Last Sunrise
When the constant war between the two nations reaches the doorsteps of the Crescent Moon Pavilion, Sinialli’s life is turned completely around and she is left with nothing but memories of better times. She prays for release and to join her family, to become one with them, but the gods have other plans.
With the scents of magic surrounding her and guiding her, Sinialli knows what she has to do. She knows this would be the last sunset she would ever see, if she ever even makes it to sunrise. And she knows, as the best courtesan in all of Trace, what it would take to make sure she and her family would be remembered forever.
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Note: this is a fantasy novella that takes place in the same world and thousands of years after the current plot in God of Discovery. While you do not need to be aware of the world of Trace and the stories that happen there, and this piece can be read as a stand-alone, there are some hints throughout here that are slight spoilers for the online serial.
- Content warnings: blood, death, war, sexual content, coercion, suicidal thoughts
- Tropes: magical elements, courtesan as protagonist, divine intervention, the truth behind the lore
- Length: 18,000 words
- Available soon on https://konstancek.substack.com/
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The sky was crying for what was to come. The pouring rain created sheets thick enough to hide Sinialli from view and give her a moment of reprieve. But it was not thick enough to hide the ruins around her. Nor was it strong enough to wash away the blood. The rain could only do so much.
There were only a few rays of light, trying to poke out between the clouds far in the distance. They were too far away to reflect off the gold, metals, precious gems, and magical sigils that usually made the Crescent Moon Pavilion shine bright in the dark. But they were a sign that Sinialli still had time. She was free until the sun set and its light no longer touched the land around her.
Nobody from the pavilion had been worried about the war raging on their doorstep. The nations of Aran and Wischeck were always at war—since the first calendar year and probably even beyond what was written in any history books or records. With the pavilion’s location in the mountains right at the borders of the two nations, soldiers visited as often as kings.
Wars and battles had always raged in the lands of Trace, but the pavilion forever stood strong. The Crescent Moon had been around longer than both of those nations. Longer than most historical records in Trace. It was believed that the gods themselves had built it and used to visit it.
Nobody had ever thought to attack it before, both due to its defensible position in the mountain peaks and its purpose – the pavilion was a pleasure house with no alliance to any nation.
Now, its walls were gone.
Because nobody had ever dared to attack it before, none of the courtesans at the pavilion had been prepared when the Aranian forces shoved their way in and tore everything down.
The thought had one of Sinialli’s hands slip on the strings of the wooden instrument in her lap, drawing a thin line of blood on one of her fingers. The rain quickly washed it away, trying to hide the evidence where it could.
Sinialli meant everlasting beauty in the gods’ old tongue. It was the name given to her by the Matron at the pavilion when Sinialli officially became a courtesan over a decade ago. Sinialli had erased her name before that. She remembered very little of her life before the Matron found her. All she remembered was the heat of regular fevers and the scent of magic in the air around her. That was why the Matron had chosen her and Sinialli’s family had sold her off. To become a courtesan at the pavilion, one had to have access to the scents. Even those who worked there as staff could at least scent the magic in the air, even if they could not control it.
Sinialli could. She had little use for it outside of her work with patrons, but the pavilion courtesans were not there only for pleasure and entertainment. Sometimes, they were called to do the jobs that nobody else could. While the Matron was strict with what contracts she took and the pavilion was known to never take sides in political affairs or when nations were at war, every courtesan knew that their work sometimes involved blood.
With the rain hiding the cut, Sinialli felt no need to reach for the scents of magic around her to mend it. Instead, she plucked a single string and waited for the sound to echo between the falling raindrops. Once it ran down the mountainside away from her, she plucked another string. This time, the sound lasted longer, the scent of citrus permeating the air. It led her eyes away from the instrument and to the burned-out ruins of her home.
The stone was covered in wet soot, the wood was nothing but black splinters, the gold and gems had been torn off to be used to help pay for the war, and the magical sigils were cracked or smeared. All she could see in front of her was the scorched earth and rubble.
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Much of the pavilion’s private rooms behind her remained, but not the courtyard. Not the gate. Not even the watchtower from where fireworks were shot high into the sky. That was where one of her brothers had called to announce the arriving legion of Aranian soldiers.
None of them had been prepared for what the soldiers would do once they crossed the pavilion’s gate.
The bodies of her family were strewn all about where their killers had left them.
Killers. Not soldiers.
No matter how hard the rain fell, it would never wash away the dead.
The soldiers had left Sinialli alive. They recognized her. They knew who she was. Some of them had been her patrons in the past, some much more recently. Only those of a higher station, though. Only those that could pay for the company of the best courtesan in all of Trace.
One of the younger boys, inexperienced at war but as bloodthirsty as his comrades, had reached for her. He lost a hand for it, another soldier cutting him down before he could mar her skin with his dirty intentions. Nobody had come even close to her after that. Nobody had bothered to restrain her beyond the stone that cut her access to the magic around them.
Sinialli was the best, not only because of how she entertained and pleasured her patrons, but also because she could use the scents to kill quickly and without a trace. But the Aranian soldiers came armed with not just swords. They all wore that cursed stone that stripped the scents of magic from the air. No matter how many spells Sinialli and the other courtesans and staff threw at them, the stone ate up the magic before it could harm their attackers.
And Sinialli had been left alone, standing in the middle of the massacre as the Aranian soldiers cut her family down.
After the soldiers left, she was still alone. She knew this was going to be her last day. Not just to be alone, but to be alive. The Aranian general would not let her tell the story of what happened here. Tonight, she would—
No.
She plucked a few strings in succession, playing a slow song that calmed her mind and let her sink back into that unknown world where the bodies of the dead were just on the periphery of her vision. The music was not necessary, but Sinialli found it easier to guide the scents along the melody she crafted. The spell she wove was an illusion. The God Ehora answered her, releasing the scent of cannabis and making Sinialli’s vision swim.
Sinialli imagined the moisture from the rain was the sweat from a full day of laughter, dancing, and ecstasy. She did not even need to close her eyes for it to feel like a quiet night of rest. It was not often that the pavilion closed its doors to patrons, but every time it did, the courtesans took full advantage of it. They played, and danced, and sang. They had fun and forgot all about the people that camped outside the gates, waiting for them to open.
This time, the doors were gone and those waiting outside were barely a handful—too far for Sinialli to see them or hear them, but she knew they were there. They had told her so. Their leader had promised her some time to grieve.
The rain fell harder, and Sinialli imagined it was the patter of bare feet as her siblings came out from their rooms and turned the quiet night into a festive one. She could almost see their silhouettes pass by her, their fingers caressing her bare neck and shoulders or playfully tugging at her waxed braids.
Her mother, the Matron of the Crescent Moon, would come and sit beside her and take the instrument from her lap. She would change the song to a livelier one and urge Sinialli to join her siblings in the dance. She would weave the scents into the melody and every voice that joined in would drown out the world in the scent of roses just past their bloom. The God of Indulgence would approve with laughter. Sometimes, he would even join them as a whisper in the air.
The God of Illusions faded into the back of her mind. The cannabis disappeared, overpowered by the stink of blood. A string snapped. A new red line appeared on Sinialli’s hand. The magic faded away.
Yet the scent of blood remained, almost as if it was another god leaning over her shoulder and breathing against the thin skin of her throat. Sinialli knew of no god whose scent was blood. Yet when she focused on the present, the illusion broken, she saw that each of the puddles from the rain was tinted the same red as her eyebrows and lips.
She could see a hand with broken fingers reaching for her.
A tremble started at her eyebrows, moved to her nose, made her bite her thick lips, and then settled as a quiver on her chin.
She wanted to cry.
She had no more tears to shed. Her voice was gone from having screamed so much already.
With the scent of roses and cannabis gone, Sinialli felt all of her emotions assault her at once. She hunched over her lap, fighting years of training to keep a perfect posture. The heavy weight of her hair dragged her head further down. Her braids created a beaded curtain, trying to hide the world from her eyes. They failed.
She saw the charred bodies behind closed lids. She tasted the blood on her bitten lips. She heard the screams that echoed between her ears. She felt the rain falling on her like arrows looking for their mark.
All she smelled was blood.
She cursed the gods that abandoned her yet again. Where were they when her family was being slaughtered? Where were they when she prayed for their magic to save them? Where were they when Sinialli was left alone, to try and not cry as she sat alone in the ruins of her life?
Her eyes were rimmed red not from paints, but from sorrow. It itched and hurt when she opened them again.
There was a distant rumble in the sky. The clouds thickened and hid the last of the sun’s rays in the distance. Sinialli raised her chin and opened her throat to the world, an ancient custom that most cultures forewent as it revealed their weakest point. She bared her throat to the gods now, trying to win back their favour.
The sky lit up so brightly, it was as if it wanted the day to last forever and keep her from her fate. It was not enough, but it made her smile all the same. It felt like the gods answered her thoughts.
She waited for the light’s sound to reach her in another rumble that entered through her lips, vibrated down her throat, and settled in her lungs. Then it went somewhere further, somewhere deep inside, where she had always thought there was another piece or organ or even a soul – something that helped her scent and guide the magic around her.
The sound settled there. The stink of blood stuck under her nose as if she had dabbed it on her lips like the pastes she used regularly. Her chin stopped quivering. The sky turned black and her vision turned grey.
A single figure appeared, standing still on top of the rubble of the gate.
It was time.