Nyxpera

The 19th of Thargelion

The Year 4631 in the Era of Mortals

It took over three hours for Grimmolt to sing them to the surface, stopping often to let his voice rest and recover. A steep slope yawned behind them, leading down into the darkness of Hyperion’s Tangle. Then they broke through and stepped into the sunlight. It was an old friend, long forgotten and sorely missed. Lyssa emerged after the others.

After so long underground, the midday sun was blinding. The whole sorry lot rubbed their eyes and blinked furiously, all except Lyssa. She looked up at the sun, too tired to recall she shouldn’t. It was bright—blinding, even—but she felt no need to squint or shield her eyes. It was a light, like any other, and it held no secrets from her. Lyssa looked away, not wanting to field the questions that would follow if anyone caught her staring unflinchingly at the sun. Thankfully, the others hadn’t yet adjusted.

They’d resurfaced between the village and the mountain. An hour’s walk south stood between them and their home. A group of guards raced out of the village, headed their direction. In hindsight, all of Myriatos’s fighting leadership leaving for an indeterminate period of time wasn’t the most sound idea they’d had but, in their defense, their focus was on retrieving the stolen children. Lyssa cast her eyes about the lot.

There were twenty in total, mostly human with a few other races, none of which she recognized immediately. They huddled together, rubbing at their small faces with grimy hands. A few were still crying, though several simply had tear-strewn faces, the events of the last day having pushed them beyond emotional limits. One small boy was missing an arm, holding the stump of his shoulder with the other. Odelia had healed the wound, no doubt saving the lad’s life, but only time would tell if the limb could be reattached. Lyssa found it impossible to guess their ages. She had been twenty before she’d grown taller than the tallest of these, a girl that came up to her hip, but the other races aged oddly.

Lyssa blinked, realizing that the girl was staring at her. There was something in the expression. A hardness that did not belong in the lines of a child’s face. Those eyes beheld horrors and emerged a person who would not look away. Lyssa nodded at the girl. A small acknowledgment, worthless perhaps, but it was all she could give.

A new warrior born from the crucible.

The rest would need care and recuperation, even the warrior would need it, but she had a goal to achieve that would see her through any obstacle. Lyssa could read it in her eyes. It was a goal they shared. Power to ensure that those they loved were never preyed upon. That they themselves would never again be helpless or at another’s mercy.

Lyssa turned away. The rest of her group formed a protective ring around the children and guided them toward the village. Lyssa, acting on a suggestion from Vik, took her place at the front of the group. The guards reached them after barely ten minutes and provided an additional escort, forming a second protective ring around the children. One of the guards turned and ran back to the village, carrying word ahead of them.

When they reached the outskirts of Myriatos, a crowd had gathered to see them in. It was hard not to notice how much smaller the village was. Their losses had been heavy. Theodorous, no doubt, would have the final tally waiting for her and each name would underscore the failure of her leadership.

Still, when the heart-aching cry of parents who had held out hope for their children against all odds rent the air, Lyssa could not help but feel a small bloom in her chest. Not joy, the victory had come at too high a cost for that, but some shard of grim satisfaction at seeing the families reunite, parents clutching their daughters and sons close. She allowed herself only a few moments to watch, wondering at what they must be feeling, missing the warmth of her own father’s arms, then she turned away.

Theodorous stood at the edge of the crowd, hands clasped. He bowed his head as she approached.

“I’m very glad you’ve returned, Archousa. Were you able to recover them all?”

“Yes, as far as I could tell. They will need time, but our people are resilient.”

“Excellent. Walk with me, would you? There is a matter that warrants your attention.”

Lyssa nodded and fell in step as they made their way to the village hall. For several long moments, Theodorous didn’t speak. Whether it was to put distance between prying ears or because he struggled with the right words, Lyssa couldn’t say. When he did speak, his voice was soft and tired.

“I have done my best to keep the village calm in your absence, Archousa, but I am afraid there is a growing movement among the people. They are scared and angry, and despite my best attempts at placation, the blame for the attack is being leveled at you. Something will need to be done. Returning with the children will help things, but many lost loved ones and they will want blood in return.”

Lyssa placed her hand on Theodorous’s shoulder.

“You have done well. I understand their grief and share it with them. I will do what I can.”

“You asked me to keep things going and I failed you. I’m sorry.”

“You have failed no one. You have kept this place organized in the aftermath of disaster. No one, myself very much included, could have done better.”

Theodorous nodded and held the door as they walked into the hall.

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“I have the report, if you are ready to hear it.”

She wasn’t. She needed a break, a bath, and a solid ten or twelve hours of rest, but this was her responsibility.

“I am.”

Theo brought her to his desk, where he produced three pages of parchment. Each filled, front and back, with names, Professions, and duties within the village. Lyssa read each one slowly, committing them to memory. This was the price of failure. The people she hadn’t been able to protect. Only three guards numbered the list, the rest were traders, farmers, and craftsfolk. People who had no experience fighting. People who had fought anyway and died for their efforts.

Eighty-seven.

They lost eighty-seven people. The number gnawed at her. She knew the cost had been high but seeing it written out before her, over forty percent of the village’s total population, was like a knife to the gut. She held the edge of the table to keep herself from falling. Something had to be done.

“Theo, get the carpenters. I have a special project for them, but we’ll have to move quickly to get things ready in time.”

Theodorous did as he was told. Lyssa was almost done memorizing the first sheet of parchment when he returned, two burly men in tow.

“Archousa? You sent for us?”

“Yes.”

Lyssa quickly outlined her idea and both carpenters nodded along. They left after assuring her they would get it done.

“Do you think it will work?” Theodorous asked after they left.

“Not entirely,” Lyssa admitted. “Some may accept it. I’ll have to earn back the support of the rest.”

“And if you can’t?”

“If one of them thinks they can do a better job, then we’ll hold an election. Otherwise, they are free to return to Ship’s Shape if they wish.”

Theodorous snorted.

“You still have the loyalty of the guards and hunters. Most leaders I’ve known would have leveraged that to secure their place.”

Lyssa rubbed her eyes.

“My place in this city is only because the people wish it. Should they deem it, I should be removed. I will fight for Myriatos for as long as it wishes me to do so. My power lies in the strength of my arm, not the quality of my chair.”

Theo inclined his head.

“Right you are, Archousa. And would that power, by chance, have anything to do with the change in your eyes?”

“You noticed, did you?”

“They are rather striking. Even predatory, one might say, like the eyes of a great bird or, perhaps, the sun.”

Lyssa grunted.

“I have obtained power, yes, but I have yet to make it mine. That will come, in time.”

Theodorous squinted at her, a bemused expression on his face.

“Of course, Archousa.”

“Excuse me, Theo. I find myself rambling. I have not slept since the attack.”

Theo nodded and began sorting through some of his papers.

“I will ensure that you are not disturbed.”

Lyssa turned to leave, hesitated, then took the three pages of parchment with her. The sheets of the bed had been either cleaned or replaced, and a large board covered the hole in her floor. She found it hard to look at it without being reminded of all that had happened. Waking up to find goblins surrounding her, attacking her, killing her people.

Her bracelet flashed and the Hyperbow appeared in her hands. She felt the weight of it. It had heft, despite seemingly being made from condensed light. It had taken the shape of her previous bow, down to the smallest carvings. She ran a finger over them, remembering the originals.

When she had turned thirty-five, her father had taken her deep into the Dawnwood to harvest the wood that would become her bow. She had been an adolescent and still under level five. She was taken to a grove where five trees grew together in a circle. Maple, myrtle, oak, ash, and yew. Her father had told her to pick one.

Lyssa had held the trees and tried to listen as her elders did. She knew the trees would speak to her, choose her, and in turn she would choose them. For five days she stood, pressing her hands against the trees, trying to connect to them, but the forest was quiet. It would not speak to her.

She remembered the way she had crumpled to the ground, weeping, rejected by nature itself, unworthy of calling herself a Daughter of the Forest. Her father had put his arms around her and held her in her grief, then he had reached out his hand to the yew, whereupon a single branch from high on its trunk fell into his waiting palm. This, he presented to her, and she spent the next year carving it, oiling it, and trying to bond to it. She knew that others had such a close bond with their weapons that those weapons could gain the strength of their wielder, but her own weapon was never more than a single piece of dead wood in her hands, no matter her emotional connection to it.

The rejection drove her to choose Ranger as her Profession, then follow that path to the evolved Profession of Huntress. The forest would not speak to her, so she had sought to conquer it. She would know it to a degree beyond even the most attuned of her elders, and the dead bow she wielded was her tool of mastery.

That bow was now nothing but a handful of ash in her inventory. Another price of failure. The bow before her was the same. A gift. Powerful, but a power that was not hers. Not truly. It was bestowed, not earned. A testament to her shortcomings.

She covered the carvings with her hand. Something surged within her, a low melody, responding to her desire. Her need. She felt the magic inherent in the bow. The bond she had forged with it upon acceptance. She also felt a link in it to Hyperion. A weapon with two masters, creator and wielder. As it was, it would never be hers. Not entirely.

Light wisped from her skin and the song grew louder within her, but Lyssa’s focus was entirely on the bow. She could see what needed to be done, feel the threads that bound the weapon with magic. Her fingers lifted and plucked a line. It hummed, a melodic note. Music only she could hear, but the strings led to the wrong locations. With little more than her will, she pulled at the strings of magic, severing and attaching, tying and binding, reshaping them to the vision splayed before her. She played the strings and listened to the melodies. A symphony of light, born of her own design.

Below her attentions, the bow unraveled itself. Released from its binding, it became untethered light once more, but Lyssa was not done with it. She was entranced by the work, by the music in front of her, as she created something wholly new. Notifications flashed, but still she worked, consumed by the light. It was wonderful and breathless and, most of all, it was hers.

Entirely hers.