The Founder’s Festival celebrates not only the inception of our glorious empire by Kayden the Bright, but also the First Emperor’s victory over the heinous Dragon Demon King. As for the underlying implications, such as the fact both events occurred within a fortnight of one another or that Zeipheron’s demise coincided perfectly with the end of the month of Rest—the month of Death… Well, it’s all wacky nonsense, obviously. But folklore doesn’t sweat the small details. As for what History—veracious and verifiable—says of it, that’s what we’re here to discuss. Now, if you would open your books to page sixty-three…

—a lesson introduction from Bartholomew Mewson, lich and Professor of Magic History at the Imperial University for Applied Thaumaturgy, 2168 AK.

–

Rest 29, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

As soon as Kaydence and Sarmin crossed into town, night swallowed them.

Beyond the wall, the sun had yet to set. But within its confines, darkness already filled the narrow streets. Over their heads, oppressive overhangs jutted out of the façades, connected by empty clotheslines like thick spiderwebs. Daylight rarely penetrated these dark urban tunnels unless the sun was at its zenith; now, at the outset of twilight, only the tallest roofs and chimneys still collected some final rays of sunshine.

The winter cold cut only more sharply in this gloom. Freezing gusts ripped stalactites off leaky guttering and blew frost over the weeds that still clung desperately to the street edges. Sarmin started shivering despite his thick coat, and he pulled his fur-lined hood tighter. The two children hastily walked down Greyport’s Main Street, clutching their full packs and eyeing the dark surroundings for anyone who might try to cause them more trouble. Both were eager to get home.

Around them, the wind wailed forlornly; the city’s old bones creaked. A nearby door slammed. Drunk voices shouted somewhere behind. Far to the left, an angry dog barked; a cat viciously yowled back, followed by noises of a violent scuffle, hisses and pained yaps. Something metallic collapsed loudly. A woman yelled curses at the strays. A child was bawling. Laughing seagulls took off, defecating on hapless passers-by.

Home sweet home, Kaydence reflected sarcastically. Indifferent to the cold, she stomped ahead, striding over missing cobblestones, animal dung, litter, and frozen patches of melted snow. Her tiny half-elf shadow had to carefully circumvent these obstacles to sneak into the gap she ploughed through the crowd—unusually dense for the late hour.

Most of Greyport’s inhabitants had retired for the night. Yet dozens still braved the freezing darkness, their bodies swathed in fur coats, knitted scarves, and fingerless gloves. They stalked around in the uncertain blue glow of the old magic streetlamps, their steps stiff with cold yet animated by a rare sense of purpose as they ran, hollered, lugged equipment—altogether rushing to finish their preparations for the Founder’s Festival, which began in two days. Bottles of cheap spirits were passed around to warm the bodies and the minds, adding to the overall rowdiness. Here and there, inebriated arguments devolved into brawls.

The festival… Kaydence sighed, absent-mindedly dodging a speeding cart—yet still receiving a dirty look from its owner. She ignored him, lost in thoughts. Is it already that time again? Hard to believe it’s been nine years. Every winter, this fortnight-long revelry took place when the month of Rest transitioned into that of Remembrance—when the patron god changed from Urabi to Kalok, from Death to Time. It symbolised a shift in mindset, from the fear of cold and starvation to new hope for the coming months.

In a sense, it was also the anniversary of Seifer’s brutal passing.

Everybody sure loves dancing on my grave. A wry smile fleeted over Kaydence’s lips. Two and a half millennia, and they’re still not bored… Her smile fell.

It’s nothing I don’t deserve.

Most everyone else in the empire—or at least in Greyport—seemed intensely eager for this event. On the first evening of Remembrance, the stalls erected all along Main Street would be stacked with foods and beverages, surely countless snacks and homebrewed liquors, jewellery, pottery, clothing, scented and carved candles, ointments and perfumes, art pieces, toys, and all other manners of small goods crafted during the slow months of Shadows and Rest, as well as supposed exotic products from around the empire and beyond. Reed lanterns would light the dark streets. People would eat, drink, laugh with friends and family, buy each other gifts, applaud the street performers, and waste their meagre savings playing simple, likely rigged games. All would merrily celebrate that the harshest of winter was behind them and that life endured for another year.

Kaydence cared for none of it.

The crowd, the noise, the sweeping merriment… they suffocated her, like hands on her throat. Every year, this was when her night terrors were at their worst. Even awake, her stomach sometimes throbbed achingly along the cut that ended her past self—a phantom pain haunting her beyond the grave. Kaydence could not wait to leave this loud, blitheful farce behind and return to the numbing boredom of her existence.

In contrast to her sour mood, Sarmin’s head was on an eager swivel. His earlier worries seemed to have evaporated, and it was as if the half-elf could already picture the festival in full swing around them. “D-Do you think there’ll be m-magic p-performers this year?” he asked, his voice full of wonder.

Magic performers? Kaydence’s scowl darkened further. Her lips peeled back, baring gritted teeth. “Magic is not… entertainment,” she growled. Screaming faces flashed in her sight: people set aflame, hair blazing, eyes popping out, skin burning, blackening, boiling, melting off their grinning skulls.

Sarmin’s ears dropped sadly. “It’s p-pretty, though…”

Pretty? The word echoed restlessly in the girl’s mind. Is magic pretty? No… Magic– Magic is… Her breathing hiked up. The screams in her ears were growing louder. Her chest tightened; her heart raced.

The surrounding crowd blurred into charging soldiers. The muddy snow became blood under her feet, and the hammers of the stall builders morphed into a disorienting cacophony of deadly spells going off around her. The taste of ash and flesh smeared her tongue. The shrieks of her victims blended into wet gargles as their insides blistered and liquefied between her fingers. Her nose filled with the stench of their scorched flesh and boiling blood. Bodies gangrened and fell to ashes in her grasp. To the wails of the dying added those of the survivors, enemies and allies alike, pleading, begging for her to sto–

“Kay? W- What’s wrong?”

Kaydence blinked. The battlefield around her faded to the cold, dark, depressing street. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Did I…? Again. Damn it. She stood in the middle of the road. Beads of sweat coated her forehead, already starting to freeze; her breathing was short and erratic; her heart banged against her ribs like a mad prisoner attacking the walls of his cell.

Stolen story; please report.

People were staring, but they always did. She glared back; they moved on.

“Kay?”

You’d think I’d get better at keeping this crap on lockdown after nine years. Today had been an especially bad day. A trickle of pain brought her attention to her fists, clenched too tightly, with her sharp nails biting into her palms. She forced them open and wiped the blood on her thigh. The wounds would heal soon enough.

“K-Kay?”

“Nothing.” With an effort of will—and a smidge of Life magic—Kaydence reasserted control over her rebelling body. Unfortunately, her Life magic could do nothing to heal her mind. “Nothing’s wrong, Twig.” She aggressively walked herself forward, her scowl locked back in place and her shoulders squared. “Mind your own damn business, and stop babbling about magic jugglers or whatnot. I’m not setting foot in that stupid carnival anyway.”

This is so stupid. You should have just let me die, brother. What’s the point of any of this?

At the nearest opportunity, she veered off Main Street, away from the already all too festive and nauseating atmosphere. Her path cut sharply in front of a man precariously carrying a pile of wooden posts, causing him to stumble and drop his load. Again, she failed to react to his vociferous insults. It was unclear whether she even noticed him.

Sarmin nearly missed her abrupt turn into a narrow alleyway. He stumbled in his haste to follow, falling briefly behind, then carefully dodged the irate posts-carrier, whispering an apology that was only met with contempt, and finally caught up with his friend.

“B-B-But why?” Sarmin picked up the conversation. “It’s the m-most f-fun time of the year. And we get off s-s-school for a whole f-fortnight!”

“Well, sorry if I don’t feel like partying because two mass-murdering nutjobs punched each other to death!”

“The F-First Emperor used a s-s-sword, though? And he d-didn’t… die… err… I-I-I mean… not back… then…” The small boy progressively quieted as the tall girl levelled a murderous glare against him. “…sorry.”

Kaydence let out a deep, tired sigh. “Just… shut up.” She picked up the pace, hurrying into the alley’s darkness as if fleeing accusing gazes only she could see.

So stupid.

* * *

Greyport was an old city, ancient even. Whole sections had been rebuilt many times over, though obviously without much care for city planning. The result was a maze of tortuous, dank, dark, and smelly back alleys that often confused outsiders. The pair of childhood friends had grown up in this mess, however, and they jogged through the winding streets with familiarity, heading fast towards Cliffside.

Eventually, a curtain of orange light appeared around a bend in an alley, announcing their destination. They burst out of the darkness, emerging into a sunny street, between a brothel and a dingy barbershop. Steps away, a low guardrail marked the edge of a vertiginous precipice.

The Split.

Unlike anywhere else in Greyport, the massive chasm cutting the city open allowed a torrent of setting sunlight to flood in—although what it revealed were mostly pleasure houses, cheap taverns, and other establishments catering to broke sailors. To the kids’ left, a man was throwing up over the railing, while on their right, another let himself be ushered into a gaudy building by a shivering girl wearing too little clothing and too much rust-hued makeup.

“Hurry up.” Unwilling to linger here, Kaydence grabbed Sarmin by the front of his coat and dragged him towards the entrance of Cliffside proper. Between her abnormally tall height and a skin tone similar to the face powder favoured by prostitutes in the area, Kaydence had been propositioned one too many times by drunkards, and in her current state, she might actually kill the fool who tried this time.

The V-shaped crevasse of the Split ran straight through Greyport from West to East, opening onto the ocean. Kaydence frowned… more. Only a slice of amber sun subsisted on the horizon, painting the sky in fiery colours over ink-black waters. They had wasted too much time at the city gates. She picked up the pace, deaf to Sarmin’s pleas, as his feet struggled to keep up.

Across the rift, the ducal castle towered over the city as usual, planted in the centre of the gentry’s quarter. The white monolithic edifice, built in the style of the imperial capital, clashed with everything around it with its flat roofs, ostentatiously large doorways, and colonnades aplenty. Painted scenes to the glory of the dukes, the First Emperor, and the Twelve Gods adorned the enormous, square stone blocks making up its lofty walls. Two monumental statues sat outside the main gate, depicting the couple who first ruled the archipelago after its annexation by the Radiant Empire. Their empty gazes seemed to judge the people on the commoner’s side of the Split.

As always, the narrow walkway snaking down the pockmarked cliff was a hazard to navigate. Every other week, there were rumours of someone falling to their death. The impending festival had only made things worse; the path had become congested with sailors, travellers, and other locals—all taking advantage of the last slivers of daylight to climb up from the docks below.

Unlike Main Street, however, only the poorest of the poor walked here. Anyone who could afford the fee rode the aetheric elevators up to the city instead. Those huge enchanted platforms were embedded into the stone deeper inland, further east, and the rumble of their slow trudge up and down the cliff reverberated off the Split’s walls, filling Cliffside with a constant, migraine-inducing background noise—rivalled only by the ear-splitting squawking of the hundreds of seagulls nesting in the porous rock.

The racket and the stench of unwashed bodies assaulted Kaydence’s sharp senses as she shouldered against the flow of people like a grumpy salmon. She was used to ignoring them, but it was still unpleasant. Once again, the urge to burn everything and be done with it all reared its ugly head; she resolutely shoved it down.

So focused was she on not murdering everyone in sight, that Kaydence missed the haggard vagrant stumbling towards her until the two of them collided. She barely felt the shock, but the man bounced back and ended with his ass on the ground. “Oww… dang it,” he groaned, sounding more weary than hurt.

Despite having no coin to steal, Kaydence reflexively checked her pockets before glaring tensely at the beggarly man. He looked to be his early forties, slender, tall, but stooped, with a pasty complexion, sunken cheeks, and deep, purplish bags under his eyes. Faded scars ran across his nose and left eye, and unkempt, greying black hair and a bushy beard ate up most of his face. He reeked of tobacco, but strangely, not one of the cheap kinds sailors and vagrants smoked around here. Kaydence thought it smelled familiar, though she failed to place it.

Belatedly, she recognised his worn cloak as a priestly travel robe in a truly pitiful state: many times patched, crusted with dirt, and soiled with mud. The small antelope pendant around his neck symbolised Fen, the Wind God, patron of commerce and travel, among other things—like thieves, gambling and prostitution. That at least explained the man’s state a little. Many priests of Fen spent their lives on the road, relying on people’s charity.

This one visibly had not received much of it.

The sickly priest blinked blearily as if just waking up. Sighing deeply, he eventually climbed to his feet and dusted his worn travel cloak. “Apologies, young lady,” he spoke with a strange, breathy accent—definitely not local. “I wasn’t watching… my… step.” His voice trailed off as he met Kaydence’s crimson glare. An odd emotion fleeted in his striking rose-amber eyes.

It was gone before Kaydence could identify it, replaced by a tired smile. “Anyway. I’ll get out of your air, young miss. Good evening.” He tipped an imaginary hat and tottered away unsteadily, each step seeming it might be his last.

Kaydence’s suspicious gaze followed him.

“D-Do you th-think he’s alright?” Sarmin inquired.

“…who cares?” the girl scoffed. But when she looked up again to search for the man in the crowd, he had vanished. Her eyes narrowed. Dammit.

“Kay?”

“Never mind.” Kaydence spun and resumed her way down. Turning her mind inwards, she checked if her grip on her power remained tight and none of it was leaking out. Dumbass, she berated herself. That was too close. She had really grown sloppy if she could no longer detect a mage before he literally crashed into her. He was… Water? No. Air. She was out of practice. Hopefully, the sleepy, potentially drugged-up priest had not realised what she was. She would have to catch his tail later to make sure. Perhaps the cliff would gain one more rumour.

“Come on, Twig. If we’re late, I’ll tell Annet it’s your fault.”

“Wha–?! K-K-K-Kay! Wait for m-me!?”

Annet and Kaydence’s little nook in the wall sat squarely in the middle of Cliffside. So, despite the packed walkway, it was a relatively quick trip down to the troglodyte abode. Soon, Kaydence spotted a short, thin figure in a white dress and topped with a bushy chestnut mane, standing outside their home. From afar, Annet always looked somewhat like a frizzy mop—which made it ironic how she held a bucket right now. Unconsciously, Kaydence’s expression softened at the sight of her mother.

Then, the crowd parted, freeing the girl’s line of sight.

All hints of softness vanished then, replaced by a burning, murderous fury.

“Who did this?!”

* * * * *