In the small hours of the night, atop the highest isle in the northern sky, a creature of shadow crept across black stone, defying the pull of the abyssal sky. The Sun was long gone behind the world’s canopy, and the only light came from sputtering torches placed too sparsely about the area. The creature in question was a bat woman called Cytha, of the order Eclipsis. Her leathery wings spread from her arms down to her upper calves, yet she used these wings now not to fly but to grip the stone blocks of a tower in a handlike fashion.

The keep was called Faiten, a stronghold built by her ancestors but taken over in generations past by the Raptor Tribe. It was not large, but its spires were a work of grim beauty, wrought of stone plucked from the close rocky belly of the Earth and topped with claw-like shapes. Cytha nimbly skittered over the stones, tracing an arc toward the lower window she knew to be right around the corner. This wasn’t her first time here. One would think they should know to be more careful by now . . . but those Ornis always were a bit slow of thought.

There was the window. As tall as her elbow and fingertips spanned and only six inches wide, it might seem impossible to fit through, but not for a female of the Bat Tribe—and even by those standards, Cytha was slim. Wrapping her wings about her torso, she poked her head into the angled slots of the window and listened with her keen hearing. She let out one supersonic click, high enough to be inaudible to normal ears, and interpreted the returning sound waves as a rough sketch of the inside hallway.

All clear. One to the right, facing the other way.

Cytha wormed her way in and patted the floor with one appendage at a time, including her wings. Each small flutter, each muffled step, gave her bursts of echolocated vision, which she mixed with her less-than-reliable eyesight. A torch near the guard on the right gave decent light once her eyes adjusted to it. The man bore the distinctive beak and feathers of the Ornis people, and the focused eye positioning and predatory stance of the Raptor clan. Right now, he made a poor predator, and she exploited this by sneaking up on him and grabbing him from behind in a vicious chokehold.

She let go only when she was good and certain he was out, easing the tall birdman’s unconscious body to the ground with a slight strain. Then she slipped through the doorway in search of treasure. Really anything would work. Her master was not terribly picky, just greedy, and she’d rather take a few things of reasonable value than linger, poking around for hidden jewels and moneys. She hesitated briefly, turning half around to eye the guard’s equipment and attire. She didn’t want his thick, heavy sword, nor did she wish to go through the hassle of removing clothing from his body. She did stoop to retrieve a brass pin bearing the insignia of the local Raptor Lord. If nothing else, that was one more mark on their accursed outpost. Stealing from such brutes was the least she could do to repay old crimes.

Over the next few minutes, Cytha searched about for valuables, keeping to the shadows and pausing as guards walked past. At one point, she risked a distraction, tossing a small candlestick at the far end of the room to divert the Raptors’ attention while she whisked away a small figurine.

Shortly thereafter, she heard the “bat alarm.” It had its own distinctive call, and she heard it echo from multiple towers. With a sigh, she set about leaving. Where did that window go . . . ?

Cytha managed to avoid all the archers’ arrows as she zipped away from the outpost, fluttering with her naturally evasive bat wingstrokes and pulling into a tight dive once out of the torchlight’s area. It wasn’t like their aim was very good in the dark; some of the arrows just flew too close to home. The birdmen were as blind as, well . . . as the saying went, as bats. A preposterous phrase.

Rising out of the clouds she had hidden in, the Eclipsis girl made for the haven of Nebula, the hanging wonder of the northern sky. The last outpost of the northeast, now the only home of her people, the Bat Tribe. A great broken halo, or rather a jagged crescent, yawned out of the recesses of the barren Earth, marking its openings. The cave system was deceptive, as it did not open directly into the belly of the Earth like most of the massive apertures found across its surface. There was indeed an opening here, but it was hidden near the highest point and strictly forbidden. The Bat Tribe had been driven back to Nebula by the Raptors and their kin in generations past, and now lived in seclusion, making small raids on the Bird Tribe but no recent assaults.

A little-known skill of the Bat Tribe, specifically the order Noctis, was stone manipulation, which had been used in times past to build outposts such as Faiten. They called these stoneworkers Cragborn. It was these who built the city of Nebula, etching the inner walls of the entry ring with large runes and inlaying luminescent jewels in the sides, which ran down in worked pillars and rails and graceful platforms. From afar, it was a wondrous beacon; close, a well-lit array of meeting places, intended to encourage friendly interaction between cave dwellers out in the naked sky.

There were no friendly meetings there. Whoever had built the entry perimeter of Nebula had been dreaming if they thought the three Orders could ever get along. As she passed inside the north-northwestern entrance, she beheld as always the passing beauty of the quiet blue and magenta gems that lit the mysterious runes. Eclipsis and Noctis sentries, armed with curved poleblades, nodded to her as she passed on into the cave. The Eclipsis were the only order with the ability to faceshift, but most, like this sentry, chose the menacing grey-brown bat face with long fangs. Cytha had never found it as scary as it was said to be, perhaps because she was one of them.

Regardless, she preferred her human face.

There were three Orders: Noctis, Madrugada, and Eclipsis. The Madrugada had always been a more peaceful people, preferring crafts and horticulture over warfare, and thus had been subjugated long ago. The Eclipsis liked to think themselves the true rulers, and perhaps they were, but Cytha had been born an Eclipsis, and look at her: slave to a despicable Noctis warlord. The Noctis, known for their black fur and wings and permanent fanged faces, had the most powerful elementalist presence and the largest military, but everyone knew that Eclipsis high lords pulled all the strings. Just . . . the more ruthless among them. There were plenty of those.

Plenty of slaves, too . . .

Born in the house of Lord Wylo Entras to one of his brood-slaves, Cytha had been close to being one of his daughters. Officially, she was one: a slave-daughter. Her mother had been hanged shortly after giving birth—hanged by her neck, not her feet—and Cytha had been given over to a Madrugada wetnurse. The woman had raised her from a baby and taught her all she knew, which wasn’t much. When she was nine, Wylo had personally come to visit Cytha, and pronounced that she be taken to the wing of the warrior slaves to train in sabotage and marauding. Wylo was one of many Noctis warlords who especially favored that last one.

Cytha made her way up to a higher level once inside the tall expanse of the northern Noctis caverns, entering the territory of Lord Entras. He preferred red glowstones over the white and deep blue that adorned the Noctis hub. It was a fitting color, and not an ugly one in her opinion. She passed the caverns where they grew food moss, and the dark and light caverns where corresponding animals were raised by terrestrial beastborn—rats and other rodents mostly in the former.

She met up with a fellow slave, a young man named Adris, who also carried looted possessions. He was of the Noctis tribe, short with long tufts of hair sprouting from his forehead and back. He also had an unconscious habit of twitching his moist nose. “When did you get back?” she asked him.

“Oh, a few minutes ago.” He paused, interpreting her silent question, Where did you raid? and continued, “Raided some Eclipsis guys. Nobody you’d know, don’t worry. On the east side.”

She nodded, forgoing the guffawing with which she could have replied. As much as it impressed her, she didn’t care. They stole stuff, they gave it to the lord. If one of them got killed eventually, then well, that was servitude. “Nice,” she said idly, which seemed to put him at ease. For whatever reason, the boy seemed almost scared of her, despite her reputation as an honorary Madrugada in the Entras household.

She made sure to let him go first as they approached the dwelling place of Wylo Entras. A paid Eclipsis guard stood watch at the door and now held up a clawed hand. His waxing moon poleblade, like those of most in Nebula, was molded of pure obsidian by Cragborn stonesmiths. “What do you want?” he asked in a sharp Noctis accent. The man’s name was Hamul, and he saw the both of them all the time, yet always asked the same question.

“We’re here to, um . . . deposit. Making deposits for the secretary,” Adris replied.

“Right, then. Let’s see it.”

Cytha made a low growl in her chest, too deep on the register for most of her kind to pick up, yet the guard glared her way suspiciously. He had only been around two weeks, and he was already trying to bully them? “Sir, these go directly to the secretary.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Aye, and I’ll transport them. There’s only so far we can trust your kind, slave.”

He calls me slave, yet we’re all Wylo’s property. And yet . . . she decided not to make a fuss this day. It would end in beatings and food restrictions for her, and possibly for others as well. No good would come of it.

She stepped up beside Adris and began emptying the pockets of her black skirt. The garment was the loosest part of her attire and not voluminous by half, but she had deep pockets stitched right into the skin-tight leggings she wore underneath, plus two underneath her arms, wrapped cleverly over by her top. She placed them one-by-one on one of two stone pedestals to either side of the doorway, though she kept a single item on her person—the one coin she had pilfered, worth nearly a day’s food rations if Wylo was feeling generous.

The guard looked like he was thinking about patting her down to make sure, then thought better of it. “All checks out,” he said quickly, sweeping up the trinkets and placing them in a bag. “And you, kid?” Adris reluctantly did the same as she, emptying his pockets for the guard to stash in another bag. Cytha knew that, one way or another, the items would not make it to the warlord’s secretary in the same fashion or number as originally intended. Hamul would tell him that the slaves were being unruly or some such, and so would present what he wanted the man to see.

Cytha hoped he hanged for it.

When the guard-turned-thief let them go, Cytha extracted herself from the premises and headed for her rooms. Fortunately, she was allowed some freedom as a slave. If she wandered away for too long or when not under leave to do so, Wylo would send out scouts to bring her back, and they would do so roughly rather than gently. That hadn’t been necessary since she was ten, however, still a child and unfamiliar with the ways of the warrior slave.

She hadn’t gone far when her ears made out a presence in front of her. Two figures. She stopped, but not before she was just in front of them, and they quickly stepped out to reveal themselves: Sim and Fidge, slave-sons of Wylo Entras by the same mother. She said nothing as they surrounded her, or made as good attempt of it as two Madru-Nox halfbreeds could. Both had the beast face of their father.

Sim chuckled. “Where ya think you’re going, missie?”

She attempted to run, but his brother stuck out his foot and tripped her. He followed this up by an immediate kick to her thigh that caused her to gasp. The reaction was involuntary and almost surprised her. A little pain was nothing she wasn’t used to.

Sim gave another chuckle and watched with a sardonic smile as she rose. “Whaddya reckon she’s running from, Fidge?”

“Honest work, I’d think. Hey.” Fidge grabbed her with two hands and gave her the pat-down that the guard had declined—one that was perhaps purposely clumsy. For all his idiocy, however, he knew how the Eclipsis spy garments were made, and yet he still missed the coin—but his brother, who held her struggling arms, joined in on the search and came up with the coin she’d hidden.

Being pinned and touched all over would have mortified her once, but, like the beatings, it was nothing novel. She didn’t bother shouting at them. When Sim found the Ornis coin and hooted, turning it over as he inspected it, she hung her head, finally feeling dread. Abuse was one thing, but if they took it to their father, as the brothers suggested, she would be punished severely—even though he held no love for them and had never treated them as special. He would take their word for it on the basis of his hatred for her. Her mother had been a rebel—now a dead rebel—and he hated all who stood up to him.

Desperate, she waited for Fidge to loosen his grip in his interest of the coin. She was not disappointed, and took the opportunity to lash out at Sim, sinking her fangs into his shoulder and striking upward at his chin with all her might. Her arm broke free of Fidge’s grip, but consequently hit with lessened forced. Still, as the older boy staggered, her teeth ripped the skin on his shoulder, eliciting a pained scream. Her light knuckles cried in pain as well; she wasn’t used to hitting with them.

She spun and attacked Fidge, kicking his ankle out and gouging the arm that held her left hand with the claws of her right. Sim rounded on her, clutching his shoulder with murder in his eyes, and she did the only thing she could think of: she let out a powerful ultrasonic shriek from her mouth, causing her own ears to cry in protest. But hers had always been just that much more resilient.

The two slave-sons cried out and backpedaled, holding their ears. Cytha knew where they were going—directly to Entras. She stooped, picked up the coin that Sim had dropped, and fled. She flew through the caves on wings and feet as though death pursued, fluttering down toward the exit, past the startled cries of Noctis denizens. When she got to the entrance and beheld the ring of blue-and-magenta lights, she slowed, trying without success to calm her gasping lungs and appear normal. But with her arms and face bearing the marks of the cave floor and Sim’s blood dripping from her lips—which she hastily tried to rub away—she knew the sentries would immediately try to detain her. But she would give them her best . . .

What is going on?

She stopped on the stairs near the first tier of stone balconies, not a dozen feet from the nearest guards. Their backs were all turned, watching a floating, beastlike angel of shadow, the same who had visited the city a week prior. An aura of shadowy light seemed to encase him, providing a halflight that distinguished him from the blackness of night even without the surrounding glowstones. The ever-reclusive Magnates three—supposedly one for each order—flapped beneath him.

“Denizens of the Bat Tribe!” he called in a terrible, booming voice, and proceeded to speak of the long-awaited change regarding the rules of the upcoming games. The three orders were not terribly big on festivities and usually did next to nothing for the great festival, but the competition was ever fierce—and also strictly regulated. This time, it sounded like . . . it would not be. As a slave, Cytha had been forbidden from entering last year. To her, this meant one thing: hope.

As she watched, the Magnates followed the hulking creature out to the south. She crept closer to the edge, confident that all the guards were just as preoccupied with the sight as she, and beheld an event she would never forget. Treading air with his massive black wings, the distant, backlit figure raised his hands Earthward and roared, bringing down rippling tongues of stone and jagged geomasses, which he formed into an island over the space of a few minutes. A whole new island, wrought from stone by this . . . Cragborn? No, he was much more than that—a messenger of the gods—and far more powerful than any elementalist she had heard of. The working of stone into the stairways and balconies about the half-ring of Nebula had taken many an artist and many days—weeks, she’d heard—to shape. Not minutes.

Returning to her senses, Cytha slipped out behind one of the gaping guards and dropped into the sky. No one said anything, if they even noticed. The self-proclaimed Harbinger of the Lords Above had made it clear that any and all who wished to join in at the festival, be they of any order or walk of life, should speak to their Magnates about it, and she intended to do so as soon as possible. Then . . . well, she’d probably hide out until the festival. No sense sticking around for Wylo to recapture and beat or kill. These games would be like no other, the Harbinger said, more dangerous than ever. What was the worst that could happen to her? She’d die?

CHARACTERS

* Solis Lightwing (SOLE-iss)—The main character, a white-winged boy of unceasing curiosity who longs to see inside the forbidden Earth.

* Telsan (TELL-suhn)—Solis’ best friend, a young man of the Bird Tribe.

* Phoenix Dolce (DOLE-chay)—Friend of Solis and Telsan, a Flameborn girl of sixteen years. Daughter of Falla Dolce.

* Melka—One of the three living Tapiq Magnates.

* Donnor—Said to be the eldest of the three living Magnates.

* Spore—One of the three living Magnates. Doesn’t say much.

* Cytha (SITH-uh)—An Eclipsis slave girl born in the house of Wylo Entras.

* Adris—A warrior slave-son who raids and brings loot to Lord Entras, just like Cytha.

* Fidge—Biological slave-son of Wylo Entras.

* Sim—Fidge's elder brother.

* Wylo Entras (WHY-lo EN-trahs)—A greedy Noctis warlord.

TERMS

* Earth, The—An immeasurable continent that looms over the entire sky. Forbidden to all save those whom the Magnates choose each year.

* Magnate—Overseers of the ten tribes who have ascended to the Earth and returned, bearing supposedly infinite knowledge that they choose to keep hidden.

* Order Eclipsis—Most prideful and influential of the Bat Tribe orders, known for their bloodthirst and their ability to shift between human and bat faces.

* Order Noctis—Powerful, sneaky, but generally lacking ambition.

* Order Madrugada—A peaceable people, enslaved by many of their brethren but used for more menial labor or as slave-wives.

* Raptor Clan—One of the four main clans of the Ornis Tribe, aggressive and warlike.

* Faiten (FAY-ten)—A Raptor fortress, once built by Cragborn of the Bat Tribe.

KINSHIPS

* Elementalist—One born with a Kinship to an elemental force. They represent one of multiple types of Kinships.

* Flameborn—Those blessed with Kinship to the power of flame. They are characterized by their lack of wings, as they form their own as needed from tongues of fire that sprout from their backs.

* Dustborn—Manipulators of soil and dust. They fly with wings created from nearby dust particles.

* Windborn—Kin of the wind. Unlike other elementalists, these often grow wings just like any other, though some are blessed with a heightened ability allowing them to fly without wings—and thus lacking them.

* Waveborn—Also called Watchers, they control the invisible wards that protect the sky islands from falling hazards. Also includes those with the rare ability of sound manipulation.

* Wards—Magical barriers put in place by the Magnates and managed by the Watchers.

* Dewborn—Those who can control moisture and redirect water.

* Stormborn—Creators of small storms and electrical currents.

* Snowborn—Bringers of frost and snow on a small scale.

* Sunborn—Manipulators of light.

* Beastborn—These rare kind are seen largely only in the northwestern isles, and actually come in different orders, each with an affinity to a certain class of living creature.

* Cragborn—Manipulators of stone.