Executions are the best, young Bran Calligan thought with giddy excitement. At this late hour, the villagers of Tosutine would usually be tucked up, fast asleep in their beds; instead, they were gathered outside of the courthouse to bear witness. They were five hundred souls, packed together like sardines, their body heat warding off the chill of the night air. It was customary to hold both funerals and executions during the deepest night, when the bridge between the Here and Now and the Everafter was at its strongest. The moon was hidden behind a layer of heavy cloud; only the flickering glow of torchlight illuminated their eager faces. Bran was pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against his countrymen, holding tightly to his younger sister’s hand. He was vibrating with anticipation as the condemned man was escorted to the gallows.

“I don’t want to watch this.” His younger sister, Brigid, bemoaned. Bran looked down at her with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. Like him, she was dressed in her finest clothes in honour of the occasion; her blond hair plaited neatly, periwinkle blue dress well-pressed, and black shoes shining with polish. Out of place amongst her fine clothing, she wore a bracelet of twine upon her wrist, adorned with makeshift charms of bottle caps, buttons, and paperclips. Despite her bright appearance, however, Brigid’s dark eyes were fearful, and her lips chewed where she had bitten them in anxiety. It was her first time attending such an event.

“What’s the problem? He’s a murderer. He deserves it.” Bran admonished loudly, trying to turn his attention back to the show. Brigid tugged his hand.

“Can’t we just go home, Bran?” she wheedled.

“You know we can’t. Mother is relying on us.” He reminded her, nodding towards the front.

On the raised platform stood a young woman dressed in a shapeless, brown robe, her face clean and hair tucked neatly away beneath her wimple. She was Priestess Gwen, the chief religious authority in their small village community, and fervent adherent to the path of the Seven Maidens- the official faith of the Empire. Around her neck hung a heavy necklace adorned with totems, each of them representing one of the holy Maids who embodied virtue. It was her only adornment. The robe she wore was patched, and the shoes on her feet well-worn. As a Priestess, Gwen had no trade to put bread on the table; she relied upon the charity of her flock for survival, and the maintenance of her adopted children.

After Bran and Brigid’s birth parents died from fever some years prior, Gwen had taken the pair of unfortunates in. As the children of a Priestess, it was their duty to attend every religious ceremony that required their mother’s attention. Failure to do so could call their faith into question- and the faith of the Priestess in turn, which would spell disaster for them all. Such was the way of life in small settlements like Tosutine, in which everybody knew everybody else’s business. It was preferable to yield like a young sapling to the prevailing wind, than to stand tall as a lonely mountain, buffeted and battered by the judgement of others. In such a close-knit community, crime of any sort- let alone murder- was rare indeed, which explained why the usually calm and kindly townsfolk had morphed into a vicious mob baying for blood. It was expected of them to decry the sinner in their midst, lest they be labelled a sinner in turn.

A dishevelled man slowly ascended the steps to the gallows, escorted by two common guards. His name was Ronan Smith, hitherto an upstanding member of the local community… if a little odd. He was a mild-mannered man and a skilled cobbler, content to live a quiet life in the small dwelling quarters above his shop. He had no wife or children to speak of. People sometimes remarked upon his solitary lifestyle in puzzlement. Mr Smith had only one close friend- a lumberman named Jack Sawyer, a bachelor himself, who was often seen coming and going from the shop.

Until one day, Jack never showed up. In fact, Jack Sawyer was never seen again.

The magistrate overseeing the proceedings stepped forward, unfurling a scroll as he turned to address the criminal. Ronan had already been found guilty by a jury of his peers; the reading of the charges was simply a formality before the execution.

“Ronan Smith, you are hereby declared guilty of murder in the second degree, and crimes against nature. For these crimes, in the name of His Majesty, King Donel of the House Hanbar, sworn protector of the Great and Bountiful Empire and its associated Realms and Territories, you are sentenced at this time to hang by the neck until dead.”

A flurry of hoots and jeers followed the magistrate’s words.

“Murderer!”

“Degenerate!”

“Flower-boy!”

Brigid cringed, drawing closer to her brother as the crowd jostled the two children.

“Crimes against nature.” she echoed, her lips unsurely forming the words. The young girl turned to her brother, seeking answers. “What does that mean?”

Bran shrugged. The young sapling had no idea what it meant either, but he joined in with the baying nonetheless.

The condemned man turned to stare at the magistrate. His features were made gaunter by the effect of the torchlight; his eyes were sunken, and his skin a ghostly pallor that spoke of sleepless nights in a prison cell.

“Murder- on what grounds? They never even found a body.” he rasped. “I know what happened to him, but you don’t want to hear it, do you?”

Ronan Smith had cooperated with the magistrate’s investigation. He admitted that he had been the last one to see Jack Sawyer alive. The missing man had spent the night in Ronan’s bed, leaving before the incriminating light of dawn could shine upon their victimless crime. He had never made it home. In the short time between leaving the warmth Ronan’s bed and reaching the safety of his front door, someone- or something- had snatched Jack Sawyer away.

“I will hear no more rantings and ravings of false gods and demons. The sentence is passed.” The magistrate dismissed, turning to the Priestess at his side. “Please, your Holiness, read him his last rites.”

She stepped forward, the wooden totems around her neck clinking together as she placed her hand upon his forehead, feeling his greasy hair and sweat beneath her fingers. He flinched at her benevolent touch.

“May the Seven Maidens guide you safely across the bridge to Everafter. Let Castia cleanse your soul in preparation for your final journey, Bunae free you of resentment and Raba fill your steps with fortitude. For those who remain in the Here and Now, let Umi nurture humility in their hearts and allow Harna to impart the lesson in your passing; may Absti guard their souls against the temptation of excesses that led you to err so gravely, and Carita ease their pain with her blessings.” The Priestess paused in her recital and turned to the condemned man. “As we stand together in the Here and Now, have you any last words to speak?”

“Only this.”

The man threw back his head, raising his face to the heavens. As he did so, the strands of his mousy brown hair fell away from his forehead. A strange silver mark was visible there, glowing softly with the promise of power that Men had long since abandoned. The crowd were too far away to see, but the Priestess’ reaction was immediate. All the blood drained from her face, and she took a step backwards. Her eyes now betrayed a flicker of fear. She knew the Mark he bore.

Ronan returned his gaze to the crowd. They were cloaked by the shadows of the night, but he recognised a few- former faithful customers and neighbours of old, their faces now twisted by revulsion and hate.

“I protected you.” Ronan declared, his voice calm as he addressed those that would see him dead. “All these years, I shielded you from the threats you foolish Men do not care to see… but no longer. You have abandoned the Seraphim’s ways. You bray like blind donkeys, as you kill the innocent and punish love.” The roar of the crowd only grew louder- but there was a quality to his speech that made it carry above the din. “Well mark my words, your time is near. The Vylae will come- and this time, it shall be the Seraphim who close their eyes and turn their backs on you.”

“Silence his blasphemous tongue!” The shrill cry came from none other than the Priestess. Her formerly composed demeanour was shattered; in place of a respected authority figure now stood a fearful young woman, quaking in her boots. On her command, the two burly men escorting the prisoner stepped forward- one grabbed Ronan and held him fast, whilst the other tied a gag around his mouth and placed the noose around his neck.

Watching on from amongst the crowd, little Brigid drew closer to her brother in fear. She was trembling. Bran glanced around at the people closest to them; there was a man nearby whose coat was adorned with several black buttons. The button string on the nearest cuff was weakened and frayed. Bran grabbed it and tore it clean off. Deaf amongst the hubbub and blinded by the darkness, the man was none the wiser.

“Here. Hold onto this.” Bran murmured, pressing the shiny black button into his sister’s hand. Brigid’s small fingers closed around the token with a death grip, and her tremors subsided.

Those ominous words were the last utterances from Ronan Smith, as the magistrate gave the nod to the executioner standing by. The man in black stepped forward and gripped the lever. Bran flinched but did not look away as the trapdoor beneath Ronan’s feet gave way. Little Brigid hid her face in Bran’s sleeve, unable to bear the sight of the man’s purple face and twitching feet.

Just as the last of the man’s spirit left his body, a strange thing happened. A ripple of energy swept across the town square- felt by nobody, save one. Brigid stiffened in her brother’s grip and pulled away. All the hairs on her arms were suddenly standing on end.

“Did you feel that?” Brigid questioned, staring up at the boy with wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Bran frowned at her.

“Feel… what?”

Brigid’s mouth worked as she tried in vain to articulate her experience. After a few moments, she shook her head in defeat; but there remained a lingering feeling in her bones that screamed something was wrong. The mob seemed to share her unease. They made no move to leave, and their voices buzzed like an angry swarm of bees as they shouted questions to the magistrate and Priestess Gwen. Clearly, Ronan Smith’s final words had left an impact.

“Ladies and gentleman, pay no heed to the words of a common criminal.” The magistrate’s booming voice called out. His sentiment was echoed by the Priestess who had regained enough composure to address the villagers from the parapet.

“Yes, my children- do not be afraid. The Maidens watch over us. Those with true faith have nothing to fear.”

Their words had a calming effect over the crowd, who at last began to disperse- albeit retaining their agitated expressions and muttering words of doubt under their breath as they went. Bran and Brigid pushed their way to the front, where they found their mother engaged in deep discussion with the magistrate. Her expression was pinched, and her kind eyes conveyed an unusual urgency. The children only caught the tail-end of the conversation before Gwen noticed their presence.

“We must send word immediately to the White Sisters- ah! Bran, Brigid- are you alright my loves? Brigid, you look a little peaky.” The woman noted her daughter’s queasy expression; she bent down, studying her carefully.

“My stomach feels weird.” Brigid replied lamely, fiddling with her plait as she avoided her mother’s eyes.

“You feel sick?”

“Mm.” It was barely an agreement- but what else could Brigid say?

I feel like something really bad is about to happen.

That was how she truly felt, but who would believe her?

“Well, it was your first time witnessing an execution.” Priestess Gwen noted in sympathy, turning to the boy. “Bran, take her home and put her straight to bed. That goes for you too, young man.”

“You’re not coming with us?” he questioned. Her smile became slightly forced.

“I’ll join you shortly once we’re finished here.” The kindly woman nodded towards Brigid. “Make sure you look after her.”

Bran shot a quizzical expression between the adults, but quickly shrugged it off. He grabbed Brigid’s hand and led her away.

“Alright. Come on Miss Moany.”

“Who are you calling moany?” the girl snapped, trotting off with her brother.

The siblings lived with the Priestess in the rectory on the very edge of the village, overshadowed by the perimeter wall that encased Tosutine like armour. The wall had stood for more than a thousand years, looming over the thatched rooftops and chimneystacks. Its ancient stones were engraved with silver markings, in a language long forgotten by the village inhabitants. Occasionally, when the light caught the stone just right, it shimmered like a living creature. Making their way back in the pitch black, Brigid let herself be guided by the stone, feeling the rough crevices under her fingers. Usually, the wall gave off a certain warmth, but tonight the stones felt cold and lifeless. She frowned, lost in thought.

“Bran?” she ventured.

“Hm?”

“Did you hear Mister Smith’s last words?

“I did.” Bran replied, suddenly tense. Brigid swallowed, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.

“He mentioned the Seraphim, and the Vylae. Bran, was Mister Smith really a-”

“Brigid.” Bran warned sharply, glancing around in nervousness. Magic was not a safe topic of conversation in polite society. The last thing they needed was for the neighbours to overhear their conversation and misunderstand. “You know that’s all made-up nonsense. The Seraphim are fake gods. Nobody believes in them anymore; and the Vylae are just a bunch of stupid ghost stories.”

Although, what compelling ghost stories they were. Many nights, Bran and Brigid gathered around the open fire listening to their mother as she put on a scary voice and told tales of the evil Vylae, who would come to eat the souls of naughty children. There was even a well-known rhyme that the village girls would skip rope to:

Beware, beware those sly Vylae,

Who seek to mould your minds of clay.

With scarlet eyes and silver hair,

With honeyed words and faces fair.

Their beauty shall evoke your lusts,

‘Til teeth and claws crush bone to dust.

Resist those lips that tempt your fate,

And do not gaze at evil’s face.

For if you stare in eyes of red,

Your flesh and soul shall both be dead.

“Besides, remember what the magistrate said- the man was about to die. Somebody in that situation would say anything.” Bran squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. Yet young Brigid would not be deterred so easily from her line of questioning.

“Mother mentioned the White Sisters.” She persisted, tugging at his sleeve. “Why would she need their help? Unless…”

The siblings knew little about the enigmatic order located miles away in the capital city. It was said the women of the Sisterhood were possessed of unique virtue, the living embodiment of the Maidens in the Here and Now. It was their duty to uphold the morals of the Empire and see to it that heretics were appropriately punished, by order of the King.

If Priestess Gwen had reported Ronan Smith’s lasts words to the White Sisters, it could only mean that the convict was one such heretic; a chosen child of the Seraphim, practitioner of the forbidden magical arts… a warlock.

“Bri, you need to stop thinking about it.” Bran told her firmly, reaching into his pocket. “Here, I know something that’ll take your mind off it.”

This time, rather than a button or other such paraphernalia to add to his sister’s collection, he withdrew a small, wooden flute no bigger than his hand. He pressed the instrument to his lips and began to play a simple, upbeat melody. His violet-blue eyes crinkled in a smile as he played, and the corners of Brigid’s mouth quirked upwards in turn, as her worries began to ease. That was, until something unusual caught her eye. The young girl suddenly stopped in her tracks, staring intrigued at a section of the wall. The clouds above had parted for a moment, allowing the pale moonlight to peak through, and the entire length of the perimeter wall was now shining like a sea of stars.

“Bran, look. Somebody wrote this bit in the Common Tongue.”

Bran paused in his playing and turned around.

“What are you talking about? It’s just a bunch of nonsense squiggles.” he objected, glancing at the rock with disinterest. Then the cogs in his mind began to turn. He stared at his sister. “Wait… Bri, you can read that?”

“Uh…”

Brigid took a step back from the wall, blinking several times. Before her eyes, the foreign markings shifted and morphed, the strange lines unravelling and reforming into the familiar script of the Common Tongue.

Before she could reply, her head was assaulted by a sharp, stabbing pain.

“Ah!” she cried out, staggering against the wall for support and clutching her forehead. Her brother was immediately at her side, trying to prize her hands away from her face so he could get a clear view.

“Brigid?” he urged.

She couldn’t hear him. White light burst from behind her closed eyelids; towering, faceless figures of light surrounded her on all sides. They whispered to her in an ancient tongue that Brigid somehow understood.

“Chosen child of Men, the Seraphim raise thee from the dirt and claim thy fallible soul as ours. In times of need, call upon thy Name and receive our holy blessing. From this day hence, thou art Wisdom the Collector.”

The light faded as quickly as it came, and Brigid’s eyes cracked open. She peeled her hands away from her face.

“Brigid, talk to me! What’s wrong?”

The girl didn’t know how to explain the things she had seen, so she said the only thing that made sense to her.

“Wisdom the Collector.”

As soon as the sacred Name passed her lips, Bran felt the most peculiar sensation wash over him; an energy that was neither hot nor cold, like the heaviness in the air before a thunderstorm. Beneath the girl’s fringe, Bran spotted a tell-tale glow. He reached out with trepidation and pushed back the girl’s blond hair from her forehead. Sure enough, the incriminating Mark was illuminated like a beacon.

“What in the Maidens’ Name?”

There was no time to ask further questions. Suddenly, a thunderous boom shook the earth; the weight of tonnes of heavy rock crashing into the ground. The siblings were plunged into the pitch black. The silver markings on the wall, which were shining so brightly a mere moment ago, had died.

“What’s going on?” Brigid quaked.

“How would I know?” Bran snapped, holding onto her for dear life.

Then came the screams.

It sounded to Bran like they were coming from the opposite side of the village. He heard the rough shouting of the menfolk, the wailing of the women and the babes in their arms, until their cries were cut short. For a moment Bran dared to hope it was over- until the screaming started all over again. It was closer this time, a few streets away at most.

There was yet another danger; young Brigid smelled it first.

“Smoke.” she warned, pointing upwards. Sure enough, a tower of smoke was rising into the air where one of the thatched roofs had been set aflame- but this was no ordinary fire. The siblings clung to each other in silent awe at the sight of indigo flames.

“We need to run. To the temple.” Bran commanded, tightening his hold on his sister’s hand. Their home was made of fortified rock. No fire would be able to reach them there, and it was defendable to boot. Once the iron doors were barricaded, not even the strongest man would be able to get inside. Bran eyed the purple flames with trepidation, silencing the treacherous whisper inside him.

That’s assuming the enemy is a Man.

The siblings fled through the darkened streets towards the safety of home, in the opposite direction of the screams. The cobblestones were uneven underfoot. At one point, little Brigid slipped and lost her footing. Her periwinkle dress tore like paper, skinning both her knees. As expected for a girl of only eight years old, she began to cry. Bran, being the elder, grabbed her roughly underneath both arms and tried to pull her up.

“Get up!” he urged.

“Can’t.” she gasped, blubbering. Bran snarled at her.

“You have to! Or we’re both done for!”

“I can’t!”

It was then that Bran realised that it wasn’t just a skinned knee. A jagged shard of glass had embedded itself deep into the girl’s calf, preventing her from standing. Blood was beginning to pool on the ground.

“You’re kidding.”

Bran knew he needed to get the glass out safely and bandage the wound- but he was just a child himself. Aside from dealing with the everyday bumps and bruises that came with being a rambunctious twelve-year-old boy, he had no medical knowledge.

In his peripheral vision, Bran caught a glimpse of someone. He turned to ask for help, relieved when he saw it was an adult. The lady’s name was Mrs Dickens, the wife of the local baker. She had her back turned to them. Bran called to her, but to his dismay, she didn’t pay them the blindest bit of attention. Her gaze was fixed on something that was approaching from the side street; something that Bran couldn’t see.

Only when it rounded the corner did he understand her fixation.

“No way.” Bran breathed. “That’s a…”

The vyla was truly beautiful, with long silver hair that shone like gossamer in the moonlight, and lithe limbs free from the confines of human garments. This one was evidently male, its chiselled face unblemished and perfectly symmetrical. Yet something about its countenance was familiar to Bran. In a flash, it came to him. This creature bore a striking resemblance to the man who had disappeared from their midst several weeks ago- Jack Sawyer. It was if the vyla had corrected all of the man’s former flaws, everything that made him human. Bran had a horrible feeling that this wasn’t simply a vyla that looked like Jack Sawyer- this was what remained of the man himself.

The demon was not looking at the children. It was focussed on its prey. Poor Mrs Dickens never stood a chance. In one swift motion it leapt at her and grabbed her by the throat, pinning her to the ground. The vyla’s arm had changed in shape. No longer was it slender and delicate- now, it was bulging with muscle and utterly monstrous. The children watched, helpless, as the woman struggled for breath. The creature leered down at her; and then, the oddest thing happened. As the woman stared into those hellfire eyes, her expression of terror became dreamlike and her entire body relaxed, her last breath leaving her in a contented whoosh. The vyla let out a moan that set Bran’s teeth on edge, its body bristling in apparent pleasure. The boy was frozen by fear and morbid fascination, staring into Mrs Dickens’ deadened eyes.

What just happened?

The Vylae from the stories were described as demons that preyed on the vices of Men and consumed their souls. Had the vyla just eaten Mrs Dickens’ soul? If so, how?

Bran knew that if they couldn’t understand the nature of their enemy, he and Brigid were going to die right then and there.

The vyla paused, looking down in consideration at the empty shell now laying in the mud. After a few moments, it seemed to come to a decision. The demon knelt over the woman’s corpse; its scorching gaze burned into her with forbidden purpose. In that moment, Mrs Dickens’ eyes regained a spark of life- but they were human no longer. Instead, they burned scarlet. Her dark brown hair turned white in an instant, followed by a horrible cracking noise as the bones in her hand snapped, and began to reshape themselves into claws. The vyla’s former host crumpled like paper. Its once-youthful skin began to sag until it fell in clumps from the bone, shedding its silver strands. Mrs Dickens’ animated corpse rose from the mud, cutting through her clothes with an easy swipe of her new talons. In her place lay Jack Sawyer’s decaying remains.

Finally she turned her attention to the children. Bran remembered the closing of their childhood rhyme: ‘for if you stare in eyes of red, your flesh and soul shall both be dead’.

“Don’t look her in the eye, Bri!” he cried out in warning to his sister, focussing his own gaze on the woman’s legs- but it was too late. The young girl's eyes were already locked onto the demon's, her former pain apparently forgotten.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The vyla approached slowly- it had no need to rush- when suddenly, it hissed and faltered. It had stepped into the pool of blood at Brigid’s feet. Bran observed as it recoiled. It was as if the creature had stepped into corrosive acid, not something as innocuous as blood. Bran glanced at the jagged piece of glass protruding from his sister’s leg. Driven by instinct, he acted. He ripped the bloodied shard free, ignoring Brigid’s scream of pain, and slammed it into Mrs Dickens’- no, the vyla’s- stomach. The demon let out a screech and stumbled backwards. It was the chance they needed.

Bran grabbed hold of Brigid and pulled her up, supporting most of her weight. Powered by sheer adrenaline, they half-ran, half-stumbled through the backstreets. Bran had no idea if the vyla was following them. If it was, there was nothing they could do.

Don’t look back, he told himself. Look back and you’re dead.

After what seemed like an eternity, they turned the last corner and there was the village temple, calling to them like a beacon of salvation. It was a construct as ancient as the perimeter wall itself; a square, single storey building with a steeple-top roof. Trailing ivy that was generations old weaved its way between the cracks in the stone. The emblems of the Seven Maidens were proudly displayed above the temple entrance, one for each virtue; but if one looked hard enough, it was possible to glimpse the shadow of crossed swords imprinted in the stone, where the crest of the heathen gods once hung.

Adjacent to the temple stood the quaint rectory cottage that they called home. It looked just the same as they had left it earlier that night. The curtains were drawn and there were no signs of life coming from inside. The Vylae seemed to be concentrating their attack on the village square. Evidently, nobody had made it this far. The children passed by the cottage and headed straight for the temple itself. With immense effort from both, they heaved open the iron doors, darted inside and bolted them shut.

The interior was eerily quiet. Ensconced within the stone walls, the screams from outside were muted. Bran and Brigid were standing in the aisle, with rows of empty pews on either side. They scanned the room in quiet terror, expecting demonic forms to jump out at them from under the benches. It didn’t help their nerves that there were no windows; the only light came from a set of flaming torches in brackets on the walls, making the shadows dance as if they were alive. Only the painted murals on the walls gave the children some small comfort. They depicted beautiful natural landscapes, designed to calm the mind and spirit in preparation for prayer. A raised altar stood at the other end of the room, where the lifelike statues of the Seven Maidens stood in a semicircle.

The holy scripture of the Seven lay open from where their mother had conducted her latest sermon.

Mother…

Bran swallowed, shaking his head like a dog trying to clear its ears of water. Such thoughts would do no good. They were on their own- he had to take care of Brigid. The girl was curled up on the floor, weeping. Right now, his priority was the wound on her leg.

“Show me.” he instructed gently, kneeling beside her. Brigid cringed away and Bran caught the distinctive whiff of urine mixed in with blood. His sister had wet herself in fear in the presence of the vyla. He made a noise of sympathy and took off his shirt, helping her out of her garments. Her pockets were filled with the usual oddities- bits of string, buttons, and paperclips, along with a box of matches. Bran carefully set them aside. There was a basin of fresh holy water in the temple that was collected every morning from the Great River that ran just outside the village. Bran used it to clean Brigid up and wipe the blood away from the wound. The cut was deep, tearing through several layers of muscle. It was the sort of injury that would lead to permanent disability if left untreated. They needed to get her to a surgeon. In the meantime, Bran did what little he could. He reached for his right leg and grabbed the hem of his pressed trousers, yanking hard; the material tore along the seam. He used the glass shard to cut it into strips, binding them tightly around the wound to stem the blood flow.

“How are you so calm right now?” she asked in a small voice as he worked.

“Hm?” Bran replied distractedly.

“You were so brave out there. You attacked it. If it wasn’t for you, we’d both be…” Brigid trailed off, gulping down a fresh wave of tears.

“I just sort of did it without thinking.” he replied honestly. His little sister pressed her lips together- the tears that she tried to hold back threatened to spill over.

“I was useless.” she bit out.

“That isn’t true.” he replied immediately.

“Huh?”

“It was your blood that stopped it.”

“My blood?”

“I think so. Didn’t you see how it reacted?”

“What’s so special about my blood?” she wondered aloud, looking down at the bandaged wound.

“You tell me.”

With the imminent threat addressed, the pair sat together in the silence of the temple, listening to the faint cries of their neighbours coming from outside.

“Shouldn’t we try and help them?” Brigid tried. Bran gritted his teeth. As if they were in the position to help anyone right now. “This is the holiest place in the village.” she insisted, nodding towards the iron door. “Surely no vyla would be able to-”

“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything.” he cut across her. “The door stays shut.”

Brigid flinched, returning her gaze to her lap. She fiddled anxiously with the charms around her wrist.

“He knew.” she remarked quietly, biting her lip. “Mister Smith knew what was going to happen. He tried to warn us, and we didn’t listen… Holy Maids, why didn’t we listen?”

“Because he sounded like a raving lunatic.”

But Ronan Smith was neither mad nor a murderer, Bran reminded himself. Jack Sawyer was certainly dead, but the creature that killed him was not born from the realm of Men. He had seen it with his own eyes.

“Think. What do we know?” he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. He nudged the girl next to him. “Come on, Miss Moany- think back. You know the stories than better than me. What do we know about the Vylae?”

Brigid took a moment to collect her thoughts; she let out a shaky breath, gazing up at the feminine statues that guarded them.

“There are seven kinds- one for each sin. They’re the opposite of the Maidens’ virtues.”

“And each sin has a different type of magic, right?” Bran recalled. His sister nodded. “So, which one did we see tonight?”

Brigid shuddered, thinking back to poor Mrs Dickens pinned to the ground.

“I think… Wrath, probably. They’re insanely strong.”

“Great, so how do we fight back?”

“We can’t.” Brigid bemoaned. “If you even look one in the eye, you’re a goner.”

“You looked one in the eye, and you’re still here.” Bran pointed out. Another tremor passed through Brigid as she recalled the vyla’s burning scarlet eyes peering into her soul.

“You’re right. I did.” She conceded.

“It got to Mrs Dickens straight away- but not you. What makes you special?” he challenged. Brigid hesitated to answer. The boy leaned in, speaking with increased urgency. “When you collapsed earlier, before this madness happened, you said something weird. It sounded like a name.”

“Wisdom the Collector.” Brigid said quietly. Again, Bran felt that strange ripple of energy course through the room, making him shiver. A pale glow lit up his sister’s face in the dark. Bran reached out and pushed her hair away from her face. The peculiar Mark on her forehead had come to life once more.

“You have this thing on your head. It looks like the same writing as on the wall outside.” he observed. Then, he was struck by an idea. He took his sister by the hand, helping her limp across to the basin of holy water so she could see her reflection. “Well, what does it say?” he pressed. Brigid stared at her pale face in the water.

“It says ‘chosen’.” she replied.

“Chosen by who?”

Brigid bit her lip.

“When I fell down earlier, I saw something weird.” she confessed, tapping her head. “I heard voices too.”

“You mean, like a vision?” Bran cocked his head. The little girl nodded.

“The voices said they were the Seraphim. They said the Name they gave me would grant me power.”

Her blasphemous words echoed like a gunshot in the quiet of the temple. The sinking feeling in Bran’s stomach solidified into a lead weight. His suspicions were confirmed.

“Well, I guess Mister Smith was right about a whole lot, wasn’t he?” the boy remarked hoarsely.

Magic, monsters; it was real. All of it was real.

“I bet that’s why the vyla didn’t like your blood.” Bran continued. “Because you’re a…”

“A warlock.” Brigid finished. She dipped her head in shame and her tiny hands bunched in the fabric of her brother’s shirt. “Bran… am I evil?” she asked him in a voice barely above a whisper. The boy balked at the question. He stepped forward and put his arms around her, his fear evaporating in the warm surge of affection he felt.

“Don’t be stupid.” he told her firmly. “You’re my sister. That’s all that matters.”

“You promise?” she questioned, her face pressed into his shoulder. He stroked her hair in reassurance.

“I promise.”

She pulled away and gave him a watery smile, fresh tear tracts on her face.

“Still, what will mother think?” she wondered aloud.

Ah…

There it was, the topic Bran had been trying desperately not to think about.

“We have to find her, Bran.” The girl affirmed. He shook his head in denial.

“Bri, you know we can’t.”

“Then, are we just going to let her-”

“For the love of the Maids, face it, she’s probably already dead!” he barked, voice cracking. Brigid’s expression crumpled, and Bran immediately regretted his harshness. He cursed under his breath and decided to change tactic, placing his hand on her head in apology. Despite the strength of his words, the girl could feel him shaking. “I’m sorry, Bri. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“S’okay.” she mumbled.

“Tell me, do you remember the last thing mother said?” The young girl blinked uncertainly, and then shook her head. “She told me to look after you.” Bran reminded her. Brigid’s eyes again welled up with tears. Her brother’s hands settled on her thin shoulders, squeezing tight to quell the tremors. “She wanted me to keep you safe. Will you let me do that, Bri?”

The girl looked up at the weighty iron door that separated them from the carnage that lay beyond. Her expression hardened and she pulled away from Bran, limping forward with determination. Bran grabbed her by the arm. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?” he growled in panic. “Don’t open it!”

Brigid yanked her hand away, and she pointed to the jagged shard that lay discarded on the floor.

“I’m not! Give me that piece of glass.”

“What? Why?”

“If my blood is special- if I’m ‘blessed’ like the Seraphim say, then maybe I can help.”

Bran was taken aback. He never thought his little eight-year-old sister could be so pragmatic. After a moment’s hesitation, he retrieved the glass and handed it over. Brigid winced as she dragged the shard across her palm, drawing fresh blood. With the clumsiness expected of a child, she smeared a red ‘x’ across the inside of the iron door.

“Oh, I get it. That’s brilliant.” Bran enthused. The young girl gave him a hopeful smile. If her blood could act as a ward, this would strengthen their defence.

“Foolish little Men. Such small efforts are hopeless.” a silky voice chimed in.

The two turned around, terror rising in their chests. A figure had slipped out from behind the Maidens’ statues. This vyla was female; Bran could see the silhouetted curves of its body, long silver hair covering its breasts. He dared not raise his eyes to meet its face- but still, he felt the weight of those evil eyes calling to him, tempting him.

Look up. Look up. Look up.

“What?” Bran ground out. “When did-”

“We were here all along, younglings.” the vyla laughed delicately. “We saw your valiant fight against our brothers. We were most entertained, so we followed you here.”

“Bri, which type is that?” the boy demanded, as the pair slowly backed away, Brigid limping as she leant against her brother.

“Sloth. They’re good at hiding.”

“The cursed one knows much about us.” the vyla commented with disdain, leering at the blood splashed on the door; it was a pathetically amateur attempt at a warding spell. “Yet, it seems that she knows little about herself. An enchantment so weak will be broken in no time. Our brothers shall not rest until they consume the souls of every last man, woman and child in this settlement.”

“Then why haven’t you eaten us already?” Bran spat. The vyla chuckled, looking between them- it turned its piercing red eyes on Brigid first. To her credit, the girl did not break her gaze- wide eyed and fearful though she was.

“Alas, this one’s soul is protected by the accursed Seraphim. We cannot touch her, as long as she guards well her true Name.” It remarked, lip curling in disdain. Then it turned to Bran. The boy was keeping his eyes glued to the creature’s bare feet. Like the claws that protruded from its fingers, its toenails were hooked and wickedly sharp. “As for you, little Man- alas, you lack the knowledge of mortal sin that flavours the soul. You would make for a most unsatisfying meal in your current state. Our kind crave the essence of those who have known true despair; who have borne the crushing weight of responsibility, those who lust and fear and hate to the very depths of their being. This vessel, for example, was most delicious.” The woman was only a few steps away now- the torchlight from the brackets on the walls flickered, lighting the shadows on her face. “We feasted on her misery; her sacred faith broken by the revelation of our existence, overcome with grief at the thought of leaving her two, precious children all alone in the cruel world of Men.”

“No.” Brigid gasped in recognition, staring in horror at the creature’s face. “Mother.”

The vyla chuckled in delight at the girl’s expression.

“Would you like to know how it happened, blow by blow? Us descendants of the Sin of Sloth do not rush our meals.” The creature’s voice dropped as it loomed over the trapped children, speaking oh-so-softly. “We let her pray to her gods. She begged forgiveness as we held her down. She called to them even with her last breath, realising that they had abandoned her. She suffered exquisitely, until the very end.”

Bran swore, his vision blurry with tears. He was balanced precariously on the precipice of sanity. On one side was a pit of despair ready to swallow him, and on the other a raging furnace. In that moment, Bran Calligan chose rage.

“If you’re going to kill us, just do it already!” he screamed.

“Kill you? That would be simply wasteful.” the vyla informed him, cocking its head with a cruel smile. “No, no… as a matter of fact, we have a proposal for you, little Man. You want to keep your dear sister safe, don’t you?” Bran nodded mutely in response. The vyla raised a wicked claw, pointing at Brigid. “But as you are now, you will both be dead by sunrise. She may have the Seraphim’s protection, but she is unpractised. When our brethren break through those doors, they will rip your sweet sister limb from limb.” The young girl gulped, feeling sickened. The vyla savoured her expression, turning back to her brother. Bran’s hands were curled into fists, fingernails biting into his palm so hard his knuckles were white. “As for you, little Man, be assured there are those with appetites far greater than ours. Our brothers of Gluttony will feast upon you- body and soul- unless you do the wise thing and accept our offer.”

“What offer?”

The vyla extended its hand. Its claws retracted, fingers straightening into the long, delicate digits of a young woman.

“A promise, in exchange for power. We sense potential in you. In striking at our brother, you demonstrated a strength of will that is rare amongst Men. Such strength has great potential for corruption. To that end, we will lend you our power to protect your sweet sister this night, and all the nights to come, until her dying day.”

“And then?” he ventured.

“Then your soul will be ours for the feasting; once it is properly tenderised and marinated by years of hate, and greed and the lust for power that all Men crave.”

“That won’t happen to me.” he asserted.

“Oh, but it surely will.” The vyla promised, laughing its tinkling laugh. Its voice lost some of its sweetness, a sly note creeping into the melody. “Men are curious creatures, after all. Are you not the slightest bit interested in how this tragedy occurred? There was a warding spell embedded within the walls of this settlement. Those walls were built to keep us out, but for decades have been left to crumble. Until tonight, there was a skilled mage in your midst who maintained those walls to the best of his ability… of course, one Man’s efforts were not enough to stop us all. A few of us managed to slip through the cracks. We snatched the unsuspecting in your midst; babes and the elderly- those who would not be missed. Recently, we even managed to steal away a grown man.”

Bran’s blood ran cold. He had heard the women of the village talking. How many babes had been lost recently to cot death? They had been burbling happily when put to bed, only for their mothers to wake in the cold light of day to find them still and lifeless. The elders had been dying more frequently too. The villagers had put it down to the cold weather- although this years’ winter had been no harsher than normal… and then there was Jack Sawyer.

“How long have you been doing this?” he croaked. Just how long had these demons been preying upon them?

“Long enough to arouse suspicion.” the vyla replied smoothly. “That mage no doubt knew the day would come when his magic would fail. He would certainly have raised the alarm, to request help to repair your defences.” Her full lips smiled at him, fangs glinting. “Ask yourselves this, younglings: who ignored his warnings? Who would let the sworn enemy of Men cross freely into your borders, and mount a full-scale assault without resistance? Fail to answer these questions, and we promise the same shall happen again. In such a world, can your sister be truly considered safe?”

“You want me to investigate? But… I don’t even know where to start.” Bran bit out, voice thin with desperation.

The vyla made a humming noise in its throat and raised a hooked claw.

“It may interest you to know that this vessel was communicating with someone through that portal when we came upon her.”

“Portal?”

The children turned around, in the direction of the vyla’s gesture. It was pointing at the basin of holy water. Bran stepped up to examine the basin more closely, running his hands over the porcelain- that was when he felt raised etchings underneath. He knelt, and discovered the same, ancient writings engraved into the stone. Brigid reached out and touched the markings. On contact, the basin lit up with the same energy that matched the Mark on the girl’s forehead.

“This thing is magic?” she squeaked in disbelief. Their mother had been using a magical artefact- something forbidden by her own gods.

“Mother said she was going to send a message to the White Sisters.” Bran recalled, looking to his sister in bewilderment. The Sisterhood existed to maintain the purity of the realm, to promote the King’s law and stamp out heresy; but if the Sisterhood itself was using illicit magical artefacts, then what were they, if not heretics themselves?

Just then came the screeching of claws against iron. Bran and Brigid’s eyes turned towards the temple door. There was a terrible clamour outside. High pitched yips and desperate wails demanded entry, punctuated with heavy thumps as the demons threw themselves at the barricade. The Vylae could smell young life inside, and they had come to snuff it out.

“It would seem that time is running short, younglings.” the vyla prompted the siblings. “Do you accept our offer, or shall we leave you in the tender care of our brethren?”

Bran turned back to the demonic figure, still averting his eyes.

“I… I accept.”

The creature reached for him, and caressed his cheek with a smooth, cold finger. Bran flinched.

“Then look us in the eye, little Man. Look us in the eye, and accept us into your heart. Accept the might of our power, the depth of your suffering and the inescapable outcome of your sweet demise.”

The vyla did not give him the chance to relinquish humanity on his own terms. Its gentle touch became ironlike, forcing their eyes to meet. Bran found himself staring into a crimson abyss, rendered naked. Every sinful thought and action burst to the forefront of his mind. He saw himself proclaiming his sweet innocence to his mother, despite the crumbs at the corner of his mouth: “no way, I never ate that slice of cake- it was Brigid, I swear!”; hiding in the bushes with his friends as they peeked on one of the village girls swimming naked in the Great River, his twelve-year old body on the cusp of awakening. He saw himself from earlier that very same day, greedy fingers reaching for the loose button on a coat sleeve. “It’s not stealing if he won’t miss it, right?”

The vyla in front of him suddenly collapsed to its knees. The silver mane receded, and laughter lines appeared on its face. Its eyes remained fixed on Bran as the hellish light faded out and an achingly familiar woman was left sprawled on the floor, her dark hair that was usually covered by her wimple fanning out around her like a halo. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the temple ceiling.

“Mother?” Brigid whispered. She knelt by her side and gripped the Priestess’ hand. The girl knew in her heart it was a lost cause- but that didn’t stop her from trying. “Mother? Can you hear me?”

“She’s already gone. You heard what it said.” Bran ground out. The young girl looked up at her brother in despair. Whatever words she had prepared died on her lips.

“Bran- your hair.”

The boy touched his hair self-consciously, examining a strand. His formerly black locks had completely lost their colour, and his skin had turned equally pale. A silky voice echoed within him, confirming the deal was done.

“The contract is made.” the vyla hummed with satisfaction. “We bestow unto you the Cursed Name of Vengeance the Enforcer, crafted from the truest desires that bind your soul. You are charged with avenging the tears of your sweet sister. Discover the truth of this attack and hunt down the evil Men responsible. To that end, we grant you the power to protect, support, and shelter her for the duration of her natural life. The moment that Brigid Calligan breathes her last, our contract will be fulfilled. When that day comes, your soul will be ours to devour.”

The voice in his head faded away, leaving Bran and his sister cowering together in the temple. Brigid looked between their mother’s corpse, and her brother.

“That thing- it’s in you now, isn’t it?” she guessed, her voice quavering. Bran nodded. Brigid’s bottom lip trembled, and Bran could tell she was milliseconds away from a full-on breakdown. The boy gripped her arms and shook her violently; she let out a gasp, the sob clearing from her throat.

“Bri, look at me.” he ordered. The young girl stared at him, petrified. Her brother’s blue-violet eyes were still human, at least. “You have to keep it together. We’re not out of this yet. We have to get out of here.”

“But I can’t walk!” she pointed out.

The banging on the temple door was getting louder. Under normal circumstances the iron would have already buckled under such an assault- but Brigid’s blood glowed silver on the door, sputtering and flaring with every blow. The magic was clearly unstable. They had to escape, but the siblings had no idea how many more Vylae were lurking outside, waiting to pounce. Bran screwed up his face in concentration and thought of the Name the creature had given to him.

Vengeance the Enforcer

“What do you ask of us, little Man?” the vyla replied instantly inside his mind.

“We have to get out of here. Can you hide us?”

“But of course. Our nature is that of the Sin of Sloth. Concealment is our specialty.”

Bran watched with disbelief as his body dematerialised, the skin and bones of his left hand becoming translucent, and then spreading out across his entire form. Brigid let out a squeak of terror as he vanished.

“Great- but what about Bri?” he demanded. “We have to escape together!”

“And so, you shall.” the vyla replied curtly. “Take your sister’s hand, and our magic shall pass to her. As long as you remain connected, the power shall flow freely between us.”

“What about her injury- can you heal it?”

“No magic can heal the sickness of Men- but we can stop the feeling of pain.”

Brigid jumped as a ghostly presence touched her arm, but soon recognised the warmth of her brother’s hand sliding into her own. As their skin touched, she let out a gasp as the vyla’s evil power spread through her own body, concealing her from sight. Still, the problem remained: how would they escape?

“Your sister’s corrupted magic can assist us.” the vyla informed Bran, pointing him in the direction of one of the many murals on the wall. It had selected the one honouring Umi the Gentle, the goddess affiliated with water. The painting was beautiful. Shades of blue and silver blended to create undulating waves, disguising the ugly stone that lay directly beneath. “Tell her to call upon her Name and draw her accursed blood; apply it to the stone and will its nature to change. Command rock to become liquid; obedient and traversable.”

Bran duly relayed the message to Brigid. The girl stared up at the mural. She pressed her palm to the stone, leaving a bloodied handprint behind as she silently called upon her Name.

Wisdom the Collector

Now came the hard bit. How does one will a stone wall to change its nature? Brigid squinted as she did her best to concentrate, all too aware of the thunderous banging as the Vylae tried to push their way inside… but try as she might, she could not convince herself. There was no way around it; rock was not a liquid. The girl let out a frustrated cry and stamped her foot; the picture of a young child throwing a tantrum, as the tears began to flow again.

“I can’t do it!” she objected. Bran bit his tongue, knowing that shouting would only make the situation worse. He stood behind her and placed both his hands on her invisible shoulders.

“Yes, you can. I know you can. Try again, for me.”

Brigid sniffled and cracked her eyes open, raising her gaze with dread to face the painted stone. That was when it happened. Through her tears, the surface of the mural came alive; the waves of the painting no longer appeared static, but instead danced and shimmered like the Great River itself. Once the connection was made in her mind, the effect was instant- the ripple effect began to spread outwards from her handprint, and she realised her palm was wet.

Bran cautiously reached out, his arm passing straight through the stone wall. Beyond, he could feel a faint breeze blow against his fingertips. The boy let out a triumphant cry and grabbed Brigid by the hand, pulling her through before she could begin to doubt.

There was a patch of soft grass directly below the window to cushion their landing; the two fell together, winded and soaked to the bone, but otherwise unharmed. Thankfully there were no Vylae immediately outside.

“Wait!” Brigid cried as Bran pulled her up.

“What is it- your leg?”

The girl shook her head. Since the two had joined hands, she no longer felt any pain from the injury. The Sloth vyla’s magic was working.

“No, I’m fine.” she assured, looking at him imploringly. “But what about mother?”

The Priestess’ lifeless body was still inside the temple. Soon the Vylae would break through. What they would do to her corpse would be anyone’s guess. Bran shrugged helplessly. Brigid looked back at the temple wall, which still flickered with her magic. The stone had turned translucent, letting them see into the temple beyond, where the rows of wooden pews stood empty. An idea came to her.

“I… I have this.” With shaking hands, Brigid pulled out the box of matches from her pocket and presented them to him. Bran at once understood her intentions. He solemnly accepted the offering and struck one of the matches, putting the lit match back inside the box. With that, he threw it. As expected, the matchbox passed straight through the stone wall, landing next to the wooden benches. It wouldn’t be long before the fire caught.

And speaking of fire…

The siblings glanced ahead; the black night sky was tinged purple, illuminated by flames that were not of this world as their village burned around them.

“Lust Vylae.” Brigid declared. The last syllable caught in her throat, and she began to cough. Smoke hung heavy in the air, threatening to choke them. They had precious little time.

“Let’s go.” Bran urged.

The siblings fled like ghosts, treading lightly upon the earth as they bolted through the burning streets. Fair faces with scarlet eyes leered out at them from behind dark corners, and the smell of death filled the air. There were bodies on the floor of those who had fought, preferring to die than be possessed. Those Vylae born of Gluttony took interest in the corpses- not to possess them, but to consume them. Their beautiful lips parted, and their jaws distended like snakes, revealing rows of razor-sharp incisors. The children did not linger long enough to see the faces of the victims, but they could not blot out the sound of crunching bone and tearing sinew.

Even the animals were not spared. The children witnessed former guard dogs and house cats now prowling with the blood of their former masters on their lips. The Vylae did not prefer to take the lesser form of animals, but the shapeshifters of Envy would bear the humiliation to lure unsuspecting Men into their grasp.

They only stopped once for breath, as an enormous shadow engulfed them overhead. The pair looked up in awe. A gigantic, winged creature that looked somewhere between bird and reptile was circling overhead; it seemed to be scanning for survivors. Brigid cringed, pressing closer to her brother.

“Pride.” she whispered.

They were near the exit now. There was a simple wooden gate that led to the main road outside the village- the children found it thrown wide open and the path miraculously clear.

“Come on.” Bran declared, grabbing Brigid to pull her forward- but the demon in his head spoke up in warning.

“You would be advised to take another route. Look closely, little Man. Does the way not look darker than usual?”

“It’s night!” Bran objected, squinting ahead. Although, now that he looked closer, the shadows had gathered strangely in front of the gate, forming a thick, black mass.

A desperate cry came from behind them. It was none other than the magistrate, his austere black robes torn in several places, and his face and hands bloodied. He had no idea of the children’s presence; the invisible pair watched as the hysterical man, half-sobbing and half laughing, stumbled towards the open gate. As soon as he stepped foot in the shadows, he vanished from sight. He never made it to the other side.

“Greed.” Brigid declared. “They set traps for Men. They say that if you fall in, you can’t ever escape.”

“Not that way, then.”

They quickly discovered that the perimeter wall had been blasted apart in several sections, which explained the thunderous explosion from earlier. Circles were one of the strongest shapes in spell-craft; disrupting the continuity of the wall was needed to break the warding spell set deep within the stone. The children ran towards the closest gap- it was their quickest path to safety, but there was a treacherous pile of debris in the way. The crumbling rock shifted dangerously as they tried to climb together. Some of the stones were so large and stacked so steeply, it would require both hands to pull themselves up. Bran quickly realised they had to change their approach.

“Bri, I’m going to have to let go of your hand.” he told her calmly. “You know what that means, right?”

“Yeah. They’ll be able to see me.” she replied, her voice quivering.

It was only a couple of metres of climbing, Bran told himself. In usual circumstances it would only take them a minute- but he wasn’t sure they had a minute.

“I’ll grab you as soon as I can, OK?” he told her, squeezing her hand. “We’re getting out of this, Miss Moany.”

She let out a weak laugh.

“You promise?”

He looked at her with a fierceness she had never seen before.

“Always.”

With that, he ripped himself out of her grip and launched himself forward, scrambling to climb as fast as he could. Usually, his little legs and arms would be protesting, muscles screaming with effort and his lungs burning- but the demon inside him rendered his body comfortably numb. Bran was not a mere Man anymore. Brigid was close behind him; he could hear her exclamations of effort as she huffed and puffed.

Then came another, far less welcome sound. A shrieking noise that sounded like a twisted imitation of a bird of prey split the night. Bran looked up. Sure enough, the Pride vyla had young Brigid in its sights and was already changing course, preparing to dive.

The boy was already at the top of the debris pile. There was a four-metre drop to the other side, where freedom awaited. Bran didn’t hesitate- couldn’t afford to. He leapt from the precipice and landed hard on his feet. He felt something give way in his ankle, but he paid it no mind. If it didn’t hurt, he could carry on.

He caught sight of his sister’s blond hair as she stood atop the wall, looking down with fear. The Pride vyla was bearing down upon her, but she hadn’t seen it yet.

“Jump!” Bran encouraged, forcing a smile on his face as he spread his arms wide. “I’ve got you, come on!”

Brigid leaned forward and seemed about to do as she was told- when she felt the gust of wind from leathery wings tickle her neck, and she made the mistake of looking back. The young girl saw herself reflected in scarlet eyes, growing closer with every passing second. She froze.

“Bri, jump! Come on!” Bran screamed at the top of his voice. Brigid didn’t move. “Do it- for mother!”

Her body twitched- and finally, finally, she sprang to action. With her eyes squeezed shut and a shrill scream, she threw herself off the edge. She landed squarely on top of her brother; the pair vanished from sight as their bodies made contact, just as the vyla’s talons closed around thin air where she had been standing only a split-second before.

The pair ran for their lives.

They kept running until their little legs could carry them no further and they were drenched from head to toe in sweat, at which point they had reached the hills that overlooked their village. Brother and sister held each other tightly, watching on in silence as their former home of Tosutine was engulfed by indigo fire.

That night, an entire village of five hundred souls crossed the bridge from the Here and Now to the Everafter- an entire village, save two.

You’ll pay for this, young Bran vowed silently as he held his sister’s hand in a death grip.

Whoever had brought this hell upon them, no matter who or where they were, Bran Calligan would hunt them down.

Even if it takes me a hundred years.