlight reached through to banish the shadowy gloom that filled every corner.

A black-winged Angel sat on a chair facing the bed, his arms resting on his knees. His wings were black arcs drooping slightly from slumped shoulders, feathers trailing on the floor.

A man lay on the bed in front of him: a man who had not moved nor spoken in four years.

His right arm lay on top of the covers, his left hidden beneath them. His chest was clad in a fine gilded breastplate; made of silvertine, it was the only thing slowing the advance of the black poison crawling through him.

His head rested on a pillow, his scruffy hair in a mess around it. His brown eyes stared upwards at nothing. Inky black veins stood out from his neck and the whole left side of his face.

His skin was pale as a ghost. By all appearances, he was dead, or ought to be. But his heart still beat and there was breath on his colourless lips.

This was Devandar Hawk; once Sergeant Major in the Darorian Army, then Sergeant of the Freeroamers. And now…

Mekka refused to believe that this was anything but Hawk, could not accept that his mind had been stolen by that accursed General Dreikan.

Lord Requar had gone through a similar scenario: his mind had also been seemingly eradicated by trigon. But he was a sorcerer, and had the aid of his brother and a Sword of Healing.

The Sword of Healing no longer existed. It was as dead as its owner.

And it was the only thing known to dispel trigon from a body, without killing it.

Mekka shook his head. Still, he had been patient. He had been determined to find another way. He would give his life to find another way, if he had to. Ferrian had returned to the Sorcerer’s Valley with Arzath to study and regain his magic and his Winter. He had promised Mekka that he would do everything he could to find a solution.

Had any progress been made? Mekka was sure that if Ferrian knew something he would have let him know, but he’d not heard from the young sorcerer in a long while now: almost a year.

It did not bode well.

Mekka felt his resolve slipping. He’d been tainted with trigon himself, once, with catastrophic consequences. The murders he had committed, the destruction he had caused… These things had been difficult to reconcile himself with. Requar’s healing magic had done much to ease his mental state – as well as his once-ruined eye – back to normality, but it was still a part of himself that could never be denied.

And the most tragic result of it all lay before him now on the bed; Hawk’s condition was his fault, he had slashed the Freeroamer with the trigonic dagger while attempting to kill him. The wraith that was General Dreikan had merely taken advantage of the infection.

Mekka closed his eyes, bowing his head. Hawk could not die. He could not! But time was running out, hope trickled away, day by day, as the trigon grew stronger. If he had to put an end to Hawk then no amount of healing magic would make the rest of his life worth living. If that happened, he would likely be forced to kill Carmine as well: whatever was left of her tormented mind would not survive news of Hawk’s death.

He would lose both of them, and himself in the process.

It was an unbearably dark future, one that he must not allow himself to dwell on. It–

There was a tinkling crash from downstairs.

Mekka went still, his thoughts pausing. Most likely, Everine had dropped something. But curiously, there was no accompanying loud expletives…

He opened his eyes but did not move, listening.

There was a creak on the stairs.

The Hungry Deer Inn was old, and all of the floorboards creaked. They groaned if you so much as looked at them. But Mekka knew all of the sounds, had memorised them almost unconsciously, as he did with every place he stayed in. Floorboards had a unique language of their own, a language he had learned well, for it had often saved his life.

This was the distinctive soft complaint of someone trying, very carefully, not to make the floorboards creak.