Whatever hopes she’d had of a stealthy execution were shattered as she descended on the village. Dozens of sleepy trolls were already milling around outside their huts, looking for the source of the screams that had rent the air mere minutes ago.

Aphora allowed herself a thin smile. They had found it.

She descended upon them in a flash, a hurricane of deadly ribbons that ripped through their flesh with an unnatural sharpness. They tried to fight back, for a while at least, but they were hopelessly outmatched. She knew it - and so did they.

It did not long for them to break, to flee into the night like rabbits before a wolf. Few reached the woods though, as the ribbons of her dress stretched out and dragged them, screaming, back to the heart of the village.

When the last of Aphora’s wrath was finally appeased, the moon had turned a deep scarlet, drinking deep of the proffered sacrifice. Just one household remained untouched. Dozens of frightened eyes peered out of its open windows, many of the trolls having run there once they realized that it alone was safe. Aphora hesitated, considering destroying the hut too, but her better judgment won out. The hut had the smell of the half-Gemlir child on it; she didn’t know if the child cared about any of her family, but there was no point in poisoning the well before she drank from it.

Turning on her heel, she headed back toward the emerald door and the realm beyond. She lingered for a time outside the portal, enjoying the fresh cool air of the night. She had a feeling it would be a long time before she would get to enjoy it again. The remnants of the village would no doubt send for aid from the Gemlirian warlords to the west, and they would come, ever eager to pursue the race hated by their gods. It did not matter, though. They would not get through the door.

When she could not put it off any longer, she slipped inside, back to the realm buried beneath the surface, far from the light of her beloved moon.

Torin was already waiting for her at the mansion, and so too was an unexpected guest. Tesha.

The young Fey woman was bent low over the form of the child, her hands placed on either side of her temple.

“What do you think you are doing?” Aphora asked, letting a subtle note of menace enter her voice.

The Fey jumped, looking up guilty. “Uh, nothing. Just tending to her wounds.”

Selene’s grace, she’s young. Aphora resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the Fey’s clumsy lie, and, grabbing hold of her wrists, gently pulled the offending hands away from the child. “Healing her mind, you mean? Of any and all desires to harm us?”

The Fey’s pale green skin darkened, and she looked away hastily. "Is that such a bad thing?"

“You cannot alter her mind,” Aphora chided her.

“She’s an enemy,” Tesha protested, but her voice lacked conviction.

“She’s a child - and a child a goddess herself asked us to protect. Do you think Kas̆dael would appreciate you casting chains on her mind?”

“We do not worship the Lady of Last Light,” she muttered.

“You don’t need to worship her to be punished by her. Besides, this child is barely half-troll. You could find thousands of Corsyths in Stryn with as much Gemlirian blood as she has.”

The Fey snorted derisively. “Ah yes, the good people of Stryn, famed for siding with the Gemlirians in the Desolyton, renowned as a stronghold of cultists - this is your argument?”

Aphora’s irritation boiled over. A few strands from her dress untangled themselves, sliding up the arms and shoulders of the Fey until they tickled the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath her chin.

“I don’t need an argument,” she stated flatly.

The last bit of resistance in the Fey crumbled, her shoulders wilting as she shrank back. “Fine,” she said sullenly.

“And make sure that the rest of your group keeps their hands to themselves,” Aphora warned. “I’ll be personally examining the child’s mind for the foreseeable future, just to make sure no…’accidents’ happen.”

Sulking, the Fey slipped her hands free of Aphora’s grasp, turning toward the door. A silver strand shot in front of her, barring her exit. “Actually,” Aphora continued calmly, “we have other matters to discuss as well. I’d love to learn more about your people’s traditions and mythology. Like, for example, the knockers?”

Tesha whipped her around in a flash, her long, black hair swinging violently, as she stared at the elf in shock mingled with anger. “Where did you hear that name? Which one of my worthless kin dared speak of them?” She demanded.

Aphora’s snarky remark died unspoken on her lips as she saw the real terror lurking behind the anger. She’s barely more than a child herself, she suddenly realized. “Come,” she said, offering the Fey her hand, “why don’t we talk about it over a cup of maqta?”

A few minutes later, four - Aphora had sent for Torin and Mullu-Lim to join them - sat clustered around the fire in the child’s sickroom. Aphora forced herself to brush the cup against her lips from time to time, but the sickeningly sweet beverage had never been a favorite of hers. The others, however, imbibed with relish and Aphora did not raise the subject of the knockers again until the rigid posture of the Fey leader relaxed, indicating that the brew’s calming herbs had taken effect.

Only when the last dregs of the maqta were gone, and a row of four cups lined the mantle, did Tesha meet Aphora’s gaze. “How much do you know? And how?” she asked, subdued.

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Aphora didn’t glance at Mullu-Lim, barely allowing herself to even think of his name, but the Fey somehow picked up on it, turning an accusing glare on the massive stag. “You?”

He shrugged.

“We know very little,” Aphora intervened. “Which is why you need to tell us.”

Tesha suddenly became very fixated on the wrinkles in her dress. “It doesn’t concern you.”

Aphora pushed down the anger that surged up in her, balling it up a nice, tight bundle and throwing it into a dark corner. “My people joined yours in search of safety, with the dream of building a home safe from the coming storm. We came in good faith, only to discover that you had failed to mention you were fleeing from danger yourself? A danger that could harm my people? It is most definitely my concern.”

The two stared at each other, a silent battle of wills raging between them. If the Fey had been older, she no doubt would have had the upper hand, but Aphora’s experience was more than a match for Tesha's innate talents and, like a river breaching its dam, her will washed away all opposition.

“We’re…we're the knockers,” Tesha finally admitted.

“Come again?” Aphora didn’t even bother trying to hide her confusion. “I had not met many of your kind before you, but I have dealt with them occasionally, and you are clearly a Child of St. Martin.”

Mullu-Lim piped up. “Your own papers claim the knockers were a race created by the Sidhe, so how can you claim to be one of them?”

Tesha held up her hands in exasperation. “You misunderstand me. I am not a knocker, but I could be. Any of us could be, and all of them were once one of our own.” She paused a moment, collecting her thoughts. “A few hundred years ago, around the time of the first Fey wars was when the knockers first appeared.”

“It seemed innocent enough at first. A Child might hear a random knock, a sound so soft that they brush it off as hearing guests outsides pounding at a neighbor’s door. But slowly, the frequency of the knocks would increase, coming faster and faster, loud and louder, until they could not be ignored - until a door appeared.”

Torin leaned forward in his chair with a frown. “A door? Like a portal? Some sort of teleportation magic?”

Tesha shook her head. “No, purely in the mind as far as we can tell. Even those suffering from it know the door is not truly there. But it cannot be merely a figment of imagination, either, for all see the same thing - a black door covered in yellow runes. Once the door appears, the knocking never truly ceases. Some fight it longer than others but, in the end, the result is always the same.”

She lapsed into silence, staring into the fire as she wrung her hands together. “My mother saw the door. She said it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, the glory of the endless expanse of the heavens knit together with the light of the stars. The promise of Power,” she whispered the words almost reverently.

“What happens,” Aphora gently prodded her.

“Once they open the door, the changes begin. They all see the same place. A great endless void, where up and down, north and south have no meaning, a place where the very laws of the universe are shattered and reformed with every waking breath. And there, in the midst of it, rules a single great orb, an eye of purple and gold surrounded by a sea of writhing tentacles.”

“The knockers develop new powers. Every one of them, whether they were previously blessed with magic before or not, becomes a mage, bestowed with strange new spells unlike any we’d ever seen. And they aren’t insane,” she explained, “Not exactly. But they become violent, cruel, cold. The person you knew dies and all that is left is a stranger wearing their face.”

“Nothing fixes them. No spells can heal, no blessings from our gods can cure, no charms or potions can suppress. Once the knocking begins, you are lost.”

“Our people made the mistake of being merciful in the beginning. We let them live; we tried to help them adjust, to help them curb the violence their hearts craved. But their numbers only multiplied; whatever it was, disease or curse, it spread rapidly and the knockers had no desire for our aid. We’ve been lost in war ever since.”

A visible shudder shook the pale woman’s body, and Aphora grabbed her hands, pushing a thread of essence into them. “I see why you don't want to talk about it.” Tesha nodded mutely. “Are you safe from them here, then?”

The Fey frowned. “Not entirely. Once a Child opens the door in their mind, the contagion seems to be spread, but the knocking can still appear even to one who has had no exposure at all. It’s rarer, though, much rarer.”

Aphora’s brows knit in confusion. “Why come here then?”

“Our elders - my mother,” she said with a pained smile, “were afraid that the war could not be won, an endless battle of attrition that would eventually see our defeat. The very act of fighting the knockers, after all, encourages the spread of the sickness. That is why they decided to come here. This colony was one of many abandoned because the settlers were never able to find a connection back to our kingdoms.” She shrugged. “There probably is one, somewhere across the lilac sea, but few wanted to be cut off from the other cities.”

“But it’s perfect for us. There are no knockers here to spread the contagion. And if any hear the knocking in their mind,” she continued grimly, “the rot will be immediately cut out.”

She glanced up at Aphora, finally meeting the elf’s eyes. “We’re not a danger to you, I promise. A danger to ourselves, yes, but no visitor of ours has ever succumbed to the madness, only us, and we will not make the same mistake of mercy as our ancestors.”

Aphora glanced over at the now-sleeping child on the bed. “Hence why you’re so afraid to let the child live among us.”

Tesha’s face soured. “Mercy has not done well by us.”

“Perhaps,” Aphora acknowledged. “But do not place your own fears of madness on an innocent. I will keep my knowledge of the knockers amongst my commanders for the time and you will keep your people away from the child.”

The Fey sighed. “Very well.” She grabbed her empty cup from the mantle, holding it out to Torin hopefully. “Any chance of a refill?”

The tension in the room relaxed as Torin, with a laugh, led the Fey out toward the kitchen.

Aphora and Mullu-Lim were left alone. In the flickering light of the fire, his massive antlers cast a perpetually moving bramble against the old stone walls, and the chair groaned beneath his weight as he leaned back. “Do you believe her, my lady?”

Aphora bobbled her head. “Mostly. There were still things she held back, but I think most of what she said was true. Have your men keep an eye on them though. Tesha’s plan seems a bit…naive. Perhaps some will turn themselves in if the knocking starts, but for many the drive to survive will be too powerful to resist.”

He nodded. “Very well, my lady. And what do you want to do the child?”

Her gaze shifted to the sleeping form on the bed. Long waves of knotted lilac hair spilled across the ashen cheeks, but the worst of her hands had been healed - at least those of the body. The mind was not so easily fixed.

Aphora was surprised, though, by the dull ache that spread across her chest as she gazed at the child, as the memories of her own - those lost and those dead - weighed heavily upon her. Perhaps Tsia, at least, will find her way here, she consoled herself.

“My lady?” Mullu-Lim persisted.

She surprised herself with her decision. “She can stay with me.” She turned to him with a genuine smile as the excitement of a new challenge appeared. “Let’s just see what sort of magic this little water witch can do.”