After everything that’s happened, it feels strange waking up in a relatively normal room in a relatively normal house.

Sure, the light coming through the windows is more red than it should be, but that’s not terribly difficult to get used to. I have my own room, a hay bed, and clothes.

You would think that having wings would make sleeping on your back uncomfortable, but it’s not that big of a deal if you can’t feel them there. They’re flexible and soft enough that I can lay flat on my back with my wings out and not feel like I’m in a weird position. I can feel them when they touch other parts of my body, but I can’t… physically feel them attached to my back. If I reach behind myself and touch the base of them, I can feel that I’ve touched it with my hand, but I can’t feel it through my wing, as if they’re numb.

I sit up, and my wings curl themselves around my sides and rest in my lap - I guess they knew I wanted to take a closer look at them, given they seem to be able to hear my thoughts. They give a small flap of acknowledgement. Running my hand over their uppermost edge, they feel soft and smooth to the touch. The uppermost feathers - the coverts, is the exact term I believe - are smoother and flatter, while the longer flight feathers are rougher and less evenly spaced. Some of the flight feathers are as long as my forearm, and consistently a dark wine-red colour throughout.

Towards their tips, however, are four notably shinier feathers hidden amongst the others. They’re firm and metallic, with knife-sharp edges and pointed tips… they slashed a man’s face with frightening ease, after all. Each wing has four of them, making them sword-like fingers, I guess. Do they have the little thumb bit along the upper edge of the wing?

My left wing lifts itself up in my lap, extending a small thumb-like tuft of feathers along its upper edge, basically giving me a thumbs up. Neat.

The sword-like… Sword feathers? Wing swords? Blade feathers? I’ll just call them blade-feathers for now. They fit quite neatly between the other feathers, and they’re flexible enough to move mostly concealed within my feathers without much issue. Four blade-feathers on each wing. Eight swords, permanently attached to me, with quick reflexes of their own. How far can they reach out from me, though? The guy that grabbed my cloak was close enough to be in arm’s reach, but…

My left wing lifts up and stretches itself out to its full length, reaching almost halfway across the room. With a flick, its blade-feathers extend out an extra metre in length at their very tip. That answers that.

I hold up a strand of hay.

“Hey, wings. Cut this.”

The left wing pulls itself back, retracting its four blades halfway and aiming for the hay; with a quick swish, it makes a clean slice, lopping off the top of the strand.

“You learned how to cut! Good wings!!”

I rub the top of the right wing still in my lap, and the left flaps with apparent excitement, scratching the wooden floor with its still-unsheathed blades.

“Hey! Don’t go scratching up the floor when we just got here, we’re living here now. Also don’t cut people unless I tell you, okay? I don’t know if we’re in the clear yet.”

My wings slump a little, and the tips flick upwards, as if giving a begrudging nod of acceptance. Gods, I can’t tell if these things act more like puppies or children with the hand-holding they need… But oh, they feel so good to rub! So soft and fluffy, wrapping me in a hug, haaahh~

“Ahem.”

I jerk upright, and my wings fully unfurl themselves straight out in shock, the right one banging against the wall. The Chief is standing in my doorway, arms crossed, looking very unimpressed with my actions.

“C-Chief! I’m awake! Good morning! Uh, morning is a thing here, r-right?”

She sighs, mumbling something to herself before speaking up.

“If you’re going to stay here, and pay for slashing Aran’s face, you’re going to be put to work. Fifteen is when children go before the council to be designated their new role, and you’re no different. I’ll bring you there myself.”

“Do you… really believe that I’m fifteen? Because… I’m not even sure of that myself, by this point…”

She steps forward, and leans down right into my face. Close. Really close. Too close—

She points at her silver eye, with thin red markings around it.

“See this? It means I’m a soulseer. You know what that means, yes?”

“That you… can look into people’s eyes and read their souls, which means you can tell when they’re lying, or what their intentions may be… that still works down here?”

She stands back up, crossing her arms.

“Surprisingly, yes, my soulseer abilities remained intact when I awoke in this world. You’re not lying about being fifteen, even if your body certainly doesn’t look like it. Your body ageing up isn’t as bizarre as it may seem, though; checking through my books, it’s not unheard of for Damned to awaken with changes to their body’s age or build. The wings are… more unusual, but we’ll just have to deal with that. Now get up, put your wings in your enchanted cloak, and follow me.”

The Chief turns to leave the room, and I hurriedly get to my feet and follow behind her, my wings tucking themselves back under my cloak.

We leave the side room that I woke up in, rounding the corner and stepping onto what looks to be the main street of Haven. Both sides are lined with buildings with tell-tale business and purpose. A butcher, a baker, a blacksmith down a side alley, the armoury behind me, a carpenter, two tailors, and even a market square. At the end of the main street lies a crossroads, dominated by a large multi-story tavern, with a balcony above its front door. All ordinary looking houses and businesses, built from wooden beams with shingle roofs. Almost unbelievably ordinary.

“Have you never seen a main street before? Surely you must have lived somewhere civilised, given your clothing and manner of speech.”

The Chief’s slightly annoyed words snap me back to reality, realising I’ve stopped in my tracks and have been gawking at the surroundings.

“I have, just… I never thought I’d see something like this down here, I thought I was seeing things when I first saw this place… How did you even build all this?”

The Chief turns and starts walking, so I catch up to her while listening.

“We’ve had a number of skilled craftsmen, carpenters, blacksmiths and builders live here over the years. Haven was established some hundred-odd years ago by that idiot who lowered himself down into the Abyss with books and tools and his bleeding heart and whatever. Despite the overall hostility of the Abyss, wood and clay are abundant for construction purposes, and the soil is very fertile. Yes, none of the roots or grains that grow down here have a particularly pleasant taste, and hunting any of the animals that prowl the thicker woods is extremely dangerous, but it’s enough to get people through the day. If anything, the weather is miserable, but it’s consistently miserable. Now…”

She stops, and I realise we’re in front of the doors of the tavern. The Last Drop, it’s called. The streets have been fairly quiet, but the tavern sounds quite rowdy. The Chief turns to me, glaring at me straight in the eyes.

“Now. When we enter here, you’ll look at nothing, you’ll say nothing, you’ll do nothing. Follow right behind me, around to the right and up the stairs. And keep your wings away too. Clear?”

“Clear.”

She turns around, taking a breath before opening the heavy wooden door. A rush of noise and a sweet smell hits my face. The Chief steps into the room, so I step in behind her. I’m a little taller than her, enough to just see over her head…

… and the room falls silent.

The Chief goes to take another step, but even she falters slightly before the pressure directed at us… at me.

White pupils pierce through the dark interior as my eyes adjust to the dimness. Most of these white dots are surrounded by bright or deep red, but some not. All watching. Staring. Waiting for something, anything, to move.

“That’s the bitch! That’s the bitch who cut my face!!” One of them gets up and shouts. His right eye is covered with a bandage.

“What the hells is she doing here? Throw her in the Cellars!” Another gets up. His eyes are a bright green.

“Cellars? She should be hanging from the stonetrees!” Another calls.

More and more of them get up, shouting obscenities in my direction. Some grab their knives from the table, as the crowd starts to move towards us. I want to run, but my body won’t move. The Chief looks like she’s trembling with… something?

“SILENCE!” The Chief demands, and the room immediately falls silent in compliance.

The silence hangs for a fleeting moment, before the Chief continues talking. Even standing behind her, I can feel the look of seething contempt on her face.

“Her fate is for the council to decide. I am well aware of what she did, and that will be taken into account. The lot of you should know well that we can’t just turn away someone of working age right now.”

“Can’t turn her away?! She shouldn’t be allowed to live here even in the Cellars for what she did to my face!” The man with the slashed face yells, seemingly the only one with the courage —or stupidity— to shout at the Chief in a place like this.

“Your face will be fine, Aran. She scratched you, nothing more. If you insist on complaining and wasting my time, however, then I’ll give you a real scar worth complaining about.”

“I… But she…” Aran sputters, but the Chief continues.

“But yes, let’s send her away, banish her from this place. She’ll either fly out of here or join the Bone Breakers, where she’ll tell them where we are, and return at the head of a fell host and raze us to the ground for the injustices we did to her. Surely, there is no one more eligible and sound of mind for the position of Chief than you, Aran.”

“I-I didn’t…” Aran whimpers like a beaten dog.

“Yes, Aran, you didn’t think before opening your stupid mouth and drooling all over my floorboards. Now, keep it shut, or I’ll shut it for you, permanently.”

Aran falls back into his chair, utterly defeated. The rest of the crowd quietly sat back down, not wanting to draw the ire of their Chief.

“You. With me. Now.”

The Chief grabs my wrist, dragging me around the silenced crowd of onlookers and up the stairs, past another heavy door, through a dark corridor, and into a room dominated by a large table carved from a tree trunk. I’m sat down on the only chair opposite this table, and the Chief disappears into a side room, closing the door behind her.

‘The council’, huh. So the Chief isn’t entirely running things on her own. You wouldn’t be remiss to think that she was running everything, what with her resting “done-with-your-shit”-face and how she storms around.

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The words “can’t turn away” linger in my head. If I’m not only the first new person around here in eight moons, which are months, but only the upper crust of society tends to call them “months”, but I’m the first adult in twenty years… they must be desperate for people who can actually work and help around. There seems to be other groups down here too, so I’d likely be abducted no matter who found me for the sake of getting to me first…

The side door opens, and I snap back to attention, sitting stiffly upright. Five people walk in. Rann, Vann, the Chief carrying her wooden staff, a tall, thin man with a long face and dark blue deep-set eyes partially hidden behind small round spectacles, and a woman slightly taller than the Chief, with a smile on her face and bright, apple-red wavy hair. They sit down at the table across from me in the order they entered, all of them carrying a book that they each open before them, with the Chief setting down her staff beside her chair. Is this an interview or a death panel? Of course hell would have stressful situations like these to layer on the punishments.

“Name?” The Chief asks.

“Marina.”

“Surname?” The long-faced man asks. His voice is sharp and critical, compared to the blunt and judgemental tone of the Chief.

“Retali…”

“Marina Retali? Hmm…” The wavy-haired woman says, leaning back in her chair to ponder. Her voice is sing-songy and soft.

“Surnames don’t matter much down here.” Rann grunts. The long-faced man doesn’t seem to register Rann’s complaint.

“It matters for bookkeeping’s sake, Rann.” The Chief opines, writing down in the book before her.

“Ah, the Retali family! Near Monte Sequoia, right? In the Sovrana Republic? The wavy-haired woman exclaims, looking excited to have guessed my origin.

“Yes, I’m a daughter of the Retali family from Monte Sequoia, of the Sovrana Republic…”

The smile on the woman’s face fades, as she slumps back a little.

“What year was it when you passed on…? In, uh, Imperial Calendar years…”

“GC 1541.”

The group exchange looks amongst themselves.

“Well, the last one we found said it was GC 1538, and that was two years ago, so your arrival seems to be mostly contiguous…” Vann says, as he’s writing down in his ledger.

“What happened, Marina…? Was it just you, or your whole family, or…” The wavy-haired woman asks, her face now sullen.

“Tiff, we don’t ask these things…” The Chief sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“As far as I know, my whole village was sacked. My parents, my father’s siblings, they all lived there. They came not to plunder, but simply to raze and murder. The majority of the Revali family is probably dead.”

They… probably are, yeah.

Everyone I knew.

My parents, my siblings, my uncles, aunts, cousins, the baker, the old storyteller…

Dead.

Dead for nothing. We made violins, for gods’ sake. We were comfortable, but we were far from nobles. They didn’t even steal anything, anyway. They just burned. Murdered. Raped. Killed for the pointless sake of killing. Why? What had we done?

It didn’t matter what we had or hadn’t done. None of that mattered to them.

They just wanted to kill.

And because of them, here I am.

If I got sent here, maybe I could catch up to one of them when they end up here. If the gods are as just as people say, then surely, the people who murdered me would end up in the same place as me. Maybe not exactly here, but… somewhere. Can’t be that big.

“Marina!”

The Chief’s slightly raised voice brings me back to reality. She sighs, turning to glare at Tiff.

“This is why we don’t ask these things, Tiff. All it does is just stir whatever horrid memories people have of their dying moments. It’s hard enough down here. We don’t need to go around asking people how they—often brutally—died.”

Tiff sinks down in her chair a little, falling quiet. The long-faced man beside her adjusts his spectacles, turning a page in his book.

“Moving on, Marina, I have heard you have stated your age to be fifteen. Is that correct?” He asks, but it feels like a knife he’s put to my throat, ready to strike at any lie that I may dare speak.

“That is… correct, yes…”

He furrows his brow. He looks like he’s about to tell me I’ve failed my exam…

“While you are certainly mature for one who claims to be fifteen, I believe that is not the most extraordinary thing about you, is that true?”

“If you’re talking about the wings… I take it those aren’t common around here.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms.

“Aren’t common? You’ve found yourself in a burning hole in the ground, Marina, and yet the gods have gifted you wings with feathers like blades and the strength to lift off the ground. I don’t know if such a situation is tragic, or comedic. You seem to be able to hide them under that mantle of yours, Marina, but surely you could show them to us? Without harming us, of course, although I’m sure either of the Carterens here could strike you down before you made any such move…”

“If she went for your tongue, Anton, maybe I wouldn’t move so quickly…” Rann grumbles. Carterens…? Is that Rann’s surname?

Should I bring out my wings…? I look at the Chief for permission, who sighs, and gives me a nod. Alright, wings, out you come.

My wings immediately fly out from under my cloak, reaching their full length in less than a second, nearly filling the room from one wingtip to the other, the blade-feathers fully extended. The five seated before me are all taken aback at differing levels.

“I didn’t, uh… I didn’t mean for them to come out that fast…”

Anton squints, leaning closer in his chair.

“Then it’s true, that you don’t have direct control over them, despite the fact that they are attached to your body?” He quizzes, looking at me less like a human and more like a bizarre test subject. With his pointed ears, he looks like the textbook example of a snooty, judgemental elf with a natural superiority complex.

“However they work, they seem to lose consciousness whenever she does. Knocked her out enough times to learn that.” Rann comments.

I’ll make a note of that myself. Actually, given the amount of times I’ve faceplanted in the mud, my clothes look a lot cleaner than I’d expected… even my face feels mostly clean? Has someone been cleaning me up while I’ve been knocked out?

“I hope that doesn’t have to happen again, Rann. Otherwise Mia will have to wipe down her face again.” Tiff scolds in a soft but firm manner.

Mia?

The Chief’s cheeks redden slightly… is she ‘Mia’?

“I- Look, we all can be afforded some basic dignity around here, and I simply didn’t want her tracking mud through my library.”

The Chief crosses her arms and turns her nose up with a ‘hmpf’. Mia? That’s a cute name for someone so authoritative and serious…

But it can’t be, right? Unless I test it…

“Thank you for affording me the dignity of a clean face, Mia.”

The Chief jumps up from her chair, slamming her hand down on the table as she turns her soul-piercing glare to me… even as her face turns red up to her ears.

“It is, The CHIEF, to you, Girl, The Chief, or Chief Lichtrufer, to you, Marina Retali!”

Rann rocks back in his chair as he lets out a laugh. Vann chuckles lightly, Tiff giggles, and Anton simply rolls his eyes and looks down at his book.

“She’s quick, I’ll give her that.” Rann says as he sits back upright.

The Chief sits back down on her chair with a huff, crossing her arms again and squinting at Tiff, who’s still giggling quietly.

“Alright, we have your name, your age, we’ve discussed your wings, which you can, er… put away now.” Vann starts.

My wings, who have been outstretched and standing to attention this whole time, finally relax and pull back under my cloak.

“Right. The point of calling you here is to decide what you’ll be doing here. Everyone of age has a job. I’m in charge of the defence and security of Haven. Rann leads the expeditionary team, hence he’s the one who found you. Anton is our head chef of sorts, in charge of food preparation and farming. Tiffany at the end is responsible for managing the craftsmen and carers of Haven. If you’re working here, you’re working under one of us. The Chief handles leadership duties and teaching, but I don’t think you’ll be assisting with that sort of work anytime soon.” Vann continues, with each member of the council nodding as their names are called.

The Chief gives an annoyed grunt of affirmation. For now, I should stick to calling her the Chief to avoid trouble. She seems prickly, and can be very harsh with her words, but there must be something more to her if she personally took the time to clean me up a bit while I was knocked out.

“What skills did you have in your previous life, Marina?” Tiff asks, and the others pick up their pencils or quills. Quills I expected, but pencils are something I haven’t seen before here…

“I was the third daughter of the Retali family, with two elder sisters and one little brother. I had just turned 15 before I… ended up here. My family were luthiers; or more commonly, violin makers. Well, they made everything from lyres to cellos, but we were mostly known for our violins. I learned what kind of woods were best for certain parts of the violin, how the strings are made, how to choose the best hairs for the bow, but I’d never built or assembled one myself. My father said you needed at least two decades of experience before you could make your own Retali violin. But I realise, uh… violin making may not be very useful down… here.”

Anton is the only one writing notes. That doesn’t look good. Vann speaks up.

“While yes, making violins isn’t a high priority here, the associated skills of woodworking may find use in carpentry. What I’m interested in, however… have you any experience with weapons or combat?”

“In my spare time, when she wasn’t teaching me how to sew, my mother taught me and my siblings how to fight with a sword. My mother was an experienced duellist, and given most of his children were girls, my father wanted his daughters to be able to protect themselves from any ‘enthusiastic suitors’.”

Rann and Tiffany are writing down now. Vann continues.

“In regards to combat, those hidden blades in your wings seem to know how to defend you adequately from anyone in your vicinity. How, err… experienced are you with… using them?”

“Well, I’ve only had them for the… two or three days since I ended up here, but given they have a bit of a mind of their own, I’m having to teach them even the most… basic things. Like how to cut something.”

“Hmmn… I did wonder why you didn’t just cut your ropes when we caught you…” Rann comments.

“Can you read?” Anton asks, almost cutting off the end of Rann’s sentence.

“Yes, Giornovan and Drachensprache. A little bit of the nearby Elvish language too, we had the occasional elf client.”

The Chief raises an eyebrow.

“Giornovan and Drachensprache? Drachenkoenig is a long way from the Giornovan Empire.”

“I had a cousin in the capital there whom I exchanged letters with since I was young. I learned Drachensprache from her, and she learned Giornovan from me.”

The five of them exchange looks again. The Chief closes her book, looking at me.

“Well. While you’re here, any questions?”

“Are Rann and Vann brothers?”

I had to ask. It’s been on my mind since I first saw Vann. Vann chuckles.

“Actually, Rann here is my grandson, hence Anton referring to us as “The Carterens”. I passed when I was 34, before he was born. He passed away when he was 27, but he turned up in the Underlands before I did, so here, he’s ten years my senior.” He says, glancing towards Rann.

“It’s a strange thing to run into your grandfather as only a middle-aged man. Stranger still when I’m older in years than he is.” Rann rubs his chin.

“Middle-aged? I was still in my prime when that archer got a lucky hit on my neck. Are kids these days not taught to treat their elders with respect?” Vann furrows his brow, giving Rann a disapproving look.

“You’re certainly over the bar for middle-aged now, young man. Take it from this wizened old man of ten years your senior. I’m nearly old enough to be an antique.” Rann smiles, sitting back.

“Only an old codger would call themselves “wizened”, you old codger.” Vann shoots back, unamused.

The Chief sighs.

“If you two are quite done, I’ve made my decision.” She crosses her arms, looking straight at me.

“Already? That’s faster than usual, Mia…” Tiffany opines, but the Chief brushes it off.

“You will be serving directly under me, doing whatever task I tell you to do. Some here are out for your blood, so you will need to face some hard labour to make up for cutting Aran’s poor, poor face. When you’re not doing a task I’ve set for you, you’ll be assisting and training under Vann. With enough training, you and your wings could become Haven’s best defenders.” The Chief says.

The rest of the council nod in approval.

“Can I ask one more thing…?”

“Yes, go on.” The Chief sighs, waving her hand.

“Defend Haven from… what, exactly?”

“Bloodbeasts. Bonehounds. Fleshtearers. Wildlings. The other factions that survive down here. Nothing outside these walls are friendly, Marina.” Vann answers. Certainly evocative names for creatures I definitely don't want to run into.

The Chief picks up her book, putting it in a satchel she carries, then standing up as she grabs her staff.

“That concludes this council meeting then. Tiff, take Marina back to her room for now. Marina, you’ll be starting tomorrow. The rest of you, back to work.”