It’s been months. Everything blurs together in an endless stream of illness and injury. You wouldn’t think we have so many to lose at this point, but people keep dying. At least they don’t come as much as they used to. The monsters. The goblins of our nightmares; or as people have started referring to them, the Twisted.
I can hear the thunderclaps of weapons fire. The screams of our soldiers and the Twisted alike. “Protect the builders!” The general keeps screaming, I can hear it through these thin walls. “At all cost! We die without them!”
They call me “Doc”, though I am not a doctor. But when men of skill are lacking, if you can stitch up a wound that’s close enough. I am a scientist in heart and training. Or rather, I was.
Now I work in this clinic, a dilapidated shack where I’m stationed to stitch up one bleeding soul after another. I preferred the bunkers. It was dark and dismal but artificial lights inside a tomb is better than this. Our preferences are of no importance anymore. We ran out of supplies and space, so we had to relocate, it was bound to happen sometime.
Graya, my “nurse” (my previous seamstress), brings them in, one after another. She is the only attachment to the old world I have left. She used to tailor my suits, now she stitches up the wounded. A boy fell under my needle today, still had baby fat on his cheeks. His hand was bleeding. A bite from those monsters. He lived. But with three less fingers. Though whether he’s lucky or not is yet to be determined. I just hope he keeps the wound clean. Many don’t. Many die.
The boy kept blabbering on and on about that wretched wall. Half is finished. Only half. So many lives, the ground soaked with blood and littered with bones yet we’re only halfway done. Will we even have people left when this is all said and done? Blasted goblins.
I hate calling them the Twisted like everyone has become accustomed. I think it gives them more power over our fear than rightly deserved. I call them for what they are: mutants, monstrosities, and mistakes.
I attempted to keep my mind focused on the cauterized flesh. The boy kept talking about the attack. His hands shook and his eyes were wide. His lip was bitten through from dealing with the pain. The boy would never be the same. Of course, innocence doesn’t last long these days. It was five goblins this time. They like to stay in small scattered groups. I suspect they don’t coordinate their attacks, I think they just coincidentally show up at the same time. Who knows? No one’s been able to study them and their habits, let alone have the desire to.
The boy has been tended to, I hear the all clear signaling all those things have been killed. Unfortunately, they killed seven of our people, injured several more, and raped one woman. How can five creatures do so much damage? How?
The woman will be irrevocably traumatized. These goblins, slaves to their passions and instincts. Rape and murder. Rape and murder. Always, always, rape and murder.
The boy has been stitched, the wound has been cleaned. Now we pray he lives. We pray for the lives of the lost men. We pray no goblin seed has been planted in that poor woman. We pray, we pray, we pray. All we do is pray and fight, pray and fight. I don’t pray. My prayers are held down in the mire of mud and blood.
At least if the woman is pregnant, she’ll be safe. Goblins don’t attack pregnant women. A reverence? We don’t know. At least she is safe, but she may lose her mind. Just as I feel I will.
-“Doc” Vorran. Date: 9 years post poisoning beginning of Gresoch
CHAPTER 1
This Broken World
Our world has been destroyed. Our great libraries reduced to ashes. Our great minds torn into pieces. Our great peace shattered like glass. What a people we were. Yet look how far civilization has deteriorated in a mere ten years. We kill now. We kill like them. We fight the goblins. We fight each other for food and resources. Our peace is gone, she is gone, nothing holds us together now. Nothing is right anymore. I fear our world will be forever broken.
-“Doc” Vorran. Date: 10 years post poisoning beginning of Gresoch
I wander among my thoughts. Like gentle waves washing up on a beach, they drift over me. I dwell on what I know. What I suspect. What I hope.
The world is not the way it should be. Where we should have unity, we have violence. Instead of peace there is pain. Fear rules us. It governs every action, every decision. It dictates how we live. They dictate how we live.
The nightstalkers. Vicious, rabid beasts driven mad by disease. What I know, what my family has taught me, is the nightstalkers used to be like us. They were us. Back when we were one people, back when we had a future. The story still plays in my mind. I memorized it long ago.
“We were a happy people. We hosted three colossal festivals per year. There was dancing and singing. Performances, contests, plays, feasts, even an elaborate parade they say. Everyone from all over Zaran indulged in an entire week of unabashed celebration. It left our entire nation cleaning up for another week after.
During one of these high-spirited parties the unexpected slammed our world. We call it The Poisoning. The sky filled with an ominous black fog that blocked out the sun and choked every living person. Seven out of ten died that day. Of the survivors a large group transformed into the monsters we call nightstalkers. The rest fought for their lives and unfortunately most lost them.”
I suspect someone malicious attacked us, like an enemy. Nothing on this kind of scale can just happen on its own. To this day not a soul knows what it was, though there’s plenty of theories. Most blame The Void, I never really believed it. The void is said to be the darkness beyond our world, the netherworld, a place of demons and monsters. The void king Scliras, according to religious texts, sent his minions into the world of light poisoning everyone they could. These same creatures are said to be immortal and can even change faces, it’s ridiculous.
I'm sure though that someone out there wants us dead. Though that leaves even more unanswered questions. Why haven't they attacked again? Why did they attack in the first place? We never did anything to anyone. Before The Poisoning, pacifists comprised our entire civilization. Who would want to slaughter a peaceable race?
The long grass brushes against my pant legs while I approach my destination. A gentle gust of wind blows crisp air against my legs and brings the smell of wet foliage to my nostrils. Ahead of me are lorrenberry bushes. The bush the berries grow on forms a maze of massive thorns. I have to navigate with caution to claim the prize. Berries the size of an eyeball and so sweet they’re addictive. Not to mention they turn the tongue a hilarious bright orange.
A cold breeze sweeps through the bush. The days are becoming colder and I shiver. Gresoch, our hot season, ended weeks ago. We’re barreling through Anolbee now, the cold months. I shudder imagining the dreaded season coming towards us. All plant life shriveling up and going into hibernation, animals hiding in their burrows. Snow levels piling high above our heads. Constant wetness that soaks through our bones.
I bring my mind back to focus. You must be careful with lorrenberries. The berries themselves are harmless. The bush though, if given the chance, will wrap its thorny limbs around you cutting your flesh, it feeds on blood. The bush wakes up when something touches the thorns, which is almost impossible to avoid. It’s a treacherous endeavor that requires quick reflexes and a steady hand. Most overlook the berries and don’t think it’s worth the risk. For me the dangerous challenge is exciting, it makes my heart race and I feel powerful. I feel strong. I feel free.
My mind wanders once more during my tender work. With a thorny beast apt to wake with the slightest touch I should be paying stricter attention. But there is a complacency that accompanies a task done a thousand times before. I allow my hand to wander unsupervised and the familiar words float back into my mind.
“Zaran, a name that means beautiful eye. Our world was paradisiac beyond words. One lone picturesque land settled amidst a tumultuous endless ocean. Rivers streaked like tendrils across the land. The water was so clean and clear they sparkled in the sunlight. Noble maroon mountains stretched into a velvety rich sky.
An endless mesh of paint formed into a breathtaking masterpiece. The air smelled sweet to the senses, like a flower in the peak of bloom. The water tasted delicious on the tongue, sweet like juice from a freshly plucked fruit. A massive array of colorful birds sung to our ears, each one with their own distinct melody.”
The old story builds a picture in my mind, but my imagination has its limits. I experience the past through the avid stories of my studious sister. But still, I know this world should be so much more than it is.
Our world is still beautiful. But it’s now tainted, scarred. The colors have faded and the rivers have darkened. A shadow has fallen over the world leaving it grim and hopeless. This is something would expect from a millennium of abuse and neglect.
I hope, beyond hope, that things can change. That things will change. It’s the only thing that keeps us going; the hope that someone somewhere will make things better. Restore us to who we were; who we’re supposed to be. I hate waiting for that person to show up.
Nightstalkers. My blood boils with the thought of them. They stand between seven and eight feet tall, their hair is a dead sickly white and their skin is a creepy lifeless gray. Their long and sleek fingers end in sharp black claws. One look into those murderous glowing red eyes strikes most people down in terror.
I freeze when I graze a thorn. Nothing moves. Nothing happens. I breathe a slow sigh of relief; I haven’t woken the bush. I pull another bulbous lorrenberry and place it in my sack with care.
I glance over my shoulder and note the suns are still in the sky. Those dual circles are my safety. Archarus and Onay, those are the names of the two suns that guard us. Archarus is our large primary yellow sun. Onay is smaller. It looks like a cool white orb settled just above Archarus. When we stay within their rays, we are safe. They are our protectors. I dive back into the bush trying to scrounge every last precious berry I can.
“After The Poisoning a war broke out. Rabid monsters assailed the land in disorganized packs. These vicious beasts set upon killing like insects devour a crop. We of course fought back. Where we lacked in strength we made up for in strategy.
We formed strongholds and militias. They formed hordes. We built weapons and arsenals. They attacked at night. Locked at an impasse of loss on both sides. We needed to change the pattern. If we continued on that path, we would lose everyone and everything.”
I imagine brave men and women clad in leather and blood fighting off the gray skinned brutes. The walls of our cities erected behind them as they slashed back at the monsters. A community of desperate souls with shovels in their hands and swords on their backs built those walls. Day and night drowning in viscera as the walls climbed higher. Exhaustion dragged them down to the mud but they picked each other up and kept fighting. They kept fighting not for themselves but for us, for the future. To ward off extinction and to hope that one day it would be better. Two thirds of us died beneath those walls.
The saying goes that the walls are built on the bones of the brave.
“Talea! Talea where are you?!” I hear my aunt Wren call from far away. The wind carries her panicked call to my ears.
My knees settle into the soft ground, I’ve managed to wriggle my way far into the bush. Mud squishes into my pant legs making my shins feel cold. It just rained this morning and I can smell the air thick with moisture; my favorite time of any day is after a fresh rain. With my upper body engulfed in the bushes I spot ahead of me a big fat cluster the size of my head. If I get that cluster Wren could bake a pie. Forget the market; lorrenberry pie is worth any cost in coin or bodily risk. My focus is so complete the urgency from my aunt fades away.
“One last bundle.” I murmur to myself “It won’t hurt, I have time.”
I lean into the brush farther and with decreasing stability. I feel a thorn prick my knuckle and the warm ooze of blood. Oh no. With a renewed sense of urgency, I stretch my muscles to their limits. My tendons tighten and my arm shakes from strain. At last, Aha! I got them. But when I try to retract my arm a thorny limb wrapps around my wrist. I tug and pull but its grip is secure. Wren calls to me again, but I can’t go to her, I woke the bush.
“Talea! Talea! Hurry child! The suns are setting!!” She screams with desperation in her voice.
Panic is rising in her throat. I envision my aunt standing in the doorway to our home. Her neck cranes trying to look out across the deep green hills for the silhouette of her niece. I imagine the strain in her face wanting to come get me, but she doesn't know where I am. I chose not to tell her, if she knew she would never let me leave the house.
I push some twigs aside with my free hand to take a look. Sure enough, the suns are sinking. The pink blush is spreading through the sky mingling with orange under purple clouds. Those friendly spheres had lit my day of gathering, now they’re descending to my execution. I push and pull on the bush trying to release myself. But it’s no use. The thorns dig into my arm which is being woven into a prickly trap little by little.
With anxious haste I take out my knife and bring the blade down onto the thick thorny branches. I hack at the bush, scratching through layers of woody fibers until the branch snaps. It recoils like it’s in pain, taking my right sleeve with it. I sigh with lament; Wren will be furious I tore another good shirt. The suns are sinking faster now; I bolt out of the bush and dash for my home.
I’m racing against the suns, running as fast as I can push myself. I should be terrified right now, panicking, instead I smile. I look over to my right to check the sky. All that remains of Archarus is a sliver of gold. I pick up the pace. My home isn’t too far away, just a little longer.
Euphoric giggles come up into my panting chest while I throw a glance over my shoulder. Left in the sky are only three colors purple, red, and pink. My existence rests on those colors. I run faster than I ever have, my heart pounds in my chest. My mind tingles with excitement and I feel alive. Almost there, I look again. The pink disappeared. My lungs burn and my cheeks flush.
My dash continues; my legs carrying me on what seems like their last bit of energy. They protest this abuse with stabbing pains along the muscles. But the rush of danger pushes me forwards.
“Come on legs, don’t fail me now.” I strain through gritted teeth.
The red dies in the sky, all that’s left is a fraction of purple set against the encroaching dark indigo. Adrenaline courses through my veins and though my skin is cold my body is burning. I feel like I’m racing against The Void itself while it tries to gobble me up. My smile broadens and my eyes set with determination, I can win against anything, even Scrilas himself.
Despite my euphoria my energy is running low, I need to push myself harder, beyond my limits. My knees begin to quiver and my feet feel tingly. But I have to press on, I have to move forwards, there is no other option. That’s what makes it fun. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I look and Archarus is gone Onay remains but is following close. Stark blue light fills the world. Dark shadows begin to loom as the second sun continues to sink to the horizon. My senses are slammed by a sudden threat. I look behind me, closing in fast is a nightstalker.
The predator comes from nowhere it seems. His body moves with such fluidity along the ground. It’s effortless for him to travel at my pace and he’s upon me in no time. His deadly claws swipe the air and miss me by less than a handspan. His long bony legs carry him faster than I ever could.
The fun fades away when I realize my best will not be enough. At my top speed, with hips feeling like they’ll blow out from their sockets, he’s still right behind me. I thought I could out pace him but nightstalker catches up to me. He takes a swipe across my shoulder blades; sharp claws dig into the skin of my back while I feel the flesh tear and the blood start to ooze out. Regardless of the pain I make it within ten feet of my door. The nightstalker is close behind me. Too close.
If he stays close he could get into my home. We’ve heard stories of families whose relatives had stayed out past dusk. They left the door open waiting on hope that their loved one would make it. The creature was too close and as soon as the family member made it through the door the nightstalker would too. The vicious brutes would tear through the home and slaughter the entire family. It’s why we have to, no matter the consequences, leave the door closed when a nightstalker is trailing close. My family knows and sees this, the door’s closed and they won’t let me in, they can’t.
I need to slow him down. Somehow. But how? I’m within a short distance of my door and he’s running right behind me. Of all the days to leave my rope stone at home, I chose today to leave with only a knife. My eyes widen with an idea. I pull out the knife that I carry, it’ll would save me twice today.
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
I turn my head to get a fix on my pursuer; the nightstalker is still closing. I can hear his breath, I can see clear the rage in his red eyes, the grin over his jagged teeth. His long white hair sways side to side with his chase. I have to do it now. I take my left hand that’s holding the knife, and whip it backwards over my shoulder. Then as my beloved knife hurls its way towards my foe I hope and pray it will hit.
The nightstalker stops in his tracks, a raucous scream pierces the air while I reach my home. I pound one hard hit onto the door with one loud scream, before I can blink, the door jerks open with lightning speed. The big strong arm of my uncle grabs my collar and wrenches me inside with all the strength he has. He tosses me towards a wall and slams the door shut clicking all the locks.
Safe, I made it. My legs feel like they’re on fire, my heart is pounding, and I’ve never felt so good. I slide down the wall exhausted in the best way and lean my head against the door to my right. Cold metal presses against my cheeks reminding me of the view port. A metal slit with a locking cover built into the door at hip level to check for nightstalkers. If it were higher the mongrels could hide beneath it and fool us.
I can’t see the nightstalker anywhere. The sky is darkening and there’s a thick pool of blood soaking into the grass, but it’s gone. I look harder, straining my sight. The chirps of insects’ echo along the rolling hills, the whole world is silent save for the song of bugs. I let out a long breath, it must have gone home.
In a blink red eyes appear as if from nowhere, the piercing red orbs stare into mine. He’s so close I can hear him breathe his shallow ragged gasps. I can smell stale blood and carcass through his nostrils. But those eyes, hungry, angry, and fearsome. They show nothing but hate and cruelty.
At first it looks like a tear trickles down his cheek, but tears are not red. I look closer, if not for the door our noses would be touching. I can see where my knife hit, there’s a gash in his left eye. I can barely make out the deep slit, the blood blends with his eye color. He blinks, and as he does, I see the skin of his eye move apart and blood gush from his cornea. The thick red liquid oozes over his dark gray skin.
The eyes look down and he picks something up. His head pulls back and he slips a knife through the opening. My knife, covered in blood, hits the floor with a clank. The nightstalker’s eyes once more look at me full of dark malice.
His raspy whisper of a voice taunts. “Prey hides. Hunter finds.” A deep throaty chuckle escapes his mouth while his cheeks pick up into a grin.
He dashes away into the night and I shut the opening. I turn around and face my uncle Trigan who stands with stony silence masking his emotions. I stand up with weary limbs and give him a weak hug. I came close to never seeing my family again, closer than ever before. My uncle points to the stairs and starts walking down for dinner. I kneel down and pick up my knife. The blood drops off the metal forming a dark trail along the stone floor. I take my things and walk downstairs.
There is my family at the bottom of the stairs waiting for me. Their faces crease with worry, their cheeks wet with tears, their shirts are wrinkled from the cloth twisting again and again in nervous fists. My aunt scrambles in clumsy running across the room to grab me. The impact of her body almost makes me topple from the force. Her arms clutch me with strength I didn't know she had, It feels like she decided to never let go. I can hear the sharp intake of her breath while she tries to quiet her tears.
“Father Sky be praised! You’re alive!” My aunt Wren shakes and sobs. My shoulder soon feels wet where she presses her eyes against it. I flinch when her arms press against the slash on my shoulders. Wren pulls back and turns me around. “You’re bleeding! That demon hurt you!”
I turn around with a weak smile. “Wren it’s not that bad. Honestly, just a cut. I'll be fine.”
Tears form in my aunt's troubled eyes renewed with a storm of emotions. She steps back to be held by my uncle who eases her tears with gentle words. Her hands dig into his meaty shoulder trying to cling onto her sanity. She takes deep breaths within her shaking body and regains her poise.
My family members, of whom there are six, embrace me in a close overpowering circle, except one. I take short panicked breath from the overwhelming contact, I’m not what many would call a people person. I can feel too much of them, like their emotions are under my skin. I’m drowning in a cloud of pain and emotional turmoil. They almost lost me and they’re riding waves of panic. To be fair, this was the biggest scare, and the closest call, we ever had. Eventually they let go, but it’s clear they’re plenty angry at me for worrying them. Trigan’s voice sounds through the halls telling us to wash up for dinner. He then proceeds to eye me with a scrutinizing gaze.
With further examination I realize my clothes are filthy. My body is covered in sweat and blood; my hair is greasy and dull. I could use a bath. I then realize that, absurd as it is, the sack of lorrenberries are still clutched in my right hand. I didn’t drop it. I hadn’t even realized I was holding a sack until just then.
I look down at the sack, and then look up at my aunt and uncle. I stretch my right arm out rigid and straight with the sack dangling in the air. Its bottom is stained orange from some of the berries squishing against each other and rupturing during my escape.
My lips form into a pleading smile. “Lorrenberry pie?” I shake the bag with gentle motions as if to make it more tantalizing.
My aunt, with venom in her gaze, snatches the sack and storms off to the kitchen. Uncle Trigan narrows his eyes. His glare is palatable with his inner storm of emotions focused on me.
I raise my eyebrows “I was-“
“Go.” Shouts Trigan’s as he points towards the washroom.
I inhale as if preparing for an argument. But I decide against it.
✽✽✽
My shoulders slump with exhaustion while my feet trudge towards my bedroom. I place the knife with reverence on my bedside table. It makes a subtle clank as the metal falls against the hardwood. Reflections dance on the blade's metal hilt from the luminescent bulb above my bed.
My twin sister Lesedi, her gold and green hair tied up in a bun, enters the room we share. She walks with grace and dignity that I don’t have. Her fingertips graze along the foot board of her bed, placed closest to the door. She pauses to look at me, there’s so much thought behind that pause.
The wall her bed is adjacent to bursts from corner to corner with shelves of books. Books pressed together as tight as possible to make room. The night table that hugs her bedside overflows with books until there is no surface. I can even see the bindings of others sticking out from under her bed skirt on the floor. To Lesedi books are as essential as breathing. I am rather ambivalent to them.
My sister’s eyes widen when she sees my knife. “Suns Talea, that’s blood isn’t it?” I nod.
“What happened out there?” She approaches my bed and sits down with poise. Her long bronze neck stretches with anxiety reminding me of a beautiful bird. Her hands clasp in her lap clutching a small bag while her delicate eyebrows frown with concern.
“It’s Nightstalker blood. I pegged one in the eye today with this. Saved my life.” As if in a thankful ritual I pick up the knife and kiss it at the tip.
Lesedi’s face fights the urge to cringe and remains in a forced peaceful expression. “I’m glad you made it home.”
In one swift motion she pulls the knife from my hands, puts it back on the table, and pushes me with gentle force to sit down on the bed. All of her movements look like she’s a graceful dancer and the music never stops. She pulls my bleeding limb over atop her lap apron. I had forgotten I was bleeding; the pain had been erased in the blur of excitement. As my heart settles, I remember the lorrenberry bush and its snagging thorns. She pulls a cloth and a bottle of clear fluid out of a small brown bag that laces shut on top. With the gentlest touch she cleans me up.
Lesedi speaks with a steady voice, like she always does. “You won’t need stitches. But this is going to ache for a while.”
“What about this?” I twist to point out the wound on my back.
She bit her lip and I hear a sharp inhale through her nostrils. “Now that might.” Her face then softens and she lets out a little chuckle. “Only you could survive something like this.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lesedi grips my wrist to maneuver my wounded forearm. I flinch in response. “Hold still. I need to bandage it now. It will be snug and it will hurt.”
I shrug. “I’ll be fine. You just surprised me.” She starts wrapping me up in bandages. It hurts but I refuse to let her know that. “So, what did you mean by that? Only I could survive something like this. Don’t go all Lesedi on me either.”
She smiles. It isn’t a smile from happiness, or joy, or even amusement. It’s Lesedi’s signature smile when she has thoughts in her head, she choses not to share. “You’re different Talea. You’re somehow-” She pauses trying to find the words “-stronger than the rest of us. You have more fire than the rest of us. Our fight was beaten out of us by the nightstalkers long ago.”
I narrow my eyes with tenacity. “Nightstalkers don’t frighten me. I won’t let them get to me.”
She sticks out her bottom lip and I can see thoughts coming to her. Lesedi is far too controlled to let them leave her lips without good reason. She sighs and patted my fresh bandaged arm. “No, I don’t suppose you will.”
I smile and try to stand to get ready for dinner. Lesedi shakes her head and pulls me face down on the bed. She’s small but stronger than she looks. “You may not let them scare you, but you did let one cut you.”
I groan. “Come on. It’s fine.”
Lesedi ignores me and pulls my tunic above my head and starts washing my wounds with her stinging concoction. I will myself to prove my point and not flinch while she digs out any dirt. Part of me suspects she’s trying to prove a point too; she was much gentler on my hand.
She sets the cloth and vial down. I feel her hands pinch all over my back. “Alright! It hurts! Stop pinching!” I holler for mercy.
Lesedi sits back on her heels laughing. I turn my head to look at her and her eyebrows scrunch in thought. “You don't need stitches.”
I shoot her a self-satisfied smirk. “See? Told you.”
She gathers her things into the bag and stands up to place the cloth in the laundry basket. “Nightstalker claws are one of the sharpest and strongest materials. They're so much more than fingernails. If you were cut with even one the slash would be deep enough to need stitches.” Lesedi mutters to herself. “You must be very lucky.”
I sit up and pull some clean sage green pants on. “I thought you don't believe in luck.”
She shrugs. “I don't.”
I stand up to finish getting dressed. With a clean gold tunic laced up I’m ready to join the family for dinner. Lesedi moves with astonishing pliancy and silence, her steps never make a sound. I imagine her floating around the house without ever letting so much as a toe touch the ground. My bare feet move in careless clomps against the polished wood floors.
My uncle Trigan crafted the hardwood floors that run through every room of the house. They’re polished every evening until they sparkle. He never gives a reason why it’s so important to him, maybe it’s because nothing shines underground. Maybe it’s because our lives are so insecure, he needs a project to keep his mind occupied.
We make our way out into the hallway; our entire home is underground except for the entrance way. There is a topside outbuilding made of hardstone with a door made of numinium. It's our only way in or out and our best defense against nightstalkers.
Hardstone is harvested from the mountains at Gerafar and Terra Guard. It forms our major mountain ranges. It's an unbreakable material that is invaluable, which is why we build all our walls with it. The combination of walls and natural barriers are the only way anyone has protected communities. We don’t though. We live in the outlands, a stretch of hills and plains unprotected by anything. No walls, no mountains, only grass and trees.
We’re not the only ones out here though. We have a community of sorts, lots of people dot the hills with farms and underground homes like ours. I’m not sure why we live here, Wren and Trigan come from Gerafar. A walled city with protection. But I must admit, I would rather have the plains to run along, and forests to sneak into, than be trapped behind walls.
Gerafar is our closest city, it’s greatest export is numinium and hardstone. Numinium is a special metal, though I haven’t paid enough attention to Lesedi to know more than it’s near unbreakable and light. Which is ideal for weapons, a business with a lot of demand. Terra Guard makes the finest weapons in the whole collective.
Looking to my left I see the beautiful wooden staircase my uncle crafted that leads to the topside. The staircase is themed to look like a tree. Branches form the steps where intricate bark patterns are flawlessly embossed in the wood. If you look closely at the bottom step you can see our names hidden inside the pattern. My uncle is a master carpenter, Aunt Wren has always said he has tree roots growing through his head and that helps him see what others don't in the wood.
The smell of fresh baked bread hits my senses, I realize at once how famished I am. The smell wafts through the house filling everyone’s noses and wetting our appetites. The air feels thick and warm, if it weren’t for Aunt Wren’s baking this place would be nothing but a hole. But my family has this incredible ability to take this ordinary, dark, space and make it a home.
I approach the wooden archway that leads from the hallway. Every piece of our home is a work of art in itself. Lesedi, although a master of everything it seems, is a talented artist. An otherwise simple arch is painted with beautiful flowers and vines twisting and blooming. They even look dimensional, like I can reach out and touch the petals.
Past the arch along the hallway are four more rooms aside from my own. The far end of the hall is the washroom, the only room in the house not clad in wood. From floor, to wall, to ceiling, it’s white hardstone. Actual white hardstone is an expense we can’t afford, so Aunt Wren painted over the typical black hardstone with white paint. She did a good job, unless you look close you can’t tell.
Lesedi stops under the archway. She crosses her arms and looks at me. “You’re stalling.”
I narrow my eyes and snort. “Am not.”
She raises her left eyebrow. “You’re certainly taking your sweet time getting to the dining room.”
I stumble over my words trying to come up with a defense. “I-I’m tired. From my run.”
Lesedi shakes her head and smiles. “You’re a pitiful liar Talea.”
I stop under the archway and look down to meet Lesedi’s eyes. She’s a good head shorter than me, she isn’t short though, I’m tall. I can look my uncle in the eye, though right now I don’t want to.
I let out a sputtering breath and shake my head. “Well, they’re going to tear me a new one in there. It’s not that I’m afraid of them or anything, I just, I’m not good with words like you are. I can’t explain myself. They…they’ll be so angry.”
She raises an arm to my shoulder and pats it as if to reassure me. “Perhaps.” With that she turns away and floats into the dining room.
I gaped with a furrowing frown. “Seriously? That’s all you have to say? Perhaps?”
Lesedi says nothing as she continues to walk away. Although, I swear I hear a quiet chuckle. I chase after her. “Perhaps?!”
I rush into the room following her and halt in my tracks; my family is already sitting and waiting. The dining table is a long rectangle with rounded corners and smooth edges. Four legs crafted to look like tree trunks twist up to meet the smooth surface, they blend into it as if it’s all one piece. Swooping leaves carved into the table top overlap with each other forming the illusion of a canopy. A forest in a table. The chairs by comparison are simple in design, but flawless in execution. Having the appearance of vines that grow from the ground to form the shape of a chair, there are no visible joints or seams. With smooth surfaces and swooping shapes, it looks like the furniture was grown from the forest special for us.
In the corner of the room is a column of dark green spindly vines wrapping around a thick center stalk. Big heart shaped leaves open outwards from the main stalk. Small bulges protrude along the vines as it tries to grow new buds. The vines travel up and cling to the hardstone ceiling, stretching across the ceiling diverting into other rooms and down the hall. Glowing buds rest in sconces along the walls where they droop from the ceiling.
The banya, essential to the life of every skysinger everywhere. It eats everything, Lesedi says consumes is a better word. Banya’s have strong roots that somehow find their way to decaying matter on their own and can dig deep underground for it. In the entry way at the top of the stairs there’s a wooden panel in the wall that lifts to allow access to the compost box. Food scraps, waste from the bathroom through a pipe system, even dead livestock goes into the compost box. The banya’s roots break down everything and absorb the nutrients. With those nutrients it creates a glow with its bulbs.
Lesedi says it’s bio-lu-something, it glows. She says it does this because it’s a predatory plant. The leaves are toxic, the glow attracts animals that die after eating the leaves. Then the plant consumes their bodies. We just make sure to leave it alone.
Light streams from the chandelier, four bright bulbs dangle secure within pendulous sconces. Dozens of green stained-glass leaves drift around them suspended from strings tied to wooden branches fastened to the ceiling. Green light reflects on the metal dishware sitting on the table top. Altogether the scene looks like our own personal forest. No matter how many times I’ve sat here, it’s still breathtaking.
I approach the table in silence and take the empty seat closest to me. The tension among my family is palpable as I look across to the faces of my cousins. Though I know they have a lot to say, snarky remarks a-plenty, they have the good sense to keep silent. I wish I had that small voice in my head that tells me to do the same.
Alaric smirks at me. He is the eldest and Wren and Trigan's only blood related child. His stern green eyes stare into mine like they always do, since we're both six feet tall. He crosses his burly arms that resemble his father’s. A stray tuft of shaggy black hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t even blink. His eyebrows frown scrunching the scar on his left eyebrow. There was an incident when he was fourteen. Nightstalkers were spotted near our farm in the light of day and Alaric saw to fix the mistake.
I hear a stifled squeal and see Zoey flinch as she gets elbowed by Echo. Echo and Zoey are adopted. Zoey was abandoned alongside the road when she was a baby. A traveling merchant discovered her on a snowy day. At first, they didn’t think she’d live, she was pale, blue, and cold. Her body was cut up and one leg was broken. The theory is that her family’s wagon was attacked by nightstalkers, they don’t attack babies, but maybe they made an exception.
Wren and Trigan heard about her and without a second thought brought her into their family. People told them not to bother, that an infant that injured can’t make it, but every day Zoey got better. That was five years ago and every day we’re happy to have this weird little girl in our family. Her personality is brimming with happiness so powerful she exhausts everyone around her. Though we love her for it all the same.
Zoey’s eyes flash open wide and she turns to stare at me across the table in complete silence. I’ve never gotten used to those eyes, they’re the palest gold anyone has ever seen, it’s almost like she has no iris at all.
I cock my head with confusion as Zoey continues to stare at me unblinking. “What’re you doing Zo?”
She blows a lock of sun bright orange hair from her eyes. “Memorizing you. If you die.”
Echo snorts while her shoulders shake with violent silent laughing. When she was seven, Echo stumbled up to the gates of Gerafar. She was dirty, her clothes were torn. She was confused and couldn’t remember who she was. Debris were found scattered along a road by a julyink. A massive bulbous plant that digs itself under roads then waits to spring the trap. The enormous pods snaps shut consuming the victim dirt and all.
Echo was most likely thrown from the wagon and hit her head. Her family was killed, a typical story. She was lucky, but she never remembered who she was or who her parents were. Of course, with as big as their hearts are, as soon as they heard news my aunt and uncle snatched her up. They wanted to name her something pretty like Nellara, but the townfolk had already taken to calling her Echo because of her memory loss. She liked it and demanded it stick.
She leans forward on the table resting her chin on her forearms. “She’s got a point Tal. You’re a magnet for death, it’ll get’cha killed someday.” She pushes her hair, straight as the horizon, from her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. Under the lights it looks like a deep blue river.
Echo is fourteen and moody, her aqua eyes are wasted by her perpetual glaring. She can be discourteous and frank but she’s strong and independent. From the day she came to our home it seemed like she needed no one, and wanted no one. We’re sure, of course, that Echo loves us. We’re her family; even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
Zoey flinches again and a low chuckle emanates from Echos throat. She’s pinching her sister under the table. The little girl tries to fight back, but these fights always begin and end the same. They start with Echo’s subtle antagonizing, and end with Zoey in some form of a headlock. Lesedi snaps at them to stop it before things escalate, tonight is not the time for this.
Wren and Trigan come to the table after several minutes of waiting. Trigan carries a platter of food and sets it down on the table. The main course, a plate of big juicy oovak buds sweating white sauce lies on the ceramic platter. Alaric and Echo went gathering today. It looks so delicious; the whole feast creates a commanding storm of aromatic power. I almost began to drool and my eyes bulge seeing the delectable array of colorful edibles.
Aunt Wren always has mixed feelings when Alaric brings home Oovak. He’s more than her only son, his twin was stillborn. She’s already felt the loss of a child, it would crush her to feel it again. But oovak is everyone’s favorite and Alaric loves the cheers when he brings it home. He risked his life by both entering nightstalker territory and harvesting a dangerous plant. The oovak only grows in forested areas, it stands ten feet tall with several long necks that end in what looks like a mouth from the top. At its base grows a giant pitcher that dissolves the prey that falls in, skysingers included. To harvest oovak buds a person has to climb above the pitcher.
Our world is filled with a wide range of predatory plants and very few predatory creatures. Not all plant life is carnivorous mind you, but the species that are can be quite dangerous. In fact, we don’t eat the meat of animals. Nightstalkers do and it’s a disgusting habit. Animals are plant food, why would we eat our food’s food?
It looks so delicious I reach my hand over to dish up the scrumptious dinner. My aunt smacks my hand with a spoon. My cousins flinch, I pull my hand back and try to rub the sting out of it. It leaves a big red mark along my thumb; I rub the tender area. The rest of the children are allowed to dish up their plates. My aunt eyes me intensely; she’s seethes with quiet anger.
“You do not eat yet.” Wren speaks with a stern, sharp voice.
I take in a deep breath. I knew this had to be coming. Though why would she choose to have this discussion now? When I’m hungry, tired, and in front of the rest of the family? My uncle sits in silence in his chair with his thick arms crossed over his chest. His gaze shifts to my cousins who are munching on their food in wide eyed silence.
Wren continued. “You were almost killed today.”
I fold my hands in my lap and pull at the edges of my tunic. “Almost.” I repeat. “But not quite.” I fight to suppress a smirk, but my left cheek lets out the expression anyway. I hear Lesedi let out a slow breath of irritation to my right.
Wren’s eyes narrow and her cheeks redden, she’s enraged, but she never loses her temper. Ever. Wren is the embodiment of patience, but today she almost lost a child. I remember a similar conversation when Alaric when received his scar. I remember being one of the wide eyed silent onlookers.
Wren’s voice comes out calm and collected, but with an edge that reminds me not to get smart with her. “Not today. Today you were very, very lucky. But tomorrow you will not be. And the next time a nightstalker chases you home I will not allow your uncle to open the door.”
I gulp, it’s Trigan’s turn to speak. “Talea.” He uncrosses his bulky arms and clasps them together on the table. My eyes glance down to the thick pelt of almost invisible hair covering them. The light catches subtle golden fur against amber skin. “What were you thinking? What have we been telling you since the day we allowed you to leave our sight?”
I repeat the same mantra I’ve known since I was six. “If you hear us calling come now and take heart. If you ignore the setting suns, nightstalkers will tear you apart.” I roll my eyes.
Trigan grunts. “Did you keep an eye on the suns?”
I nod, I had. Mostly.
Trigan glares. His neck muscles tense and his jaw clenches. “You saw the suns setting?”
I nod once more. My expressions become meeker. I pressed against the back of my chair trying to shrink away but unable to do so.
“Then why-“ He pounds a fist to the table. The utensils jump and clatter. “-would you ignore it?” He grinds his teeth and squeezes his fists until his knuckles go white.
My voice comes out quiet. “I was picking berries; I wanted to get this huge cluster I found and I thought I had more time. When I looked again Archarus was halfway set and my arm was trapped.” I lift the bandaged arm to make my point.
Trigan’s voice falls to a murmur. His fingers rub the worry lines along his forehead and speaks to the wooden surface. “They always think they have more time.” He closes his eyes with a deep mournful tone; I’ve seen that face so many times before. He’s thinking about my mother. Aldreya.
We’ve lived with our aunt and uncle since we were one year old. Our mother died, no one even knew who our father was. The best guest is she had a one-night tryst with a passing merchant or a soldier escorting a caravan. I think he’s dead, why else would she not talk about it? I don’t remember her face; she’s been gone so long. They lived in Gerafar at the time, for no reason she left us. She sneaked out of the city at night and the nightstalkers tore her apart. It’s considered an act of suicide.
I realize the agonizing place I have sent my dear uncle to and dare to speak again. My voice is quiet and repentful. “I’m sorry. I will never again be that stupid. I’ll keep an eye on the suns every second. I’m so sorry.”
It comes back to Wren, Trigan is too disturbed to speak. I made him relive a nightmare. His face is shadowed by his left hand while his squeezed shut eyes face the table top. He trembles with the painful memories his sister has left to haunt him. He no doubt again and again hears the screams, in his mind. Trigan and my mother had been so close. She was his little sister, his younger twin. She was his Lesedi. The guilt crushes my chest.
Wren takes my hand in hers. “Talea, my sweet. In our lives there is no room for these kinds of mistakes. Fate has kindly granted you one free pass-“Her hand travels up and takes hold of my chin. She turns my face so I’ll look her directly in the eye. “-you will not receive another.”
I try to shrug it off and open my mouth to protest. My aunt shuts me down before a single word can escape. “If you make a mistake like this again, someone will die for it. It will not be you,” She looks around at our family and circles back to me with a hard stare. “It will be us.” I gulp hard because I know she’s right.