 
Ghostwalker

N. Martinsen

Copyright © 2014 by Nicole Martinsen  
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof  
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever  
without the express written permission of the publisher  
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2017

ISBN 978-0-9862091-0-9

www.nicolemartinsen.com
For my brother, who is as close to my heart as the Shadow to my footsteps.

# Part One

# A Daughter of Destiny

#

Fact: No matter how hard people try, no matter how much they work, sweat, or bleed, there will always be a remainder whose efforts are in vain.

I was led to believe that this life was my own, to do with as I wished. But there was so much more to our cloistered existences. Conflicts so strained that an innocent hope was all it took to change the world forever.

But that's how it works with life, isn't it?

You never see it coming.

My story is barely a page in a far larger tale. It started with a promise, a flower, and the question:

"How far will you go to defeat destiny?"

Silhouette Spiderlily,

The Last Ghostwalker

1: Tentative Hope

"Children begin by loving their parents; after a time, they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."

Jean de La Fontaine

Daerin rode. Heron and Ballard followed. He took point. They flanked behind. Ride. Rest. That had been their routine for weeks.

It all began one sleepy sunrise. Daerin threw supplies on the floor of their room. He never told them where they were going, and Heron and Ballard knew better than to ask.

No one asked anything of Daerin. It wasn't always this way. There was once a time when Daerin was pleasant company. Heron slowed his pace to throw a look at his lanky, fire-haired counterpart. The three men were friends and business partners, all hoping to make a name for themselves in the High City of Lydia. After years of trying, that dream wasn't far from their grasp.

But then it went wrong, wrong in a way no one could've foreseen.

A month before the start of their journey, Daerin returned to the shop. Veins bulged from bloodshot eyes. His face sat streaked with mud and grime. He strode to the wash basin and took a long look at the water with the face of a man clinging to life.

And he hurled it at the floor.

Heron watched as that proud man fell to his knees and wept among bits of porcelain. It was a mess. The shards sliced into him. It was a broken, bloodied mess.

Upon reopening the very next day, most customers didn't recognize the hollow man Daerin had become, lurking in the corner. Those who did pretended not to notice him.

Heron and Ballard went on acting as though nothing had happened. Daerin shot them murderous glares when they attempted to broach the subject, so they stopped. Whatever the case, the men failed as friends that night. In their minds, they were no better than the people who pretended not to see him.

No one asked anything of Daerin.

M

Riverstone was host to countless wonders. Ancient trees towered into the sky as though to scrape the clouds with their branches. Sun and shadow danced through gaps in their leaves. By the time the rays reached the bottom, they diffused into a thin miasma, gilding the woods in their glow.

This was the home of many elfborn sons and daughters. A mighty High City tucked beneath a green canopy. Magic flowed through the air as ripples across a pond, and Riverstone's denizens thrived in its enigmatic currents.

Tiny groves existed in its many pockets, places of peace and solitude from prying eyes. In one such space, there stood a garden, filled with flowers as cheerful as the young girls who grew them.

The smaller of the two was pulling weeds when she spotted an unfamiliar plant. Its single stem was robust, covered in miniscule hairs of fiber. More peculiar was its exotic crown, bursting with narrow, fiery petals.

Tera wiped sweat from the back of her forehead, streaking it with dirt in the process.

"Renee," she called, still looking at her find, "do you know what this one is?"

Her sister paused from watering. "That's a red spider lily, the flower of goodbyes."

"Why does it mean goodbye?"

"Its leaves fall when it blooms, and they only grow back after the flower wilts."

"So, that's why it doesn't have leaves." Tera was satisfied for several seconds. She frowned a moment later. "How come?"

Renee drew two stick figures in the dirt. "Grandfather told me once. It's a really old legend."

"Older than him?"

Renee stared. "Do you want to hear it or not?"

"Sorry. I'll be quiet, I promise." Tera plopped on the grass and mustered an earnest, if crooked, grin.

"The red spider lily used to be guarded by two elves," her sister began. "Destiny ordered one to protect the flowers and one to protect the leaves until the end of time. But the problem with being elves is that they live almost forever, so I guess they got bored." She drew a heart between the figures. "They decided to meet, and then they fell in love. Destiny eventually figured this out and, as punishment, separated them for good. The leaves and flowers have never been together since, so that's why it means goodbye." Renee stifled a grin at Tera's face. "It's only a story, crybaby."

"I'm not crying!" Tera hid behind her sleeve. "Cut it out! Or else I won't give you the doll I made for your birthday."

"You do realize it's not a surprise anymore, right?"

"Is too," Tera insisted. "Tomorrow's your birthday, but you know what you got today." She threw her hands above her head. "Surprise!"

Renee opened her mouth to say something about her sister's logic, thought better of it, and decided to let the matter go. She tousled her silly sibling's hair.

"You be good while I finish my chores." Renee pointed at an older boy sitting beneath a magnolia. "Keep a close eye on him."

Tera mock saluted. "Yes, ma'am!"

She remained in this position until Renee fell from view. Tera then marched to the tree, plopped on the grass, and stared at the boy with gusto.

He rested on his stomach, flipping the pages of his book every few minutes. Ignoring his observer grew more difficult by the second.

"Alyon?"

"What?" He flipped a page.

"Do you think it's true?"

"What's true?"

"The story about the spider lily." Tera spread out beside him. Alyon flipped another page.

"I doubt it," he answered. "Myths exist to explain the things we don't understand. Besides, there's no such thing as destiny."

"Oh."

Alyon felt eyes upon him again. "What?" he demanded. He looked from his book to find Tera at the tip of his nose. The little girl beheld him with unusual consideration.

"They look like the forest."

"They?"

She came closer. Their noses touched. Tera cupped his face with her tiny hands and stared into him.

"Your eyes." He felt her fingers brush his hair from his forehead. "They look black in the dark," she continued, "but they're actually a really, really, really, dark green. They have a lot of different kinds of green." He tried not to smile at her analysis. "You have forests in your eyes." Then, noticing Alyon's amused expression, Tera cocked her head to the side. "Why are you making that face?"

"Is that a bad thing?" He grinned. "To have 'forests in your eyes,' I mean."

"No, no, no, no, no! It's not bad at all! I love forests. I live in one." She motioned to the world around them. "Your eyes look like home."

It was a comparison only a child could make.

"You're beautiful, Alyon."

"You mean my eyes are, right?"

Tera smiled like the imp she was. "Not telling."

M

"Jade, would you look to the light for me?"

Ezara leaned forward, scrutinizing the girl in silence.

Jade's emerald eyes were identical to her brother's, the elf noted, but the problem resided in their irises.

They moved.

Ezara saw her fair share of clairvoyants over the years. Spotting them was a simple matter if one knew what to look for. The average person knew only that a seer's stare was intense, even piercing.

What they didn't know was that their eyes weren't constructed of veins, but facets. The number of those facets determined both the strength and clarity of their foresight.

The twins, however, were exquisite in their composition. Their eyes rivaled the finest gems in both cut and color. Alyon was short-sighted, unable of seeing ahead more than seconds at a time, but this was a constant effect. Jade, by comparison, could see anything, anywhere, on a whim.

Ezara picked up the nervous shuffling of the girl's father in the hall. She stepped back, gliding across the room.

"I'll return shortly," she announced.

Damian jumped at the click of the door.

She didn't have time to face him before he blurted, "And?"

Ezara studied him. Judging by the shade of his stubble and the dark circles beneath his eyes, the man was a stranger to restful sleep.

"I understand why Lyssa had her brought to our attention," she remarked. "The trouble rests most heavily in her parentage. A queen's daughter with such tremendous power would spell disaster if she ever fell into the wrong hands." Ezara lowered her eyes, pensive. "It could be the end of Lydia."

Damian felt himself grow impatient. Ezara hadn't told him anything he didn't already know.

"Can't you void her power?"

Her lips tightened into a thin line. He felt a shiver run down his back as her gilded eyes met his.

"Power passed through generations runs deeper than the flesh, Damian. To void it means to corrupt her mind, and possibly blind her in the process." Her next words tasted foreign on a tongue unused to speaking them. "This is... beyond my abilities."

"Lyssa and I spoke about this at length," he started. "She says that if we can't find a solution, then we have to gouge her eyes out. I refuse to let that happen."

Ezara pressed two fingers to her temple. "Has she chosen an heir?"

"Alyon, when he's old enough."

"A wise choice." Finally, some good news, she thought. Ezara shook her head a moment later. "No, cancelling Jade's power is out of the question, and mutilation even more so. A seal could be constructed, but the only people I'd trust with such an undertaking belong to the Scaled Order. I'm sure you know what that means." She watched him close his eyes in disappointment. Ezara took this as an opportunity to argue her case. "They'll teach her to hone her gift, control it. They'll take good care of her, Damian. Perhaps, when she's older, she can return to Lydia. Lyssa is a ruler. You know better than anyone that everything after this fact—her identity as a woman, her role as a wife, and even motherhood—comes secondary."

She looked at the courtyard, waiting for her words to sink in.

"There's a reason she sent you here alone, Damian." Ezara spoke with an absent mind. He watched centuries pool across her eyes. "You're a commoner," she conceded, "but this gives you a freedom Lyssa will never have." The elf folded her hands together. "In sending you here, she entrusted her faith in you as a husband and as a father. Do what is best for your children, not the High City."

"It's just not fair!" All the frustration of the past several months crept into his voice. "They're children. Jade didn't ask to be some prophet, as if seeing the future wasn't enough of a curse already. Alyon didn't need to know what it means to be a bastard, or start plotting how to outwit prunes in the line of succession. It's disgusting!"

He paused to catch his breath and slumped his shoulders. "Kendra kept those crones in line. Damn it all. Why did she have to die?" He composed himself. "I... just don't want to let go of my children."

Ezara placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's a decision no parent should be forced to make."

"It's always the ones that shouldn't have to be made that need making," he snapped.

She burst into laughter. "Truer words have never been spoken!"

Damian found himself reflecting her smile in spite of his foul mood. He released a nervous breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "As long as you swear that my daughter won't be turned into a zealot, then I'll agree to send her to the monastery."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." Ezara looked to the door, wondering if Jade had fallen asleep. "Would you like to say your goodbyes now?"

"I'll tell Alyon first. Could I trouble you to keep my girl for one more night?"

"It won't be any trouble at all. I just wish I could do more to help." Ezara reached out, placing a delicate hand atop his head. "Misery doesn't befit you, Damian. You're a good man, with a strong heart." She smiled at him, lifting the corners of his mouth with her fingers. "You've brought laughter to our door at times when we struggled to remember how it sounded. I speak for everyone in Riverstone when I say that happiness is your finest feature. Don it proudly."

He bowed his head, unable to say anything that could express the depth of his gratitude. Ezara went back to Jade. Her canary gown fluttered behind, as if it too was waving him farewell.

The man headed off with a complicated medley of emotions: guilt, giddiness, and warmth.

Ezara's parting graces built a hearth in the corner of his heart. It offered him a place of respite, something he couldn't find for what seemed to be a very, very long time.

2: Burdens of Memory

"I hope I am remembered by my children as a good father."

Orson Scott Card

Jerrold couldn't tear his eyes from the flowers.

The vase that held them was hideous, however. He spotted fingerprints where its sculptor pinched loose ends in a horrific attempt to fix the gaps. Jerrold couldn't decide if this emphasized the beauty of the bouquet or insulted it. There was only one certainty.

He could spend his life traveling the earth and never find blossoms which would surpass the beauty of the flowers in that vase.

"Spectacular, aren't they?" Uradden chuckled at how his son tensed at the sound of his voice. "The little one made them."

"Tera did?"

"Every last petal," his father replied. "Look. There's dew on the leaves."

Uradden waved his hand at the spheres of light along the walls. They dimmed. He heard Jerrold's sharp intake of breath.

The flowers had a crystalline structure, brimming with an inherent glow. Tiny strings were woven throughout. The web was constructed of light.

"What are the flowers made of?"

"Ice." Uradden tucked his sleeves behind him. "They're cold to the touch, but don't melt."

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Kendra would be very proud."

Footsteps echoed down the stairwell, and the two elves turned around to find Damian on the landing. Uradden brightened. "Did Ezara come through for you?"

"Your wife did everything she could."

The ambiguousness of the answer didn't escape him. He and Ezara agreed it was best not to share how serious the situation truly was with Damian.

"It's late," said Jerrold. "We'll head back for the evening. Goodnight, Father."

"Goodnight," he called, watching them go.

Like Tera, Jade could be considered a prodigy. Where his granddaughter had extraordinary focus, Jade possessed an immense, raw power. Her ability to see the future was formidable, but Uradden and Ezara were far more concerned by a talent she didn't seem aware of. Perhaps it was nothing, but intuition told him otherwise.

Ezara once mused aloud regarding Lyssa's motives. It was possible that the girl's clairvoyance was a proxy, an excuse to send her away. Her reluctant reasoning came back to haunt him.

"Ezara," he whispered. "For all our sakes, I pray you're wrong."

It wasn't a question of protecting the girl from danger. If it was that much, Lyssa could have spared a few retainers to watch the child. The secrecy and the excuses didn't add up.

It was almost as though the queen acted out of fear.

M

"How is she?" asked Jerrold.

"She's being sent to the Scaled Order," Damian replied. He tried to get accustomed to the thought while saying it aloud.

"It was that serious?"

He almost smiled at the surprise in Jerrold's voice. His friend was so monotonous that hearing any emotion from him was funny. "I'm afraid so."

"Will you be alright?"

"You do care!" Damian gasped.

Jerrold regretted asking.

"My being alright isn't a question," the sailor decided. "I'm a parent. I have to be. And you?"

"What about me?"

"It's been a year since Kendra died."

Jerrold acted as though he was interested in the lanterns above them. "I'm as well as can be expected."

His friend made a conscious effort not to roll his eyes. "Tera looks like her mother when she was her age."

"I see."

"Is that why you avoid her?"

Jerrold finally turned to face him. "I don't avoid her."

Damian may have been preoccupied with his own problems, but he wasn't blind. The elf fulfilled his responsibilities, like cooking and housekeeping, but when it came to spending time with his youngest daughter, he always had a task that required his immediate attention.

"She doesn't see it that way."

It stung him to see his friend being so careless. Damian grew up with Kendra. He could recognize that honeyed hair and stormy eyes anywhere. To Jerrold, those things were only a constant reminder of a void left behind.

"And how do you know what she thinks?" he demanded, a note of anger rising. "She doesn't even know what she thinks. She's hardly five years–"

"Six."

"Six?"

"It's been a year, Jerrold," Damian reminded him. "It's difficult enough to not have a mother. Don't make her go without her father too."

"Don't impose human standards on elvish parenting," he warned.

"Kendra was human. Your daughters belong to two worlds," Damian stated, unfazed. "You can't treat their time like your own. They're young now, but someday you'll blink and find two grown women in their place, and by that time, you'd have lost your chance at being a parent."

"It's better than sending them off to be raised by religion."

Damian's eyes widened, first in disbelief, and then in anger. "I have no choice! Would you rather I killed her? Maimed her?" The two circumstances were as different as they could be. "I don't want to hear anything about giving up my children from a man that won't even give them a chance!"

"Father?"

The men whirled to the side. There, peering behind a boulder, was Tera. She fidgeted beneath their startled stares.

"Renee says to come back home."

Damian and Jerrold exchanged uneasy glances.

"Tera?"

She jumped to attention.

"Yes?"

"Where's Alyon?"

"Setting the table."

"Thank you. I'll go on ahead then."

Damian looked back over his shoulder before leaving. His jaw was set in a firm line, but his eyes pleaded with the elf. Jerrold bit the inside of his mouth, offering an earnest attempt at a smile. His friend was one of few people who would call a half-twitching face a stab at reconciliation.

Damian laughed as he walked away.

"Tera, come closer." Jerrold knelt on the mossy earth, leveling himself with the little girl. She took two small steps and hesitated. "What's the matter?"

She looked distressed. Her eyes darted from him, to the ground, and back again. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me?"

"You look like you want to cry when you look at me."

He stared at her, dumbstruck. This caused him to look at his daughter, truly look at her.

Damian was right when he said she bore a striking resemblance to Kendra. The girl had her mother's full, rosy lips and unfading blush. Honey-colored hair cupped her face, in stark contrast to a pair of cerulean eyes.

Nothing escaped them. They knew that he was avoiding his daughter, but were too young to understand why. Damian was right. She was a victim of his indifference.

He grabbed her hands. When had they grown so big? There was a time when they couldn't wrap around a single one of his fingers. He pulled her close. She wasn't as small or soft as the first time he cradled her in his arms. She didn't feel as fragile anymore.

So why couldn't he hold her any other way?

Tera raked her fingers through her father's dark hair, relishing the smoothness of the back of his shirt. He smelled of pine. It was on his skin, in his clothes, and on his breath. She never thought much of it, but in that moment, it was her most favorite scent in the world.

"I have something for you." Jerrold pulled back. "It belonged to your mother." He rummaged through his belt until finally resting his hands on a delicate chain. Jerrold closed his eyes, memorizing its surface through his fingertips. "Turn around, Tera."

His daughter did as she was told. He reached over her head, moved her hair out of the way, and shut the silver clasp.

"It's cold." She shivered.

"It's metal." Jerrold swiveled her around. "Open your eyes."

The chain hung to the base of her chest. She touched the pendant weighing it down. Vines coiled around themselves, surrounding a rock at its center. It was round, alternating between shades of blue, white, silver, and everything in between.

"It's a moonstone."

"It's really pretty."

"And it has a partner." He pulled a key from his pouch, laying it in the palm of her hand. It was no longer than the length of his nail. "The pendant is a locket. This key is its mate. Your mother gave it to me in Lydia."

"Lydia?" She brightened. "You were in Lydia?"

"Yes," he answered, taken aback by how little she knew. "Your mother was Lydian by birth, and now that I think of it, so are you. That makes your full name Teraliel Illuminias."

"Teraliel Illuminias," she repeated, tasting the sound of it on her tongue. "What about Renee, does she get a last name?"

"Renee was born in Riverstone. We don't give last names here," he said. "In Lydia, when a woman gets married or has children, it's her name that gets passed on." He stood from the ground, taking Tera by the hand. "Kendra was loved by many people. She was wild and reckless, and had a temper. But she was also a good friend, very bright, and always tried to do the right thing. Damian can tell you much more. They grew up together."

"Really?" She tugged on his hand, unable to contain her excitement.

"Really," he affirmed. Jerrold gave her hand an affectionate squeeze, and she squeezed back harder. They continued doing this until both their palms were pulsing red.

It hurt. They laughed.

But not once did they let go.

M

A smoking husk sat on the kitchen counter. Damian could think of many words to describe it.

Edible wasn't one of them.

"Which one of you did this?" he demanded.

Renee wrung her hands. Alyon would've laughed if his hunger hadn't hinged on her catastrophic failure.

Damian picked up a fork, gambling on his optimism that the charred meal didn't taste as bad as it appeared. He impaled the dish, only for it to crumble into a sad pile of ash. He swore and began to stomp the glowing bits that had fallen to the ground.

"May I ask why you're attempting to thrust your foot through my floor?"

They turned to the atrium of the house. Tera stood beside her father, an unusual sight for all of them. Again, the elf returned to his stoic demeanor, his expression one of cautious inquiry.

"I was putting out some embers."

"And what were you doing that nearly set my home ablaze?"

"Ask Renee. It looks like she had a mishap while making dinner."

Jerrold furrowed his brow, approaching their end of the room. Upon spotting the kitchen, he raised an eyebrow. "Have you truly stooped so low as to blame a child?"

"It wasn't me!"

"Then it was the wind, I take it? Or did that rabbit spontaneously combust?" He crossed his arms. "How much of a fool do you take me for?"

"Rabbit?" Damian blinked, looking at their squandered food. "That was a rabbit?"

Jerrold rolled his eyes. "I'll find a way to salvage this. Go, and don't touch anything."

"I thought you said you wouldn't touch the stove again," Tera whispered.

"Well I forgot," Renee shot back, reddening. She turned around as soon as Damian caught her gaze. He and his son stood side by side, both with a knowing smirk on their faces.

Tera brightened, remembering something. She lifted the pendant from her neck. Damian's eyes lit up.

"Kendra's locket."

Renee put a hand over it, giving her sister a serious glance. "Does Father know you have this?"

"He gave it to me, just now, when we were coming home."

They cast a long look at Jerrold, listening to him make his way around the kitchen. It was so subtle they didn't notice that the atmosphere felt lighter. Damian patted Tera on the head. Giving away the locket was a small, but significant step to recovery.

Renee took her sister by the wrist, dragging her off. "Come on, it's bath time."

"With bubbles?"

"With bubbles."

Alyon started off after them, but his father held him back.

"What is it, Dad?"

Any relief Damian felt earlier was replaced by anxiety. He could feel a pair of eyes at the back of his head. Jerrold was watching him. Damian knew that it was his way of offering silent support, but he cursed at how uncomfortable it made him feel.

Alyon sat on the chair that his father pulled out for him.

"We found a way to help Jade," Damian said. Alyon's mouth opened in astonishment, but before he could voice his delight, his father held a hand for pause. "We've been here too long, Alyon. We need to leave early tomorrow morning. Maybe even tonight."

Damian could see his son's discomfort at leaving his friends so soon. Alyon knew that the day had been fast approaching. They already packed their belongings on their ship a week before. He just didn't expect the news to be so swift.

"Jade doesn't have to hide anymore, right?"

"Jade," he said, taking a breath, "isn't going with us."

"What do you mean? I thought you said she isn't sick anymore."

"I never said that, Alyon. I only said that we found a way to help her. She's going to be sent to a place with people Ezara knows very well. It's like a school. They'll teach her how to–"

"How long will she be there?" he interrupted.

"It'll be a while."

"How long?"

Damian placed a hand on the back of his neck, bracing himself for the outburst to come.

"Years, Alyon. She'll come back to Lydia, but you'll both be adults by then."

He stood from his seat, heading towards the door.

"And where do you think you're going?" Damian demanded.

"To go see Jade."

"At this hour? We can go after dinner."

"No!"

Damian lifted himself by his arms. "Alyon..." he warned.

His son's eyes watered. "No! I hate you!"

The sentence hit him like a boulder. Damian's knees buckled while his son stormed out the door. He knew the day would come when he'd hear those words come out of his mouth, but he never imagined that they would hurt so much. Damn it all, he thought. Why did they have to hurt so much?

"I'll go get him!"

Tera entered his field of vision. Water dripped down to the floor beneath her nightgown and bubbles nestled in her soapy hair. Jerrold caught a glimpse of her from the kitchen, aghast. If he didn't feel so wretched, Damian might have laughed.

"Alright, go." Her father sighed. "But clean yourself properly when you get back."

"Okay!"

Damian watched her dart out the door. The sound of her wet feet rang like the flat notes of a broken drum.

M

It wasn't wise to navigate Riverstone at night, especially for someone who didn't know their way around it. All it took was a shift of the leaves, or a change in the light, and people could disappear for days in the forest city.

A certain tiny sorceress knew this very well. She closed her eyes, looking at the lights that appeared in the darkness of her mind.

Everything, every plant, insect, and animal, emanated light. Tera selected one of them, floating inches from her face. She reached out, pinched it, and motioned around her wrist. A glowing thread hung from her arm, holding the shadows at bay. Then she started her search.

Tera gripped her mother's locket, thinking about what she'd heard after she rushed through her bath. She understood that Alyon was upset, but he had no right to yell at his father.

"Why are you following me?"

She jumped at the voice.

Alyon stood beside a tree stump, his eyes blackened by darkness. Tera shrank back. His frown deepened.

"You shouldn't run around alone here," she said.

"Neither should you."

Alyon saw her nod to the thread on her arm. It basked them in white light. "I can see fine."

His head hurt. Every time he was upset, Alyon's eyes would flit images before him, of events only fractions of seconds ahead. It took all of his concentration to remember which foot was on the ground and which one pushed him off of it. So he stopped, because it was only a matter of time before he fell flat on his face.

By the look Tera gave him, he knew she knew that. Her big eyes gazed at him in pity, and this, not the issue with Jade, was what irritated him.

"Don't look at me," he snapped. She flinched. Alyon ended up being the first to turn his head away. "I don't want to see anyone right now."

"You're going to see Jade, aren't you?" She got closer. "I wanna help. I just don't want you to get lost."

"Alright," he said. He was glad that she was there, an excuse to walk slower when he needed to keep his line of sight from spinning out of control.

Clairvoyance was a special kind of curse.

It wasn't fun when every word and movement was half a heartbeat faster than his own. Alyon hated feeling like an echo.

"We keep going forward, and then"–Tera held up her index fingers and thumbs–"we go left."

The forest was filled with sounds of life. Crickets chirped. Leaves rustled. A bird called out in the distance. Alyon allowed it to rush over him. He couldn't understand what nature was saying. That's why he loved it.

"Why are you afraid of Lydia?" Tera asked. "You get really quiet when it pops up."

"So what?"

"I wanna know why."

"My mom is someone very, well, important in Lydia," he explained. "My dad is a sailor. And in Lydia, people treat you differently based on who your parents are. Mixing rich and poor isn't good. My parents are like that." He found her watching him. "If you have a kid with parents like that, they call that kid a bastard."

"What's a bastard?"

"An accident," he answered. "Something unwanted. It doesn't belong." He hung his head, seeming much older than the boy he was. "To a lot of people, I'm something that shouldn't exist."

"Did they hurt you?"

"I'm sure they want to. It's only a matter of time before they try."

Alyon's smile baffled her. Tera didn't understand most of what he said about accidents, existing, and bastards, but to her, those things didn't matter. Her friend was hurting.

Friends helped each other.

"I'll protect you."

Alyon's smile vanished. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'll keep it!" she insisted. "I will protect you."

"No, Tera." They jolted at the new voice. Jade emerged from a thick shrub. Her brown curls were wild and matted.

Alyon knew that she had seen something. She stood beside him without looking at him once, focusing on the little girl every step of the way.

"You will only hurt everyone you will ever care about."

Jade's words felt like a pebble had hit her square between the eyes. Tera became conscious of an emotion called resentment. Alyon shook his head in disgust.

"Go, Tera," he ordered. Her mouth dropped in surprise. Alyon shot her a furious glance. "Just go!"

3: A Child's Promise

"Whether we give our children a future of more or a future of less—this, too, is a choice."

Martin O'Malley

Tera dashed through the woods. The trees, once so comforting, loomed menacingly overhead. Their sounds and shadows threatened her safety, and that fear channeled into her thread. Its light dithered, a flickering flame in the forest city.

What had she done wrong? She slowed to a halt, rubbing tears from her eyes. Why would Jade say something so awful?

Those questions and more ran through her mind, but she still managed to recognize her surroundings. Somehow, her feet had led her to Renee's garden. Tera appreciated the security she felt in being on her sister's soil. She was accepted there. Nothing else should matter, but it did

Alyon's outburst stung like the back of a switch. He was going away and she didn't even know if she would see him again. She tried to help him and...

You will only hurt everyone you will ever care about.

She hadn't a clue why Jade would say something so terrible, and even worse, how she said it, as though it were an absolute fact.

Those thoughts led her to the foot of the red spider lily. The story about the two elves replayed itself in her mind. This was how Jade sounded. Like she was recanting a story told a thousand times before.

She'd prove Jade wrong.

Tera shuddered in the warm air. A cone of frost slipped past her nervous lips.

Her fingers crept around the scarlet plant, itching to tear it from the soil. Something in her heart whispered that destroying it would save her. Tera repeated what Alyon told her earlier in the day.

"There's no such thing as destiny."

M

Night made a fantasy of the forest, where plants and lanterns illuminated the mossy streets.

Heron poked an orb of light. He'd never seen anything quite like it in Lydia. Sure, street peddlers would hawk rune stones in their shops and carts.

They usually had minor abilities.

Some caused sparks to replace flint, and others would purify water if set in a basin, but to see magic without the use of runes was something that he'd never witnessed before.

"Runes are the mages' attempt at written language." Daerin didn't look at him as he explained this, staring into the forest beyond. "They tried to capture the essence of magic in clay tablets."

It was at times like these that Daerin seemed most like his former self, a scholar who wanted to share what he knew. Hoping to encourage this trend, Heron prodded him further.

"They didn't make it to use magic?"

"No one uses magic. Magic allowed them to create the runes. The symbols on rune stones aren't random. They each look the way they do for a reason." He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch. "Clergy are granted their powers by a deity. Mages are granted their power by magic."

"Mages worship magic?" Heron asked.

"Magic is The Earth Tree, whose roots stem from the Well of Creation. A mage is someone that clings to its boughs. Few mages ever manage to grasp more than one branch of magic, which is why they're all so specialized." Daerin slowed. The path ahead was veiled by dense swathes of leaves. "But to answer your question, mages no more worship magic than you worship the air you breathe."

Heron considered the statement. Magic in the form of runes seemed no different than a chisel or a knife, a man-made implement designed and used for a specific purpose. It came as no surprise why some of the mages he met had scoffed at him in the past. Daerin's explanation, though it clarified things, only led him to more questions.

"What is–"

"Hush!" he breathed.

Heron followed his gaze to see what had caught his attention, only to find something rather unremarkable.

A little girl.

She stared at something on the ground, illuminated by a glowing object on her arm. She removed the shining thread and clasped a necklace in her hands. The string slipped inside as though it had a will of its own.

It was magic. Heron knew that much, but it didn't make sense why a child could impress Daerin when a forest singing with it could not.

"That's Kendra's locket."

Heron found his own eyes widening. "She's her daughter?"

Daerin didn't respond. He had the expression of someone who had just stumbled upon the most miraculous of treasures.

That was when they heard the scream.

Kendra's daughter convulsed, curling into a ball on the grass. Heron had never seen Daerin move as fast as he did in that moment, hurrying to the girl's side.

"Heron, come!" he barked. Heron almost jumped out of his skin. Looking at the child, he realized that this was something he had never seen before.

She was freezing.

Daerin swaddled her in his cloak. "We need to get her to Ezara."

"Ezara?" Heron struggled to meet his friend's pace. "But she's the Hierophant's wife! We can't just barge into her home in the middle of the night!"

"She will help," he growled. "She'd help even if this wasn't her granddaughter."

Granddaughter. The word bounced off the surface of his mind. From the small fold in the fabric, Heron made out the subtle point of the girl's ear.

She was a half-elf. A child of two worlds.

It made sense why Kendra hadn't kept her in Lydia.

Frost began to form in pieces across the surface of her skin. Daerin stopped before two rows of poplars that marked the entrance to the tree palace of the Hierophant. The girl was thrust into his arms before he had a chance to react.

"Take her to the sentries. Quickly!"

Heron glanced at the child, whose odd condition began to send violent chills up his arms. He'd ask questions later, he decided. He wouldn't have the right to call himself a Lydian if Kendra's daughter died in his arms tonight.

M

"You're being sent away."

Jade shrugged. "I know. It's okay. The priests are good people."

"You saw it, right?"

Her eyes flashed in the darkness. A dormant green overpowered the blackness for a fraction of a second. The siblings knew that Seeing meant a very different thing for them. Jade only had to nod her head, and that was all he needed.

"I don't want you to go, Jade. You're so weak."

His sister looked at her arms, slender and milky white. "That's because nobody ever gave me the chance to be strong." She chuckled to herself. "They're afraid of what I'll become."

"You wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Not on purpose. But I have."

"Who?"

"Tera."

A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. He looked down. "That's my fault. She was saying stupid things."

"You want to protect me. She wants to protect you." Jade watched the realization seep across his face. "I think she really meant what she said."

He knew he had to apologize before he left, but he'd be foolish to wander around Riverstone without a guide. Alyon looked to his sister. He didn't enjoy seeing the future, yet she treated it like a tool. Everything was a game.

"You want me to find out where she is, right?" Jade guessed, seconds before he was about to ask. She tiptoed her way to a large root, plopping down with remarkable grace. She frowned.

"What is it?"

Jade ignored him, staring harder. The space between her eyes twitched. He could sense the strain it was putting on her, but knew better than to interfere. After a minute of attempting to see where their friend had gone, Jade appeared disturbed.

"I can't see her."

"How?"

"I don't know. I can still see everyone else, but I can't see her."

"Could you see her before now?"

"Yes. I don't know what happened. Let's go to Ezara. Maybe she can help."

As much as he didn't enjoy going to the same woman who was sending Jade away, he knew it couldn't be helped. Alyon relented, following his sister through the brush. She navigated well enough, though with more wariness than before. They arrived at the tree palace after several minutes.

Neither required clairvoyance to notice that something wasn't right. The orbs of light scattered across the grounds were flickering with energy. Shadows stretched across the lawn. The farther they reached, the faster they ran. The two elves that stood beside the doorway exchanged grave looks as the children bolted past them.

Inside wasn't much better. Alyon furrowed his brow at the grand atrium. The lights were wavering there as well, but that wasn't it. People were nearly always passing through the place. Children played in the gardens, and others came to trade.

That night, it was empty. Alyon released his sister's hand, motioning for her to stand behind him.

"People are going upstairs," Jade muttered, "but I can't see what they're working on."

Alyon felt his stomach drop. As Jade predicted, he could make out the shifting shapes of elves hurrying upwards. Their hands were empty, but he saw how their fingers twitched. They took one step after another until finally arriving at the threshold of Ezara's garden. The doors to her office were wide open, another oddity for a woman who preferred to keep her research as private as possible.

Jade clutched his arm, nudging him forward. Nothing could've prepared them for what lay past those doors.

A crowd of elves pressed against Ezara's stone examining table. Their nervousness was palpable, tinged with a level of concentration that could cut through a mountain.

"I can't do this," Ezara panicked. "The only chance we have is to force an Awakening." Several elves gasped, igniting an argument amongst each other.

"It's the only chance we have!" Ezara's quiet cry pierced the chaos. They fell silent, bowing their heads.

Uradden spotted Damian's children at the door. He motioned to the others. "Let them pass."

Alyon and Jade watched the group disperse.

Tera lay flat on her back, shivering what little of her body she could move. Her skin was waxy beneath the ice that covered it. She struggled to breathe. Her attempts resulted in the shallow gasps of someone drowning. Frost found its way into her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked to him.

"Come closer," bid Uradden.

The boy shuffled forward. Tera turned her gaze to her left hand, balled into a nearly perfect fist. Alyon pried her fingers open, steeling himself against the coldness of her skin.

A frozen key dropped into the palm of his hands.

"Alyon! Let's get out of here."

He was too dazed to be surprised at his father's voice. Damian placed a hand on his son's shoulder, swiveling him towards the door. The other elves filed into the hallway with blank faces. Damian heard the sentries at the bottom level release Jerrold. He charged upstairs, nearly knocking Damian aside.

Alyon felt his father's hands cover his ears, but this did little to muffle the raging sobs behind him. The only object that felt real was the key in his hand. The ice encasing it didn't melt. If anything, it grew colder.

Now, whenever he'd think of Tera, Alyon would remember the stillness that came when the frost settled in.

And the child's promise that killed her.

4: Toxic Musing

"In the little world in which children have their existence, there is nothing so finely perceived, and so finely felt, as injustice."

Charles Dickens

Jerrold couldn't touch his daughter's face. Because once he did, it made her death real.

Uradden and Ezara stood to the side, their hands clasped so tightly, they appeared to meld into one.

"The man that brought her to the gate said he found her in the children's garden," she murmured.

Anger flared in Uradden's eyes. "She did this. I thought this madness was behind us after what happened to Kendra."

Jerrold dug into the table with enough force to leave a mark. "Again?" he croaked. "First Kendra, and now our daughter?"

"There's no other explanation," Ezara replied, smoothing the space between her eyes. "But Tera must have tampered with the Threads first."

"She couldn't have!" Jerrold struggled to tear his eyes from her body. "How much more do I have to lose before she's satisfied?"

The couple stepped out of his way. Before leaving, he motioned as if to take another look at his daughter, but stopped. Jerrold faced his parents, his eyes two dark pools of anguish. Then, knowing he could do nothing else, he left.

Uradden shifted his free hand to his wife's shoulder. She cradled her head against him.

"How much longer do we have to suffer like this?"

"Until we die, I suppose." He closed his eyes, smoothing back her stream of hair. It wasn't the answer either of them wanted to hear, but it was the only one they would accept. "Or if Feyt finds someone who can undo the Threads."

"If only. Destiny isn't something we can destroy without it destroying us first."

"Forgive us, Tera," Uradden apologized. He placed his hand on her arm. Heat escaped his palm, gradually melting the frost. Ezara dried the water that dripped off her skin. They worked for the better part of an hour, deliberate and solemn. Upon completion, Ezara draped a blanket over her pallid form. Uradden brushed her hair from her forehead and kissed it.

He leaned against the table to support his weight. Tears trickled from his eyes. Ezara knew better than to touch him. She distracted herself by counting the salty droplets that rained on Tera's ashen cheeks, bereaved.

"The Threads are far too strong," he whispered. "They bind you into their pattern. They'll cut you if you try to break free." Uradden took her hands in his. He held them against his face, cooling the hot surface of his skin. "How could Feyt think you could break them?" he asked with a trembling smile. "Your fingers are so small, they can't even wrap around my wrist. See?"

When Tera didn't answer, Uradden's eyes seemed to crack. Ezara went to her husband's side, lifted his arm across her shoulder, and teetered towards the door.

"Her hands were small, Ezara. Why did they have to be so small?"

M

Something happened when she tried to freeze the spider lily. Tera was struck by a great deal of pain.

It got colder, and colder, and colder.

"Oh." She looked at her hands, then her legs, and wriggled her toes and fingers.

The little sorceress created a sphere of light in the palm of her hand.

A dark shape moaned as the shadows were swept away.

She gasped, and her light almost snuffed out because of it. The figure didn't move. Tera inched closer after a minute. It stayed still. She took another set of wary steps.

"It's impossible," it croaked. The girl held her breath. "It can't be done. It can never be done."

Tera knelt on the grass, reached out, and stroked the silvery mane of the woman on the dirt.

She felt better when someone did this to her. She only hoped that it might work for this stranger.

"Who are you?" Tera asked gently. "Are you lost?"

The woman rose and turned to face the girl. Her skin was the color of polished obsidian. Platinum hair spilled over her shoulder like a great river of moonlight.

"A child." She chuckled roughly. "What in the world did you do to come here?"

Tera retracted her hand. Something about her was wrong, though she didn't know what made her think so.

"This looks like my sister's garden," she started carefully, "but it isn't."

The woman tilted her chin, and Tera couldn't help but be mesmerized by her face. It was slender, defined, and beautifully heart-wrenching.

"Your sister's garden," she repeated. Tera didn't know if she heard interest or irritation in her tone. She stiffly arranged herself into an upright position. "What makes you say that?"

"This place looks the same. Except it's different. Like where you are, there was a weird flower. It's called a–"

"Red spider lily," the woman finished for her. For a second, Tera thought she saw the ghost of a smile. "I suppose this is your sister's garden." The woman looked around. "Or it would have been."

"I don't get it."

The woman remained silent for a long time. "This is my prison," she answered finally. "To put it simply, there are two gardens. This one is what it looked like when I first came here, and the one you know is how it looks like in the future."

"So, this is the past?"

"You can think of it that way, yes," she replied. "Let's say that the spider lily in the garden you knew was the doorway to this place." The child's eyes lit up in understanding.

"Oh, I didn't know that," she muttered sheepishly. "I- I tried to freeze it."

This time, the woman did smile. "And why did you do that?"

"I was mad. My friend, Jade, said I'll hurt everyone I care about, and I didn't want to believe her."

"Why did she say that?"

"Because I was talking to my other friend Alyon, he's Jade's brother, and he was afraid of going back home. So I promised that I'd protect him, because that's what friends do, right?"

The woman nodded slowly. "Yes, that sounds about right."

"Well, he told me not to make promises I can't keep, and I told him I would, and that's when Jade comes over and says that stuff." Tera lowered her face into her arms. "And Alyon got mad at me and told me to go away."

This explained a great deal, but it still didn't offer as much information as she wanted.

"Tell me about Jade," she decided. "Why did she seem so confident?"

"Jade was sick. Alyon told me once that she was a cla... clear...ant?" She struggled to say the word. "Um, I think it's someone like... a fortune teller."

"A clairvoyant?"

"Yeah! That's it!"

"I see." The woman fell quiet. "And why freeze the spider lily? There were plenty of other flowers in the garden, I'm sure."

Tera scratched her head. "I- I don't... wait!" She remembered. "It has a story. About Destiny. Do you know it?"

"I'm familiar with the legend, yes."

"I thought it was so unfair. What Jade said reminded me of it, so I thought that, well. If I destroy the spider lily, I can get rid of Destiny, and then what Jade said wouldn't mean anything, and I can protect Alyon." She shuddered. "It... didn't work out that great."

"What's your name?"

"Tera. What's yours?"

"I'm called Feyt." Her smile disappeared. "I'll make this short, Tera. You died. The reason why your soul didn't pass on to Kharlaryyv, the Dead Realm, is because you tampered with the Threads. Each and every single thing has its own Thread. Clairvoyants like Jade can see their pattern. Through her, your Thread tried to cross into a place it shouldn't. Thus, you died. It is impossible to fight. I would know. I've spent centuries trying. No words can express how sorry I am. If the price weren't so high, then I'd gladly help you retur–"

"There's a way to go back?"

She frowned. "Forget it."

"No!" Tera stomped on the ground. "Yeah, I'm a kid. Yeah, I'm not that smart, and I don't get a lot of things, but I know that when you're dead, you don't have anything anymore! Please. Give me a chance."

Tera felt Feyt's colorless eyes rush over her body. Though she was standing and the woman was not, she felt impossibly small, but she held her gaze. A tiny part of her whispered that she had to. If she didn't, then she'd really lose everything.

"There will come a time when you'll regre–"

"There won't."

"You might want to die–"

"I'll live."

"The price is higher tha–"

"I'll pay it."

They stared at each other. Feyt didn't expect the girl to be so stubborn. It frustrated her. It made her angry. It lifted her spirits, and made her want to hope.

She was terrified, so terrified, at how much she wanted to hope. So she resorted to the last question she had left.

"How far will you go to defeat Destiny?"

"As far as I have to."

Tera's bright eyes drove into hers without hesitation. For a fraction of a second, Feyt did not see a child, but the woman she could become.

She fell into a fit of laughter. Tera had to keep herself from jumping back. The woman continued laughing so hard that tears rimmed her eyes. When Feyt stopped to catch her breath, she looked as frightened as a cornered mouse, and at the same time, elated. It was the most bizarre expression the girl had ever seen.

She wiped her eyes and rose to her knees, clasping Tera by her shoulders.

"You have your chance." Feyt ran her fingers down the girl's arms. "In return, all I ask is that you live." She held those tiny hands and stared at them, yearning to believe that they held the salvation she so desperately sought. "This is very likely the last time I'll try to unravel the Threads."

Dark, smoky tendrils wrapped around her fingers and streamed into the host. It was as though a great void had been planted, growing and growing. It threatened to tear Tera apart. The girl didn't scream or cry out. She couldn't find the voice to do so. The only thing she could do was latch onto her sense of self before it was taken over by the foreign presence. It was dark, and cold, and chillingly empty.

Feyt became less apparent. The garden fell into a dense fog. Tera closed her eyes. Was the world always so dark?

M

Damian was thankful for calm tides that evening. Unmooring was a simple matter. All that was left for him was to lock the wheel into place. The water would take care of the rest.

He stretched his arms along the side of the boat, relishing its texture. Already, he told himself, things were looking better. Things would be normal again. Then he glanced at the rigging.

Alyon hadn't moved off the ropes since they got on. The boy stared into the night with a listless expression, turning something in his hands. He'd lost a sister and a friend all in one night. Of course things wouldn't go back to normal. Who was he kidding?

The sailor lifted the top off a nearby barrel, groping the fruits within. After selecting two apricots, he made his way to the boy, hanging one over his shoulder.

"Eat it," he ordered. "You need something in your stomach before you get sick."

"Thanks," Alyon mumbled. The truth was that he didn't feel hungry. In fact, he felt like he was going to vomit.

They said nothing for the next few minutes as they ate. Their world consisted of rhythmic rocking, a whispering wind, and the musky scent of wood mingling with salty air.

Tera once said that when she closed her eyes, the world looked like it was covered in stars. Everything had a light. She'd only ever seen the night from Ezara's garden. It was a pretty place, but it didn't compare to this. Alyon imagined what her face would look like if she saw it for real. He could hear himself telling her to calm down while she pointed upwards, spinning in circles until she fell on the grass.

The key seared his skin with its chill. He squeezed it until his knuckles ran white.

"Alyon, what did she give you?"

"The key to her locket." He allowed his father to see it. Its ice wasn't melting. In fact, he was willing to bet it was growing colder.

"I know you want to have it near you," he admitted. "But keep in mind certain things, Alyon. They make it hard to move on. It might be better to put it away in a safe place instead."

Alyon knew he was going to say that. It was also why he'd come up with the perfect counterargument.

"You're right, but I feel like she's encouraging me somehow."

Damian's eyes shined with surprise. "Then I'll put it on a chain so you can wear it as a necklace."

The boy shook his head. "It's too important."

"So what do you want to do?"

His attention darted to their tackle box. "I want to use a fishing hook."

Realization dawned on Damian. Lyssa would have the sailor's hide if he agreed to the request, but at the same time, Damian felt he owed it to their son. He walked to the box and looked at the contents. He came across a delicate hook. Damian placed it in his hand along with some string and a rune stone.

"You cannot regret this, Alyon," he warned. "Once this is in, you can't take it out."

"I know."

"Hold this string. You'll tie the key after the hook is in place." He dropped the thread into his son's empty hand, stared at the remaining items, and took a deep breath.

Alyon watched the rune take on an orange tint. Heat distorted the air. It didn't take long before the metal began to change color.

"Come closer," Damian instructed. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face.

Alyon hissed when the hook pierced his ear.

"Go to the cabin and tie the key in." The boy took a shallow gasp of air, trying to ignore the stench of sizzling flesh. He made his way to a small dresser table and peered into the mirror. The place the hook impaled was a deep, scalding red. Some blood trickled down his neck, and he could make out two small bubbles where his skin was in direct contact with the metal.

He threaded the hook with trembling hands. After several fumbling attempts, he finished. It was odd to have a single earring, but he knew there was no way he could lose the key.

Alyon shouldn't have been so angry. He shouldn't have taken it out on her. Tears streamed down a reddened face.

"I killed her," he whispered.

Alyon didn't know what he expected to happen as soon as he said this, but he wished something did. If he'd been struck by lightning, it would've been better than the fact that nothing happened at all. The words just sat there, remnants of a conscience left to haunt his dreams.

M

Tera was sore and tired, but at least she knew for a fact that she was alive.

"Feyt?" she called. The girl shuffled upright, adjusting her eyes to the darkness. Feyt stood just beyond her reach. Her silver mane trailed to the floor. Since she was standing, Tera could get a better view of her.

Feyt wore a strange robe. It draped across her body like a dark violet ribbon.

"How do you feel?"

"Sleepy, but I'm okay."

Though she didn't give any indication to her thoughts, Feyt was relieved to hear this.

"There are some things you need to know, Tera," she began. The girl gave her full attention. "You are the only one who can see and hear me. If you wish to speak with me, you have to be absolutely certain you're alone."

"Okay."

"Another thing," Feyt added. "If I tell you to do something, it's in your best interests to listen to what I have to say." She stepped forward, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders. "You need to stay alive."

"You said that before. Why do you think I'll die so much?"

"It's a precaution. My priority is to make sure you reach adulthood. Perhaps then, we'll speak more of this." It was clear Tera wasn't convinced, but she didn't ask any further.

"I'm glad to see that Ezara managed to patch you up."

Tera and Feyt whirled around. A man stood there. His expression was guarded, but his eyes shined with evident relief. Tera pursed her lips at the familiarity of his voice.

"You saved me, right?" she checked. She beamed in his direction, bowing her head. "Thank you."

As he neared, she saw his disheveled brown hair and horribly deformed ears. Feyt stiffened.

"I know him," she muttered.

"You're a very polite girl." His eyes rested on her amulet, glowing on its chain. "That's your mother's locket, am I right?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes! How'd you know?"

"I was Kendra's friend from Lydia. My name is Daerin, what's yours?"

"Teraliel."

Feyt frowned deeply. Ahh, she thought, now I remember. Then the rest of the exchange registered. She glanced at the child, the locket in question, her hair, her eyes, her complexion, and felt sick. Tera looked to her with concern. Though she didn't know how, she knew the woman wasn't feeling well. It got worse the longer she stared at her.

Daerin pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket and doused it in fragrant oil. "Teraliel," he repeated. "I have a favor to ask you."

The child continued staring into the air. "Okay."

"Forgive me."

He pressed the damp cloth against her nose and mouth. She gasped, reaching upwards to tear his fingers from her face. It was a vain struggle. Daerin watched her thrash until her limbs finally fell at her sides, motionless.

He carefully tucked her into his arms, pulled his hood over his face, and darted down the hallway. It was uncommon for elves to abandon them, except for periods of grieving. When he first made his way up, he'd suspected the worst and continued for the chance to get a better look at Kendra's daughter. Feeling her heat against his skin, he was ecstatic.

They thought she was dead! He could hardly keep himself from grinning. Daerin grew more convinced by the second that this was a sign. She was his second chance. His second Kendra. One that would not betray him the way the first so cruelly did.

M

Ballard sat in the light of the campfire. He was never fond of nature. It was too dark, too green in his opinion. One never knew what lurked around them: snakes, diseases, beasts, or worse. Just thinking about it made the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

"I wish Daerin would tell us why we're in these Gods-forsaken woods."

Heron stared into the embers, prodding them with a long twig. "I have a feeling it has something to do with Kendra."

"She's dead," he reminded bluntly. "And last I checked, she was Lydia's hero, not one of some tree-hugging vipers. What would she have to do with this place?" He reached for his waterskin.

Heron seemed more focused than usual, a feat Ballard thought impossible. Firelight swam in his eyes.

"That rumor. The one about her marrying an elf. It's true."

Ballard spat out his drink. "Earlier, Daerin and I found a child. Her child." He closed his eyes. "She's her spitting image."

"You can't be serious."

"She had her locket." Heron made a face. "She's even the Hierophant's granddaughter, a half elf."

"Now you must be joking," he objected. "Elfborn?" Ballard leaned against the log behind him, appalled. "A child of two castes is bad enough, but a child of two worlds. She's a bastard of the worst kind, an abomination."

"It makes sense why Kendra would leave her here," Heron concluded. "This High City doesn't have the same stigma against races the way Lydia does. But–"

"But?"

He shook his head. "Daerin seemed more surprised than I did when we found her." Heron raised his hands. "You should have seen the way he looked, Ballard! The girl looks exactly like–"

"That?" Ballard pointed past him.

Daerin approached with the child in his arms, fast asleep.

"Daerin?" Heron pushed himself off the ground. "What the hell are you thinking? She belongs in Riverstone."

"She belongs to me," he corrected dangerously.

"Heron's got a point," Ballard disagreed. "What are you going to do with that girl? Raise her? You know life in Lydia will be hell itself if news ever got out that she's a half-elf."

Daerin glowered at him. "Then no one will find out. I'll make sure of it."

"She has family here!" Heron argued.

"Family?" Daerin raised an eyebrow. "They'll throw her away the second she toes the boundaries of this place."

"I want to know how you know so much about them," Heron muttered. He ignored the hand that Ballard placed on his arm in warning. "We call you our friend, Daerin. We're entitled to know, even if it is just a bit more than the pittance you're giving us now. At least tell us your goal in coming here."

A series of terse seconds went by. The fire cast long streaks against their forms, slowly dying off. Daerin's gaze softened. He removed his cloak, blanketing the sleeping child spread across his horse.

"Several years ago, in the same spot we found her." He nodded to the girl. "That grove wasn't a garden. The only way you knew you were in the right place was if you saw a red flower. It was the only thing that grew there at the time." He folded his arms across his broad chest, staring hard into the fire's final moments. "It's Kendra's resting place."

Heron and Ballard exchanged gloomy looks.

"It's as you say." Daerin smiled tiredly. "You two are my friends. That's why I wanted you to come here, to see her. She was my friend too." His eyes shone. "So please, believe what I tell you about this place. I know the risks in bringing her child to Lydia, but those possibilities aren't nearly as bad as the certainties awaiting her if she stays."

Daerin made a compelling argument. The girl could grow her hair out or wear a hood. There were many ways of hiding her heritage. They only needed to pick one.

Heron wasn't quite convinced. "If we take her and the elves find out, it could turn into a very dangerous situation."

"The elves think she's dead." Daerin dismissed the shocked looks on their faces. "Even I'm not entirely sure how. We owe it to Kendra to ensure she survives. What do you say, Heron?"

His friend regarded him warily. It didn't feel right to decide anyone's path in life, even a child's. He wasn't her parent or her guardian. He hadn't even known she existed until he saw her hours before. But Daerin, strange as he could be, and stranger he was in past months, had never led them astray.

"I leave the choice to you," he relented after serious thought. "But if you need help, rely on us."

"Thank you." The last of the fire went out. "Let's get out of here. The last thing we need is for others to notice our arrival."

Though he still had many questions, Heron allowed them to slide. The truth was that he believed the child belonged in Lydia, to Lydia. She was a treasure left behind for them to claim.

Ballard watched Daerin while they picked up camp. Their companion was careful not to disturb the girl. He plucked herbs from their immediate surroundings. All of them were medicinal, but in their raw form, were also mildly poisonous. He knew that, and he most certainly knew that Daerin did too. So why did he place them in the girl's blanket?

Ballard raised an eyebrow in a silent question. The response sent a chill down his spine. Daerin pressed a finger to his lips.

And smiled.

5: The Name Forsaken

"Children are all foreigners."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Summer sun beat down on Lydia's lone pier. Two boys sat on the edge of the stone appendage. At a glance, they were as different as different could be. One was as dark as mahogany wood, and the other a tan, gangly thing with curly black hair. The only trait they had in common was their status as outcasts.

"We've been waiting all spring for Damian to get back, and now it's summer!" the lighter one snapped. He had an unusually angry set of expressions. He glared at the water as if to evaporate it.

"Iago, calm down," the other one said. He pressed a hand to his forehead, scanning the waves for a sign. "He'll be here any day now."

"That's what you said the day before today, and the day before that."

"Since when did any day mean someday soon?"

Iago clapped his palm against the stone and swore at its heat. "Fine, stay here and rot into a grave, Elliot. I'm leaving."

"And where will you go?" Elliot asked, smiling faintly. He said nothing as Iago reclaimed his spot beside him. Elliot pulled a small satchel from his pocket and handed it over. "Mint snaps," he told him. "They'll keep you cool."

Iago studied the creations. Thin, cracker-like patties sat in his hands, smelling strongly of box mint. They were unexpectedly sweet. As Elliot promised, the sun no longer seemed quite so harsh after the first few bites.

"What kind of boy uses an oven?"

"The kind that looks like he's been in one," he joked, nodding to his dark complexion. Iago snickered in spite of himself. He caught the look Elliot gave him and stopped smiling.

"Hey, look!" Elliot followed Iago's line of sight. "You think that's him?"

The boy climbed atop a short pillar, surveying the horizon. "Either it's him or it's an idiot who doesn't realize how many rocks there are," he decided.

"And Alyon is there, right?" Iago's face lit up with anticipation.

"Yeah. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. A baker, a brat, and the bastard prince," he mused. "Together, we're the three biggest oddballs in Lydia. Like it or not, we're family now, Iago."

"Not by blood we aren't."

"We are through circumstance." He hopped off the pillar, relishing a large gust of wind.

"Elliot, why do we have a harbor if most people can't use it?"

"The rocks didn't always used to be here." He pointed upwards. A number of pillars jutted from the waves, towering towards the clouds above them. They supported a curved bridge connecting the mountains at either end.

"The rocks fell in there while the Horizon Span was being built," he explained. "Accidents had to happen when making something that big. Some people say there're more bodies in the water than there are stones."

They looked over the ledge of the pier, inspecting the seawater. Blue and gray tides slapped towards the shore.

"The Span is nice to look at," Iago began after a minute, "but I don't get why anyone would build it when it was such a dangerous thing to do. I mean, look at it!" He waved to the long columns. "What's the point?"

"It was built hundreds of years ago." Elliot shrugged. "All I know is that except for a few people like Damian, you can't go in and out by water. The Span and the mountains keep us protected on all sides."

"It stinks that we can only use the Trench, though." Iago nodded towards the southern end of the High City. "It's really inconvenient."

"It is if you look at it from that point of view. But it also means that Lydia is almost impossible to get into."

"Or out of."

M

"Hold on just a bit longer," Feyt breathed. "We're nearly there."

Tera's eyes darted in her direction, but the girl just looked through her. Her skin was jaundiced, and her pupils dilated. The obsidian woman placed a hand on the girl's cheek. She was burning.

Feyt came to understand her powerlessness. She swore to protect the girl with every ounce of her being, but it amounted to little. Being able to touch her appeared to be the limit of her abilities. She could only hope to Hope itself that the girl would survive.

"Look up," Daerin instructed.

The child snapped to attention at the sound of his voice.

Mountains stood before them. She had never seen mountains before. Her wonder was so great that for a few seconds, her pain was forgotten. Even more impressive was the passage through. It looked as if a giant axe had fallen from the sky and left a neat slice through the stone.

"That's the Trench," said Daerin. "Whoever controls the Trench, controls the High City. You'd do well to remember that." She looked away, shaking. "What is your name?"

"T-Tera–"

"No." He placed a finger beneath her chin, raising it until she had no choice but to face him. "From now on, your name is Silhouette."

"Daerin, wait!" Heron barked. "This is going too far. Kidnapping, poison, now this?"

"I thought I made it clear. I didn't steal her. I saved her." He nodded to the pouch of crushed herbs on his belt. "And the poison, I'll acknowledge I did it, but it's to build up her immunity. She won't die from these amounts."

"Immunity?" asked Heron. He threw a hand to the air. "What the hell does she need immunity for?! Look at her, Daerin!" He motioned to her face. "She's dying."

"Daerin," Ballard interrupted. "I think it's better that you let someone else handle her when we get home. I know you have the best intentions, but Heron has a point. She's traumatized."

Heron was willing to compromise on Ballard's suggestion if Daerin was. The girl's condition was declining rapidly. Each time he brought up the topic, he'd been pushed aside, evaded, dismissed, and he faced the harsh reality that his friend was dead to him.

"Who'll take care of her? Heron will run her back to Riverstone the second I turn my back," Daerin guessed, eyeing him mistrustfully. His grip on the girl grew tighter. "And you, Ballard, you don't know the first thing about children."

Ballard hit Heron hard on the back just as he opened his mouth to say something that would've damned them both. He knew how much their friend meant to him. They couldn't let Daerin go to do as he pleased out of concern for his safety, and when the child came into their care, the two men found that she needed their protection even more.

"We have other employees," Ballard began hopefully. "Surely you can find someone to at least nurse her back to health. Is that reasonable?"

It was impossible to determine what was going through Daerin's mind. Heron gazed at the little girl who had become a hostage. His pity for her at that moment was matched only by his self-loathing.

"Faodrin," he decided finally. "Faodrin will take care of her."

Ballard looked between his two companions, well aware of the tension. He cantered towards the Trench when he couldn't stand it any longer.

"The matter is settled. Let's get going. I refuse to sleep on dirt for another night."

The remaining men stared at one another, waiting for an accusation that wouldn't come. Heron was the first to look away, following in Ballard's footsteps. Daerin waited until they were nearly at the end of his field of vision, frowning deeper with every step they took.

He turned to the child. "Tera died in Riverstone," he said firmly. "Are you dead?"

She shook her head.

"Then you can't be her."

The girl looked to Feyt. Though she was still very much a stranger, she was also the last memento of her home. The child considered her something special; someone precious.

Feyt felt the warmth of her thoughts. The girl managed a tiny smile. The elf tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'll never leave you," Feyt coaxed.

"I know," she mouthed back.

M

"Hold steady now!"

Alyon gripped the ship's wheel as hard as he could.

Damian ran back and forth across the deck, always staring at the waves with fierce concentration. "We're nearly at the dock. Keep at it!"

Alyon obeyed, although he figured he would be missing a layer of skin by the time they moored the vessel.

His father was one of a handful of men who could risk, and succeed, in getting into and out of Lydia's harbor. There were a few reasons for this. He had nearly a lifetime of experience with sailing, for one. Alyon's mother often said that Damian spent more time on water than land, and the way he glided around a ship made anyone believe it.

Secondly, he was a mage, though few people knew this. He was nowhere near the level of Uradden or Ezara, or even Tera, Alyon admitted. His father learned what little he had patience for, and honed his minor skills to mastery. Like any other mage, he had a branch that came to him naturally.

Currents.

He forcefully smoothed and sliced the waves. Many people envied how he could twist a boat around the rocks, and among sea-inclined individuals, Damian was something of a legend.

"And... stop!" he yelled. The sailor threw his hands in the air. "We did it!"

Alyon's arms slid off the wheel. He hit his head against its rim and kept it there.

"Look down there! Seems we have a welcoming party."

Alyon hoped to see his mother waiting for them, but realized it couldn't be. No self-respecting noble would allow the queen to wait on a sailor. Though married, it wasn't acknowledged, and as a result, Alyon wasn't either. Bitter didn't even begin to explain what he felt towards those people.

The most hilarious part of it, though, was that Alyon didn't want to rule! Everyone saw him as a threat, and if he admitted it, then it was a one-way ticket to a cell. If he denied it, no one would believe him. He was caught in a game that began the moment aristocrats discovered whose child his mother was bearing. Lyssa needed to be hidden away until she had her children to guarantee that no one tried to poison her or greet her with some other kind of tragic accident.

And after that, for years, Alyon remembered being guarded with Jade. It was either their father or Kendra, nursing them, protecting them. When he was older, Kendra would continue to escort him through the palace, answering all of his questions, regardless of how terrible the answers sometimes were.

Why doesn't anybody look at me? Why do people say bad things about me? Where's Mom? How come she's not allowed to talk to me? Why do I have to call her 'queen' here and 'mom' at home?

Kendra was never aggravated, and Alyon saw her as something of a saint because of it.

He was always asking, always wondering.

She took him aside the first chance she had and gently, with a tenderness in her icy eyes that made them mysteriously loving, told him everything in a way he could understand.

"Alyon!"

"Elliot?" He looked for the dark boy, running towards the edge of the ship. "Elliot!"

Damian smiled at how his son's face lit up, grabbing a wooden plank. "Alyon, just wait for me to put this–"

Alyon jumped from the rigging and onto the pier before he could finish the sentence. He'd lecture him about how dangerous it was later. The sailor, instead, pursed his lips at the wooden plank.

Technically, he didn't need it, but after a moment's consideration, decided to use it anyway. If his own father had practiced what he preached, Damian knew he would've been far more inclined to listen to him. He needed to be the example, troublesome as it was.

He walked across to the landing and arched his brow at a third child he'd never seen before.

"I'm Iago," he introduced himself.

Elliot could see that Iago was having a hard time explaining why he was there. He intervened, "His father was a Shadow Blade. He had an accident months ago, so now Iago's staying with them, same as me."

None of them missed the flash of pain on his face.

Damian's heart sank. He put on a smile, reaching out to tousle the boy's hair. Iago jolted backwards, exposing the slant of his ears for a brief second. No one needed any explanation after seeing them.

"You're a half-elf?" Alyon asked.

Iago turned red. "I'm a stemling," he corrected. "A half-elf's child."

"Well, we're glad you're here." Damian changed the topic. "If you need anything at all, just ask Alyon or myself. We'd be happy to help you, Iago."

Iago looked between father and son warily, much like a wounded animal. He didn't know how to react to kindness, which spoke volumes. He was a pariah, the same as the rest of them. No one in Lydia would mourn if they happened to disappear.

The sailor squinted in the direction of the High City. "I'll go talk to Lyssa." He looked down. "You boys go straight to the guild. Take the long way around to be safe."

The three children watched him stride down the shore. The closer he got to the mainland, the straighter he stood. In Lydia, Damian was a different person. He didn't joke. He tried not to smile. He was firm and quiet, daring anyone to question him.

"So, how was Riverstone?" Elliot asked. "What were the elves like?"

"Quiet. I don't understand why they're so hated here. In a lot of ways, they're a lot more respectable than any noble I've met. They're nicer, that's for sure."

Iago snorted. "Maybe that's why. They're more human than humans will ever be."

The three of them exchanged looks. Smiles broke out on their faces.

Elliot stretched his arms behind his back. "By the way, Iago is kinda rough around the edges. Don't be too offended by him. You get used to it."

Iago glowered. Alyon saw what Elliot meant. He tried to soften his expression at their newest addition.

"It obviously hasn't been easy for you." Alyon studied the hurt look on his face before coming to a realization. "That accident your father had. It wasn't an accident, was it?"

"He protected an orphan," Iago said softly. "Some guard was trying to drag the kid away, so when my dad got into it he"–his hands balled into fists–"got thrown off the stairs. Guard said he slipped, so to him, I guess it was an accident."

Alyon frowned. "And your mother?"

"She died years ago. From what I hear, she was a good person, so it was probably another 'accident.'"

Elliot had an "I told you so" look on his face. He wasn't sure what to make of the situation, or how to be of help.

When they made it to the end of the pier, the three of them turned right. Past the sandy shore was a steep pass into the mountains that rimmed the High City. On the northern end of those mountains was a dense forest. Before traveling to Riverstone, Alyon thought it was the biggest wilderness, but it seemed pathetic by comparison.

"You two know how the Shadow Blades were founded, right?" Alyon wondered.

The boys shook their heads.

"How?" asked Iago.

"Lydia was built four hundred years ago. The Shadow Blades are just as old. They're the personal servants of the monarch. As Lydia grew bigger, different social classes started to appear. There were merchants and artisans, mages and artists," he listed. "The wealthiest formed the high caste, or the nobility. They're the ones who created the guards we're used to seeing in the city."

Elliot rubbed his chin. "Was there a power struggle?"

"Yup. Aristocrats swarmed the kings and queens. How could the Shadow Blades be servants if they were too busy trying to get the most attention? The highborn paid mercenaries to be guards, removing the need for Shadow Blades to stay so close. Now, most members are cripples, bastards, former criminals." Alyon chuckled to himself. "We're a guild of people who have nowhere else to go. I guess what I'm trying to say is"–he directed his gaze to Iago–"you're not alone."

"Thanks," he mumbled. "I'm glad you're going to be king someday."

Alyon couldn't even guess at what to say to that.

Elliot knew about Alyon's aversion to court. To rule a High City was to have the right to change it, but did that matter if its people wanted it to stay the same?

Queen Lyssa, Damian, Iago, and many Shadow Blades wanted Alyon to take up the crown. It was a heavy burden. Few recognized that even if he was king, he would have to change the very nature of Lydia. It was hard enough to open the hearts of those closest to you, Elliot thought. Yet they wanted Alyon to do that for thousands. He felt sorry for him.

"Iago, can you run ahead to tell them to open the gates? I'm sure a lot of people will be glad Damian arrived."

"I'm on it!"

They watched him dart ahead.

"Thanks," said Alyon when he was far enough. "I needed that."

"I know you did." Elliot studied him. There was something at the side of his head. "A key?"

"It's an earring. My friend gave it to me. Her name was Tera."

"Was?"

"She died." He smiled. It looked so fake. Alyon would soon become an expert at making them.

M

Faodrin tapped the drains with his wrench, listening to the clink, clink, clink, of the metal. He'd fixed several leaks and replaced other pieces, and if this last check was clean, his job would be finished.

Clink, clink, cli–

"Faodrin!"

Faodrin scrambled to grab the wrench before it clattered to the floor. He wiped the grease on his pants, stood up, and turned to find a face he hadn't seen in a very long time.

"Daerin!" He offered a friendly smile. "Welcome back to the Shroud."

The Shroud had a small front with several tables and chairs. Like all buildings in Lydia, it was made of stone. Daerin surveyed it carefully.

He spotted the grime on the young man's hands. "Pipes giving us trouble again?"

"Fixed them for good." Faodrin opened one of the hanging cupboards. He handed him a slip of paper. "I had to get new ones made at the smithy. I got him to do the work cheap if I designed a better forge." He rubbed his chin ponderingly. "There're some diagrams here too. I reconfigured the pipes to give us more space. Makes it less confusing in case we ever need to fix them up again," he added. "I hope you don't mind?"

The man arched his brow at the plans. Every line and measurement was recorded meticulously.

He raised his head at the boy, a tall well-built youth. He was a bit awkward around people, but he worked hard.

"Where're the others?" Daerin sorted the papers into a neat pile. "Taking the day off?"

"We had two families who needed our services today. They're off at the Rim, enshrining the urns."

"Good, good." The man nodded absently.

Faodrin caught a glimpse of something short and gold behind him. Daerin caught him looking.

"Wondering what this is?" he asked lightly. He looked over his shoulder. "Come out. Introduce yourself."

A small child walked from behind him. She kept her head down, only managing to meet Faodrin's eyes for a fraction of a second before staring hard at the floor again. "I'm Silhouette."

"She's your last assignment. You're her new brother," Daerin announced. "If she costs you anything, then jot it down. I'll see to the expenses."

He started walking up the stairs.

"D-Daerin! Daerin!" Faodrin called out.

He didn't stop moving. This left Faodrin alone with the child.

He ran a hand down his face. He reasoned that he could speak to Daerin some other time. Faodrin was willing to do many things for his work, but he never considered parenting part of his job description.

"Sorry."

The word was spoken so quietly he nearly missed it. The girl struggled to stand without shivering. Faodrin made up his mind to see to her first. He could worry about his duties later.

"Don't be sorry," he said, kneeling on the ground. He felt her forehead to find it burning. "You have a fever. How about we get that taken care of?"

"Okay." He heard the tears in her voice and watched droplets fall to the ground.

"Come on, up we go." He picked her up. "There's nothing to cry about. You're going to be fine. I'll take good care of you, I promise."

She stopped shaking. "You... promise?"

"I promise."

She stared at him for a while after he said this, almost as if debating whether she could believe him. At last, when it seemed she reached a decision, she closed her eyes and slept.

M

Just look ahead.

Damian chanted this phrase to himself like a mantra. He needed to stand tall and straight, to keep a measured, firm pace. He couldn't be told to stop. He shouldn't be slow enough to risk others coming near to taunt him.

The sailor walked a fine line between two evils. Lydia's palace was a nest of the worst kind of vipers.

Just look ahead.

The lives of some mere commoners were nothing in the face of a bored noble. They were talented, Damian gave them that. They could find faults where there were none, spinning webs of lies and deceit better than any spider he could name.

The people in the palace watched him like an uninvited guest. Damian knew at least half were thinking up scenarios he could die in. The other half already saw him as a corpse.

Just look ahead.

An arm blocked his path. "And here, I believed you finally turned tail and ran." The guard at the door sneered at him. "Why didn't you just stay away like a good little fishmonger?"

Damian looked straight ahead.

"I need to see the queen."

"Funny," he jeered. "I don't recall seeing your name on her appointments."

The doors slammed open. Several nobles that were watching stopped to bow at the waist.

Lyssa craned her head to the doorman. "These walls are thin. You'd be mindful of what you say in the future."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Additionally, Damian doesn't need permission to see me. Be sure to spread that around, won't you?"

He nodded.

"Now."

The guard scrambled to compose himself, bowing before rushing off. The queen curled her finger towards another nearby. He came forward.

"After he does as I say, place him under house arrest until further notice."

"But Your Majesty–"

She straightened her back. "It is my duty to act in the best interest of our home, which I remind you," she continued, scanning the hallway, "all of you, consists mostly of commoners. Disrespect one, you disrespect them all, and through them, you disrespect your queen." She glared at him until a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. "Disrespecting your queen is the same thing as disrespecting Lydia. Should anyone care to repeat this disgrace, or if news of it reaches my ears, I will strip you of your titles and all your holdings, personally. Lydia has no need of people who take it for granted, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," they said in unison.

She finally shut the doors behind her.

Damian let out a low whistle. Lyssa walked to him, her gown slinking against the tiled floor. Tight dark curls streamed down her back and shoulders, framing an olive face. Her green eyes, nearly identical to the eyes of her children, glittered like the coronet of emeralds across her brow.

"I've been working on the condescension, have you noticed?" she grinned. Lyssa embraced him fondly. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too, Lyssa."

"How're the children? And Jade, is she–"

Damian felt his mood sour. Why did women always start with the tough questions?

"She was sent away." He raised his hands before him like a shield. There was no telling how his wife was going to react. "Ezara couldn't find a way to help her other than sending her off to train."

The color drained from Lyssa's face.

She retreated to a nearby couch, collapsing into its cushions. She placed a hand on her head and stayed this way for a time.

"You made a good choice," she said finally. Lyssa wrung her hands together. "A power so strong that not even Ezara could do something about it?" she asked herself in disbelief. "That's unheard of."

"It's part of the reason we stayed so long to make sure," said Damian. He took a seat on an opposite chair. "When she's an adult, we can see her again. Arrangements will be made around that time to see how to manage that."

"Good." She sighed. "That's good. How did Alyon take it?"

Again, Damian grimaced. Two bad questions in a row. "He... ran away."

"What?!"

Damian placed her back in her seat. "Listen to me, will you? He ran off, but Tera found him and took him to see Jade one last time."

At this, Lyssa relaxed. "Tera, it's been quite some time since I heard anything about her. So you stayed with Jerrold, I take it? How is she?"

Three bad questions in a row. Damian should've listened when his father told him that women were bad for their health.

"She's dead, Lyssa."

Any cheerfulness she had dissipated into the air. She covered her mouth with one hand, shaking her head into it.

"Oh, poor Jerrold. How did it happen, Damian? How did she die?"

"Her magic went out of control. I tried to get Alyon out of there before he saw all of it." He frowned deeply. "He said he was fine, but that boy was never much of a liar. He took quite a liking to her, you know."

"No one should ever have to see someone you care for die," she agreed. Lyssa gazed at him. "How is he doing? Is he at the Shadow Blades now?"

"He should be. Elliot and a boy named Iago were waiting for us when we docked. Looks like he'll make another friend in the meantime." Damian scratched the side of his head. "It's too soon to say how he's faring. You can't see something like that at his age without being affected. He needs time. We all do."

She reached out and took his free hand in hers. His were rough and covered in calluses. Hers were smooth. She often did this when they were younger. It embarrassed him half to death. He was ashamed of her having to see what his life had done to him. She placed that palm against her cheek and held it there. This time, it was Damian's turn to smile.

Knock, knock.

"Enter!" Lyssa called.

Damian slouched in his chair like a child. Lyssa laughed at him.

"Pardon the interruption, Majesty, but we have news."

The sailor stood from his seat and looked towards their new arrivals. "Heron! Ballard! It's been ages!"

"Damian," Ballard said incredulously. "What side of the world did you fall off of?"

"Been in Riverstone for some catching up with old friends."

Heron and Ballard looked at each other. It was clear this wasn't what they were expecting to hear.

"What?" Damian prodded. "You're going to tell me you were there too?"

"Actually, yes. Daerin dragged us to visit Kendra's gravesite."

Lyssa came forward. Her expression conveyed her displeasure at the news.

"I wasn't aware he knew its location. It was kept strictly between Uradden, Ezara, Jerrold, and myself. He didn't take anything from the grave, did he?"

"No, no," Heron assured her. He paused, almost as if he was uncertain about what he was going to say next. "At the site, we found this little girl. Daerin identified her as Kendra's daughter. She had her amulet and some magical ability."

Damian and Lyssa gawked.

"Something went wrong and we rushed her to the Hierophant. Hours later, he comes back with the same girl–"

"He stole her body!" Damian roared. Lyssa stomped on his foot and held a finger to her lips for quiet.

Ballard shook his head frantically. "No, no! She was alive. She is alive," he insisted. "Somehow, the elves thought she was dead. We tried to reason with him to put her back, but he ended up taking her with us. She's here in Lydia."

Damian placed his hands on Ballard's shoulders and pinned him up against the wall. "You dragged her here? Do you realize what'll happen if people discover she's a half-elf? Heavens forbid she goes around saying she's Kendra's daughter. That's a death sentence in itself!"

"Daerin gave her a new name! We just convinced him to put her in someone else's care."

"Damian, release him," Lyssa said gently. He grudgingly complied. The queen faced Ballard. "Who is her guardian now?"

"A young man called Faodrin." He winced at the pain in his shoulders, giving Damian a dirty look.

Lyssa ignored them. "Can he be trusted?"

"Yes."

"The problem is Daerin himself," Heron reminded them. "The girl seems to be the only thing holding him together now. I hate to say this, but if we take her away, there's no telling what he'll do. We can't go around accusing him because every highborn prick and his mother will come swinging their swords at us for kidnapping Kendra's daughter. They'll likely demand that she be kept here regardless. Kendra was Lydia's hero and everyone here feels that her legacy is their own. Killing or restraining him is out of the question because of the law. Even if you vouch for us, Lyssa, people will start to ask questions about what you stand to lose by letting us die."

The queen pursed her lips at his argument.

"So you suggest," Damian began, "that we leave her in this Faodrin's care?"

Heron looked at him in earnest. "We can trust Faodrin, you have my word, but whenever she has something to do with Daerin in the future, either I or Ballard will be there to monitor her safety."

"I believe you," Lyssa spoke, solemn. "It's better this than her truly being dead, so let's all be thankful." The men agreed. "In the meantime, here's what is going to be done. Heron, Ballard, every fifteen days, you'll report on the child. Take turns, do it on off days. Anything for Daerin not to suspect there's a pattern in either one of you leaving. These reports will be left on the desk in my office at the Shadow Blades."

They nodded.

"Secondly, and Damian, this means you," Lyssa cautioned. "You cannot tell Jerrold or anyone in Riverstone of her whereabouts or the fact that she's alive. He'll come after her and leave a waste behind him. No one in Lydia will stand for it. When she's older, we'll see about sending her back on her own. If Ballard and Heron are still here, Daerin will assume she ran away. We can arrest him for keeping a girl against her will, and no one will think twice on it."

Damian swore under his breath, but relented. "I understand."

"Thank you." She looked at Heron. "What is her condition now?"

"She has a fever, but Faodrin's already at work on it."

"Heron," Ballard interrupted, "we should be heading back soon."

"Before you go, keep in mind that everything discussed here today is to be taken to our graves." She gave the men a solemn look, stressing the importance of what she was about to say. "In your reports, the girl's name, real and otherwise, must be blotted out. As of this second, Teraliel Illuminias no longer exists."

6: Civil Unrest

"Nothing you do for children is ever wasted. They seem not to notice us, hovering, averting our eyes, and they seldom offer thanks, but what we do for them is never wasted."

Garrison Keillor

Lyssa glared at her spindly legs, then surveyed the landscape behind her. She could've sworn the ascent was far easier last time.

The brambles of roots and tall evergreens appeared much more menacing than they once did.

The queen was convinced that if nature had the gift of speech, the woods would be laughing at her rancorously.

"Damnable steep Rim," she cursed. Lyssa trudged along, forswearing everything she knew about grace.

The Shadow Blade compound loomed before the woman. Its weathered walls stood triumphantly in the night air. Sconces shone bright, undeterred by the ivy snaking across the surface of the building.

The vast majority of the structure was culled into the mountains. It made her feel small and secure, like the child she used to be, running through its labyrinthine halls.

For the first time that day, Lyssa smiled.

The doors swung open almost as soon as she approached them. She listened to the bustling on the other end. Men and women were swearing at one another, fumbling to get into a presentable state. Lyssa winced at the sound of metal clattering to the ground, followed by more yelling. Two rows of guild members stood against either wall of the massive oaken doors. A metal visor rested crookedly on an elderly man nearest to her left. Spears and sections of dented armor lay scattered on the floor.

The group of people exchanged angry glances and mortified smiles.

"Don't mind me," she said. "Just get things in order and I'll pretend this never happened."

"Yes, Your–

"Please," she interrupted quickly. "I'm just Lyssa within these walls." She squared her shoulders. "But that's no excuse for the state of this post. Absolutely unacceptable. Have it in shape by the time I leave."

The man nodded. "Aye, Lyssa."

"Thank you." She started walking past them. "I'll be in my study. No one is to disturb me for the next hour."

Her office was at the top of the Queen's Keep. Just over a dozen narrow windows spanned its length, extending from the ground to its vaulted ceiling. From the slits, Lyssa could make out the star, the Horizon Span, and the vast Ralina Sea. Somewhere on that sea was her husband, sleeping on his beloved boat.

The last wall was home to two candelabras on either side of a tapestry of Dalani, the continent. This was a priceless artifact, granted to the first king of Lydia by the Shadow Blades. In those times, they were a prestigious order of civil servants.

Lyssa felt a pang of envy towards her ancestors. They had the chance to watch over a fresh Lydia, an honest Lydia. Those Shadow Blades were genuine fighters, trained in the arts of war for the sake of peace, and they were much loved for it.

"And now," she murmured sourly, eyeing the stairs past her door, "they can't even keep a post."

With that, she flung herself into her chair, disillusioned by the state of everything. That was when she spotted the letter.

Lyssa leaned forward, swiping the parchment clean off the table.

It was held together by a ball of wax. She plucked it off and set it to the side.

Entry 1

The girl recovered from her fever in Faodrin's care. Daerin continues to administer poison. She can resist its effects better than before, retaining basic movement and speech.

Daerin has stabilized emotionally since her arrival. He comes by to watch her while she sleeps. The state of his mental stability remains unknown.

Several customers spotted her half-breed status and were thrown out from the establishment after displaying aggressive behavior. Though shaken, the girl was physically unhurt.

Ballard was assigned her instructor in self-defense when news of the incident reached Daerin's ears.

The girl hesitates to speak to Ballard or myself. She avoids Daerin implicitly. The only one she seems to trust is Faodrin, though he remains confused about how to best care for her.

Her trauma is severe. I have my doubts that she'll recover. She has been spotted speaking to herself when alone.

- Heron

Lyssa set the paper down and inhaled deeply. Had she the chance, she'd chain Daerin in a cell and throw away the key, but she couldn't.

"Kendra, you know that I'd do anything to help more," Lyssa implored quietly. She weaved her fingers together to keep from tapping them. "Why did you die? Can't you see that Lydia is falling apart without you?"

"Mom?"

Alyon peered around the corner, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Lyssa tucked the letter into a drawer, motioning her son close. She tried to smooth out his hair. Alyon pulled back, agitated by her efforts.

Doing this allowed Lyssa to have a clear look at the key dangling from her son's ear. The ice remained as solid and as cold as the day she first saw it there. Absently, Lyssa wondered why the girl continued to fuel its magic. Was it a beacon for help?

Alyon covered the key after he caught his mother staring. Lyssa nodded to the chair closest to her. The boy took a seat.

"You can't sleep?" she asked. Lyssa pulled a new slip of paper before her, dabbing her pen in ink.

"Yeah."

"You know how to speak better than that, Alyon."

He rolled his eyes. "I meant yes."

Not once did she remove her eyes from her work, drawing a set of glyphs in a strange sequence. "Is your foresight giving you trouble?"

"Yes."

His mother set her pen aside, placing the tips of her fingers on the edge of her work. The facets of her eyes meshed together like gears.

A glass appeared on the paper. Alyon blinked. Lyssa saw his stunned expression and grinned secretly.

"I take it you've never seen a rune constructed before, have you?" she queried, lifting the cup and swishing its dark contents.

"I didn't know you knew magic. I thought you're either born with it or don't have it at all."

"There are many ways to acquire or use magic, Alyon. Through study, chants, hymns, rituals," she listed them off quickly. "There are probably as many ways to go about it as there are mages themselves. But what separates those that dabble in the craft, like your father and myself, are the mages who can extend enchantments." Her eyes flicked towards the key. "It's said that the mark of the greatest mages are those who can extend the life of even the simplest of spells past their death."

His hand trailed to the frozen trinket.

Lyssa leaned over and cupped her son's face in her hands, staring him in the cursed eyes he inherited from her. "Listen to me, and remember what I'm about to tell you, Alyon. The coming times will be hard ones in Lydia. Always remember the promises made to you." Lyssa darted a glance at the drawer with Heron's report. "And regardless of how people change, what masks they wear, and what deeds they have done, somewhere, they are always the same people we once knew. Understand?"

"Yes, Mom."

Lyssa could tell that her words had only served to baffle the boy. She knew they would, but she continued to pray that they would stay with him. The queen took the goblet from the table and handed it over.

"Drink this." She watched him sniff it. "It's mostly wine. It'll slow things down enough to fall asleep. If your clairvoyance was anything like mine, then it will get easier as you grow older. Bear with it for now."

He put the glass to his lips and drank it down to the last drop. He grimaced. Lyssa kissed his forehead.

"Go to bed. And if you happen to see your father sometime tomorrow, tell him not to run off to his boat each night."

Lyssa gazed outside once he shut the door behind him. Did Tera mean to accomplish something by giving Alyon the key?

Lyssa shook her head, dispelling the notion. What she needed wasn't to worry about the children, but the city. Guards were undermining her orders behind closed doors. Nobles pretended not to hear her when she spoke to them from a distance. Commoners developed a vicious rumor that she was the one responsible for Kendra's death, and of all the odd things, there was a sudden influx in requests to form guilds.

The only good in her present circumstance was that Jade, and her monstrous powers, were out of Lydia. No doubt Ezara and Uradden noticed something highly suspicious about sending the girl down to them. The ability to see snippets of the future was common enough, but seeing it to her extent was not, yet Lyssa took that discovery in stride.

But when she stumbled upon her daughter watching a child jump off a cliff to their death, simply smiling as she usually did, Lyssa realized that something was terribly wrong.

"Are you alright?!"

"Yes, Mom."

"Why didn't you stop him?"

"Because I wanted him to jump."

The look her daughter had given her would remain in her mind from that day forward, as innocent and excited as a child at play.

Though she hadn't the faintest clue as to how she'd done it, the result was the same. Jade had the ability to hold control over others. This, coupled with her foresight, made her the most dangerous person alive.

What would happen to Jade was the least of her concerns.

It was what she would do to everyone else that worried her.

As Lyssa stood alone in her office, facing the windows and allowing the drafts to pour over her tired limbs, she wondered whether these were the winds of change, or the premonitions of a storm.

M

Faodrin dropped the coins into the vendor's palm and lifted the woven basket off the windowsill.

"Thanks for agreeing to sell these things, even though it's so late."

The old man tipped his hat, exposing a round and bulbous head. "I'd rather an honest customer visit me at the most ungodly hours than a hundred trying to rob me at noonday." His mustache bristled as he laughed. "They think just because I'm old, I don't know how to count."

"I'd have thought your cheapskate ways would be known by half the High City by now."

"I knew I liked you for a reason, Faodrin." He grinned broadly. "Smart enough not to play me for a fool, and that's already more common sense than men twice your age can boast." The shopkeeper leaned out his window and squinted at the night sky. "You'd best get going. It looks like rain."

Faodrin waved with his items in hand. "My regards to your wife. Tell her I'm sorry for keeping you out this late."

"Don't tell her I'm thanking you for the excuse!"

Faodrin chuckled and waved until the vendor disappeared from view, taking a deep breath once he was alone.

It wasn't often that Faodrin had the opportunity to take his time and walk through the streets. There was almost always work to be done, and that meant he had to do it. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy most of what he did, but he enjoyed having time to himself; time to think over his life and what to do with it. The best place to do this was on a dark street.

Lydia was a vast city built in an enormous basin. There were twenty-two terraces. Aside from the top two tiers, the city had no grass, carved of solid stone. The buildings were rectangular and perfectly smooth on every side, though frescos, sculptures, and fountains were common exceptions to their facades. Every rooftop had a well and a garden. Ivy spanned entire streets like canopies in some areas. What's more, streetlamps didn't use candles or disks of oil to stay lit, but gas.

Public baths, man-made brooks and artful bridges could be found everywhere. Fresh water was abundant. It poured from the Waterglass Falls off the western side of the Rim, under the library for which it was named, and distributed to every building through an underground aqueduct. The High City was a singular engineering marvel, and Faodrin wanted to improve upon them until it reached a whole new level of perfection.

He was nearing the Shroud, Daerin's business, when he spotted a tuft of gold hair in one of the windows. Silhouette's head peeked from the sill and looked at him, then at the package in his arms. He waved his hand for her to pop back inside.

The bells jingled when he walked in and set the bags on the counter. He tucked most of his purchases in the cupboards. There were loaves of bread, preserves, fresh sheets of parchment, and a grinding stone.

After a second's consideration, Faodrin swiped a bun and made his way up the stairs. There were only three rooms on that floor. All of them were large and mostly unused. Ballard and Heron shared one at the farthest end with a few other employees. Daerin slept somewhere in the basement, and Faodrin's was closest to the landing platform. It doubled as his workspace for the longest time, and was home to his little 'sister' as well.

Silhouette opened the door for him. He handed her the bun and took his shoes off. The little girl said nothing while she nibbled on the loaf, resembling a squirrel.

He washed his face, changed his shirt, straightened the covers, and watched her polish off the remainder of the bun in her hands. He gave her a wet towel to clean her fingers, and then knelt down to rub her face. Her expression scrunched as he wiped the crumbs around her mouth. Faodrin tucked her hair behind her ears. She covered them up.

He uncovered them again. "I already know what your ears look like," he reminded her.

She left them alone. "Why do people hate me?".

"They don't hate you." Faodrin sat down on the floor while she remained on the bed. "They hate elves. It's always been that way, and no one ever really questioned it." The young man lifted a finger and instructed, "Never be afraid to ask questions. Most people don't, and that leads to misunderstandings."

Silhouette peered at him curiously. "Do people ever get mad at you for asking questions?"

"Sometimes," he confessed. "That's usually because they don't have the answers, they can't tell you, or they think you won't like what they'll have to say. If you ask around enough, you might even come across some secrets."

"Like what?"

Faodrin smirked. "Like... you did something embarrassing, or something terrible. In fact, I think I might have come across a secret pretty recently."

Silhouette scooted closer. "Tell me!"

"I don't know." He feigned hesitation. "It'll involve asking you a question."

"Okay."

He rested his finger on her amulet. "Who gave this to you?"

"My father."

"Whose was it originally?"

"My mother's."

His navy eyes locked on hers. "Your mother was Kendra Illuminias, wasn't she?"

Terror tore across her face.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I won't tell anyone." The man stared at the door. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out the herbs Daerin's been giving you weren't medicine. And bringing a half-elf into Lydia isn't something a sane man would do."

"How?"

"You've been wearing that necklace for everyone to see. I'm surprised no one said anything about it." Faodrin propped his arm on the bed. "I wondered why it looked familiar, and then I remembered. There's a statue of Kendra in the heart of the city. She's wearing it too." He lifted the amulet by its chain. "Keep this under your shirt. It's dangerous to keep it out."

Silhouette took the advice. "You're not going to tell Daerin?"

"I'm not going to tell Daerin."

"Why are you helping me?"

He reached out to touch the sides of her face. She flinched when he pulled her towards him, expecting to be struck.

Faodrin kissed her forehead. "I'm your brother now," he answered. "The whole world can turn against you, but I'll always be there. Count on that."

M

Feyt stood at the edge of the room. She didn't know if she could trust Faodrin, and she wasn't about to place her faith in him for a few pretty words.

"Feyt?" Silhouette called out. The girl waited until her guardian had fallen asleep. She rustled the covers to test the depths of his slumber. When he didn't get up, she climbed off the edge of the bed. "Feyt, I'm going outside."

"I forbid it."

The girl gave her a challenging look. "I'm going." Silhouette realized by then that Feyt was powerless to stop her.

The dark woman sighed, aggravated. "Why?"

Silhouette crept out the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The girl went to the storage room and stared at the articles of food. Feyt had to ask, "What are you doing?"

"Looking for potatoes."

Feyt pointed to a large sack on her left. The child ran for it.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

She removed the spuds, handful by handful. When the bag was half empty, Silhouette grew impatient and tugged the sack from the bottom. Potatoes rolled across the floor.

"And what do you intend to do with them?"

"Nothing," she said, and snatched the sack off the floor. The child scrutinized it. "Do you see anything to cut with up there?"

Feyt spotted a set of scissors and lifted the girl so she could grab them. Silhouette made three slits, one at the bottom and two adjacent. Then she wriggled her head and arms through the holes.

"You... want to play?"

"No!" Silhouette snapped. The animated potato sack sneaked through the hall and out the back door, darting glances down each side of the alley. "I'm looking for a spot."

"What kind of spot?"

"A hiding spot."

"For?"

"Me."

She asked herself if the girl was, despite her denial, playing some sort of game, but there was no use pondering it. Feyt was forced to walk with the child. She focused on scanning the streets. Other than a few shapes in the distance, a stray cat, and compost heaps, there was nothing particularly sinister about the city at a glance.

"What sort of hiding place are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find a suitable one," the woman suggested. "I've been in Lydia before."

Silhouette paused beside a crate nearly as tall as she was, facing her exotic guardian with renewed interest.

"You've been here?" she repeated. Feyt tilted her head forward. The girl placed a hand at the base of her chin, the other clasped tightly around the necklace beneath her garb. "I'm looking for a big place. A place where no one can find me no matter how hard they looked." Her eyes flicked up hopefully. "Do you know a place like that?"

"The only one that comes to mind is the aqueducts." Feyt pointed downwards. "They're underground, though, and it's likely that most entrances I know have already been sealed shut."

"What are aqueducts?"

"Do you hear that rushing sound?"

"Yes."

"Those are the Waterglass Falls," she explained. "Long ago, drains were made in the lake they poured into, and these drains lead to the aqueducts beneath Lydia. They distribute fresh water to the city."

Silhouette dropped to her knees and pressed herself flat against the road, her eyes squeezed tight in concentration. Feyt mused to herself that the girl really did pass for a sack of potatoes, only with little feet and a mop of gold hair.

"What are you doing?"

"Listening!" The child began to crawl on hands and knees.

"Listening for?"

"The water," Silhouette responded. "If the aqueducts are that big, and they carry that much water, you should be able to hear them, right? Water needs to collect somewhere. Maybe there's a place to get inside where it doesn't flow so loudly."

The answer astonished Feyt. She had been a fool to mistake Silhouette for a dense child. Her intuition and comprehensive skills were far advanced for her age. She didn't need to think. She simply did.

A smile tugged at the woman's lips.

"I don't know about this, Brom. A guild? Run by highborn?"

Silhouette and Feyt jolted at the new voice. The woman beckoned towards a trash heap. The child wedged herself between it and the wall behind her. Feyt placed a hand on her head, a mute signal that the sign was not yet clear.

Two men turned into the alley. Both were hooded.

"I know it sounds crazy," the other one conceded, "but look at the way things are going. The queen is practically a prisoner of her own parliament! They're the ones destroying Lydia. The days when a crown on your head meant something are long gone. Money rules this world and they're the ones hoarding it."

His companion rubbed his face, obviously not convinced. "I'll agree to that much. Lyssa can't do shit from her Ivory Tower. Kendra was the only one protecting her from her own senate. Doesn't that make a group like this, run by one of them, more suspicious?"

"Do you think all highborn are thieves, and all commoners content with cowering to them?" Brom shot back, agitated. "There are people with common sense and a shred of decency everywhere. The problem is how to find them among the idiots they're surrounded by! Trouble is, lots of guilds like this are being made, and right now, every aristocrat and their mother is vying for support, especially from lower castes. We have the numbers they need, and they'll use us."

The other man pushed himself off the wall and threw a hand to the air. "So you know they're using you! Why join them?"

"Because Lydia has been everything to me for generations. And it hurts to see it heading towards its end thanks to some pricks with a couple more coins in their pockets than the rest of us. No one will stand up for commoners now that Kendra is gone. Don't we have the right to stand up for ourselves?"

Silence.

"I'm not saying that, Brom." His shoulders slumped. "So it's come to this, has it? A coup on the queen."

"Not the queen," he objected. "A coup on corruption." Brom folded his arms across his chest. "Truthfully, I have no idea who's going to end up on top, but one thing's for sure. Highborn will think twice before killing our families and robbing the coins we use to put food on our tables."

"Any idea when this mess will begin?"

"Maybe a month, maybe less. Everyone in the city is picking sides. When you see fights breaking out in broad daylight, I expect that's when we'll know where it all starts."

Silhouette listened to the sound of their fading footsteps. Feyt lifted her hand off her head. She made a small sound of struggle and wriggled her way out.

The woman whose skin was darker than night had somehow gone pale. A faint blue tint illuminated her face and was the only thing that suggested how grave she felt. Reaching out with her senses, Silhouette felt a powerful dread.

Feyt gave her a very cold and dangerous look. "Don't pry at me."

Silhouette fidgeted with her mother's locket, rubbing her thumb over the moonstone.

"Was my mother an important person?" she asked quietly. Silhouette didn't expect to be answered. Adults tended to ignore children when they were angry.

Feyt placed a shielding hand on her shoulder, squeezing it nearly to the point of pain. The hand trembled, and something told Silhouette that it wasn't out of irritation, but fear.

"Your mother was the soul of this city." Feyt nudged her home. "And Lyssa, its heart. You may someday come to find that a body without a soul has little value. Kendra was a beautiful dream that everyone shared. And when she died, everyone's dreams, everyone's souls, died with her."

Silhouette entered the shop and was already in the pantry. She started to pile all of the potatoes back into the place she found them. She was sure Feyt was standing nearby with the same troubled look on her eternally sad face.

"Souls and dreams are the same thing?" the child asked.

"Do you dream at night, Silhouette?"

"Yes."

"Did they comfort you after Daerin took everything you knew?"

You will only hurt everyone you'll ever care about.

She clamped her hands over her ears, but Jade's words wouldn't get out of her head.

It was coming true. They were coming true.

"Silhouette?" Feyt placed a hand on her head, and the girl jumped backwards, shuddering. The woman felt remorse. She knelt and sighed, about as comfortable as she could get with giving an apology.

"Yes." The girl rubbed her nose with her sleeve. "Dreams make me feel better."

"And what if you didn't have them?"

Her eyes lit up with understanding at the point Feyt had been trying to make. "I would," Silhouette said between sniffles, "wanna die."

"Exactly."

"But I won't," she went on. "Just because my dreams are gone, all I have to do is find new ones. I think there's more to life than, than just living for myself. Can't I live for others?"

Feyt's mouth parted in surprise. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the girl had little clue to the gravity of the matters they were speaking of, but it caught her off guard that she managed to say something so profound on the topic. What's more, she wasn't wrong.

"Off to bed," Feyt ushered. "The next few nights, if you'd let me, I'll check the entrances to the aqueducts and see if one can still be accessed. You need to get some sleep."

The offer brightened her up. Silhouette threw her arms around the woman's waist and squeezed. Affection oozed from this tiny form. Being with the girl was filled with trials, but moments such as those, where the love in that little heart was nearly enough to suffocate her, somehow made it worth the effort.

Just as Feyt tried to reach out, Silhouette tore away. She bowed clumsily and rushed out so fast that she smacked her head against the doorframe.

Feyt stayed on the floor trying to register all that had happened. News of a civil war in Lydia, Silhouette's hunt for a safe house, newfound hope and the revelation of her own shortsightedness.

Time and experience had proven that the deal she made with Silhouette and those before her had led to failure and ruin. None were strong enough to pull apart the Threads of Fate's great Tapestry. They had been farmers, merchants, rulers, youths, elders, mothers, fathers, and yes, even children, though none quite as little as the one with her. Most stumbled upon the cruel truth of their existences on accident. A few were foolish enough to seek her out on their own volition. They had failed her time and time again.

Her greatest hopes were stashed with Kendra. The woman was so determined that it charged her with incredible charisma; a torch, where people around her were moths by comparison. Feyt believed that she was the only one who could save her from her own wretched existence. When she died, that hope died with her, as it had with so many countless others.

Feyt came to understand that a new spark of that same fire had been planted in her child. She had been drawn to it, seduced by its purity, and it occurred to Feyt that the reason she failed was not because Kendra was less of a hero than she appeared to be, but that perhaps she didn't need a hero at all.

Feyt glimpsed old memories. The great and terrible sin that damned her to this day. It was the reason she was locked away, mocked by a flower that served as a pitiful echo of all the horrible things she had done and that were done because of her.

Silhouette needed to be corrupted, and perhaps then, succeed where every other would-be hero had failed.

Feyt did not need a martyr, but a monster.

7: Of Priests and Old Men

"From the solemn gloom of the temple, children run out to sit in the dust. God watches them play and forgets the priest."

Rabindranath Tagore

Abbot Ekarius stood before his congregation. Priests sat on their knees, heads bowed towards the sand. The children among them followed this example to varying degrees of success. Ekarius caught many of their eyes wandering the room.

They shifted their weight from side to side, their legs numb, in pain, or both. Their complaints were more coherent through their posture than they could ever be aloud. Someday, these same youths would have a choice presented to them: remain in the service of the monastery or become one of many artisans on the Isle. While many bemoaned life in the temple, most would choose to stay when that time came.

His two attendants looked to him then. It was time for the closing.

Ekarius stepped to the heart of the room. Those nearest lifted their heads to steal glances. The elf was as golden as the sand around them, a lithe creature whose every movement was more akin to a cat than a man. Only his eyes, a curious shade of reddish-brown, looked to be fashioned from the clay of the earth. At times, this was the only feature that suggested he was of the same world as the others.

"Now, at this hour, before the light of noonday and the enigmatic night, the sand shifts but one direction."

"As should we," the others answered in unison.

"We are grains in the passage of Time, each with its own rising and setting of the sun. The hourglass moves but one direction."

"As should we."

Ekarius raised his hands, their palms facing towards the vaulted ceiling.

"The Past contains much wisdom, but to linger in it is folly. The Future is home to hope and apprehension both. But it is the Present, the falling of the grains within the glass, the river of Time in motion, where the wisdom and hope comingle in us all, that dictates the Future unknown, and the Past yet unmade. Time is the river that flows but one direction."

"As should we."

His hands fell to his sides. The congregation rose to its feet, starting from him and ebbing outwards like a great tide. The elf smiled at the little ones who gazed back at him, captivated by his appearance; humanoid, yet fantastical. He waved amicably as their parents shuffled them out of the chamber, leaving him with his two aides.

"You did well, Abbot," said Tamil. Ekarius had known the dark-skinned man since he was an infant. Though wrinkled and withered with age, the Abbot could see his unchanging sincerity. There was great tenderness in his brown eyes, glistening as radiantly as his silvered hair.

"Hendrick," said the Abbot to his other attendant, "I didn't see your eldest at the service."

The man turned pink. He stroked his thick beard and looked in the other direction. "Crimson's been studying in the scriptorium. I told her to come, but it seems she lost track of time, again."

A low, rumbling laugh emanated from Tamil. "She takes after her father then. Oh, I remember the days when I dragged you into the halls for skipping sermons. How pleased you were, thinking you outwitted a score of old men," he reminisced.

Hendrick grew redder, but managed a smile with unexpected grace. "You did me a great good, though I didn't see it that way at the time. This is why I hope to spare my daughter the same fate by teaching her that lesson sooner than I learned it."

"Perhaps I should go speak to her then?" suggested Ekarius.

"It would be an honor."

"In the meantime, why don't you leave early? Though your wife is understanding of your duties, I can't help but feel she's angry with me at the moment, keeping you so late into the night."

"Selene knows it's a demanding job, but she would be glad to see me home before the children are put in bed. Thank you, Abbot."

"Off you go then." The High Priest watched him exit with a smirk.

"This isn't like you, old friend," Tamil observed. "Why do you want to deal with the girl alone?"

Ekarius remained with his back facing him. Tamil could only see his sandy-colored hair as he replied, "She's been doing more than reading." He angled towards him. "Haven't you sensed it?"

"She's the–"

"Yes," he interjected quickly. "Let's keep it quiet for now."

"Forgive me."

"You're not at fault. Your work has taken its toll. Retire for the night. I'll send someone to wake you for the morning service."

"But the one at midnight–"

"Only the senior priests can devote themselves to such a thing," Ekarius reminded him. "And they are far fewer in number. I can handle that much on my own. Please, Tamil, rest. I beg of you."

M

Ekarius underestimated Crimson.

An hour passed, and in that time, he searched the scriptorium, chapel, bedrooms, stables, and outlying grounds. He succeeded in sullying his robes in mud and grass, but had yet to find the girl. The Abbot stood at the threshold of his chambers. He could feel faint distortions in the air, such subtle things that only the most trained individuals could sense. They spread out in every direction, making it impossible to track the source, almost as if being amplified.

The elf headed towards the heart of the monastery, its bell tower. For centuries, acolytes served terms tugging on ropes that swung from the massive bronze instruments. After these years of service had been completed, the young monks were forbidden to enter the room again, with the exception of the Abbot.

The youths were greatly startled by the intrusion.

"Have you seen Father Hendrick's eldest?" he asked.

The boys and girls exchanged questions with their eyes until one pointed towards a staircase at the far end of the room.

It wrapped around the inner perimeter twice over. By the time he reached the top, he was out of breath.

Wide wooden planks stretched across with narrow slits in between them, leaving just enough room for thick ropes to dangle down below.

Beneath the largest of the bells sat the small shape Ekarius had been looking for. The girl was sprawled out on the wood, surrounded by books so thick she must have spent weeks collecting them.

"Crimson."

She scrambled backwards at the sound of her name. A veil of terror fell over her face when she registered who stood before her. It grew even more pronounced when she realized she had not only missed the recent service, but lost track of time as well.

"I'm not going to scold you, and neither are your parents," the elf reassured her. The child's diminutive frame sagged in relief. Ekarius crouched, eyeing the books. "You've been busy."

Her face went as red as her namesake.

For being the oldest child of the many in her family, Crimson was notoriously shy. The times she spoke were few and far between. For all her father's prominence, she was seldom in the public eye.

"Who taught you how to read these?"

"No one," she answered softly.

"Oh?" He tugged at the end of her long braid playfully. "Did you realize you've been using magic?" She gasped, anticipating severe punishment. Though it was a bit cruel, Ekarius couldn't help but laugh at this response. "I'm not here to scold you, child," he pledged. "I'm here to congratulate you."

Ekarius reached into his robe and produced a small athame. Its hilt was its only decorative feature, depicting an inverted triangle meant to represent an hourglass. He rolled up one sleeve and slashed the skin on his arm.

"Don't scream," he told the girl, who gaped at the blood beading on the surface. "Read from the passage at the top of the book closest to you," he instructed. "I want you to concentrate on the wound. Focus on it as hard as you can."

Crimson did as he asked. She forced herself to stare at the blood running to the base of his wrist. Ekarius didn't seem bothered by it. He sat patiently.

The skin knit back together.

He humored her by making a show of turning his arm this way and that. The blood was still wet, but the wound was gone. Only a hairline scar suggested he'd been cut at all.

"Sufficient," he mused, feigning nonchalance. "Now, read from this book." He brought another one of the tomes closer to her, flipped several of the pages, and rested his finger on a passage. "Focus on the scar."

Crimson pulled the book onto her lap and read quietly to herself, glancing between the paper and the fissure constantly.

To her dismay, the wound reopened. She faltered.

"Keep going," Ekarius urged.

Picking up where she left off, Crimson continued to watch as the cut reopened. It took some time before she registered that the blood wasn't falling out, but going back in. She didn't stop reading until every last drop of fluid ran back from whence it came. The skin zipped together neatly.

Ekarius couldn't help expressing his pleasure at the results. "Many of us felt the temporal distortions, but hadn't the faintest clue to what was causing them!" He chuckled under his breath, pointing at the inside of the giant bell above them. "This was echoing magic throughout the island. It was so faint –it had half of us convinced we were mad."

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't know it was magic."

"That's because it is, but it isn't."

Crimson sat dumbfounded. She looked between the books, his arm, his smile, and back again. "Then how?"

"The words written in these pages are not magical. Rather, they're ideas, theories. If the reader is of a mind to understand their essence, then they can channel it."

"Is that how magic works?"

"There are many ways to use magic, Crimson. For some, it comes from within, like water bubbling up from a spring. For others, it's like a mountain they must climb to master. For you, it's a tree that obtains its strength from the earth below. Yours is a gift that must be nourished. Be strong of mind and stronger of heart and that tree will grow."

She glanced at the books on the floor, running her hands over their pages with veneration. Crimson already respected the priests, but there was something more. They had the ability to reverse Time itself. They had the power to heal, to save lives.

"Crimson, I don't think I need to tell you this, but I will anyway." Ekarius placed his hand over hers, squeezing it to emphasize the gravity of what he intended to say. "Time is to be manipulated only for the sake of a precious few. Healing isn't always as simple. It leaves scars. At times, those scars are necessary reminders."

"Yes, Abbot."

He relinquished her hand, placing his palm over her heart. "If ever there is something I want you to remember, it will be these next few words I say. Swear to me now that you will never forget them."

"I promise."

"It is not our privilege, but our duty to be human."

M

Silhouette felt very lucky today.

First, Feyt found an entrance to the aqueducts, and then Faodrin decided to stay overnight at a shop on the other side of the city to help its owner with repairs. It was almost as if something was asking her to go exploring. It made her nervous.

But it thrilled her so much more.

"Silhouette," said Feyt, after making certain that everyone else was asleep, "come out the back. I'll be in the alley."

The girl nodded. As a precaution, she left a pile of linens beneath her blanket. To make the dummy more convincing, she acquired some straw from the stables and fanned it across her pillow before meeting Feyt outside.

"Feyt, I got a question."

"Ask."

"What made you look so," she wondered, searching for the right word, "different?"

Feyt looked down at the tiny figure to catch it raising its arm perpendicular to her own, studying the contrast between peachy flesh and blackness. "A disease."

"You're sick?"

Ancient memories ran through her mind. Feyt understood the gist of what happened, but could only see snippets at a time. A strange new place, a terrible sickness, bizarre mutations, a vast empire; her unforgiveable mistake.

"I'm not sick," she assured her. "Long ago, there was a deadly plague that swept throughout the world. Everyone was infected. Most people died."

"The ones who lived looked like you?"

Feyt smirked. "Yes and no. The ones who lived were given fantastic power. You know that power by another name: Magic." She paused at the sudden burst of excitement she sensed. "The first generation of mages was far stronger than the ones today. When a mage understands their abilities and hones their craft, they'll take on characteristics of their powers. Mine are Destiny and Darkness."

"How do they work?"

"Do these streets look dark to you?" They walked through a series of alleys, the moon ever present between the shadows. It never occurred to Silhouette that nighttime wasn't really dark.

"Well, I can see," she replied. "If people call this dark, then isn't your magic kind of, uhm, useless?" She looked up meaningfully. "No offense."

"None taken." Feyt chuckled. "Create a small light in your hands. Perhaps then, I can explain it better."

Silhouette slowed her pace, hugging her arms closer to her frame.

"I used to see the lights when I closed my eyes, but after we got stuck together, I couldn't anymore. It's all dark now."

Feyt's eyebrows peaked with interest. "Try. Please."

The woman sensed skepticism, but Silhouette gave in. She pinched at the empty air and drew her hand towards herself.

A dim light, no larger than a thimble, rested atop her thumb and index finger.

"Now that it's there, do you notice that the area you drew it from is darker?" Feyt asked.

"Yes."

"You concentrated light in one area, and made an absence of it in others. This is one of the core tenants of magic. We cannot create. We can only manipulate what is already there. But that absence of light is not true darkness, Silhouette."

"True darkness?"

Feyt turned her palm so the girl could get a good look at it. While staring at her obsidian skin, Silhouette observed something seeping through the creases like a fusion of ink and smoke. It woke something in her. A basic, primal fear.

The girl tilted her head ever so slightly, acknowledging that she understood the lesson. True darkness was deeply unsettling.

"What about destiny?" Silhouette changed the subject. "What do you do with that?"

"I see everything that has been, that now is, and that will be. All things in this world, but for the smallest of margins, are absolute. Put another way, I'm a clairvoyant like your friends, except I can see everything: past, present, and future."

M

Elliot was forced to listen to Alyon toss, kick, groan, and wrestle with his sheets for the past hour. He flopped to his side and dared his friend to keep him from falling asleep one last time.

He didn't move. Elliot sighed.

Thump.

"That's it!"

He jumped from his bed, whirling at the source of noise; a pillow on the floor. Elliot hurled it at Alyon with all his might.

"You're up finally."

Elliot gawked at the figure sprawled out on the sheets. "I've been up! Just because you can't sleep doesn't give you the right to keep me awake."

"I know."

The young prince turned unusually solemn. Elliot could make out the troubled expression on his face. He picked up the pillow, hit Alyon for good measure, and sat on the bed.

"Talk to me," said Elliot.

"I'm worried."

"About?"

"Lydia, my mom, these stupid powers, all of it."

Elliot gave the topics some thought. "I can't blame you about Lydia. But what's happening now is what's happened to every High City. Tension is bound to crop up where there's a bunch of people all in one place. I know it looks bad, but don't let yourself get swept up in the commotion. Most of it's just talk."

"A coup d'état? Tension is one thing, revolt is another. I don't like highborn any more than the rest of us, but I can't believe people are desperate enough to let it get to this point." He pressed his face into his palms. "And it's not the people who talk that I'm worried about. It's the ones who will act that are dangerous."

"You think they'll try to go after your mom?"

"They've tried before," he growled. "It's only a matter of time before they actually succeed. After her, they'll go for me. I'm just as hated by commoners as I am nobles. Bastards don't belong and they never will."

Elliot fell back on the sheets. "Grim outlook."

"But an honest one. How can anyone expect me to save a city when I couldn't save one girl?"

"The one that gave you the key, right?"

Alyon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know how most people don't like me looking at them, Elliot? How they get freaked out by my eyes?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"She said I had 'forests' in them. That they looked like home." His shoulders shook in quiet laughter. "She called me beautiful, if you can believe it. It was the first time I was ever glad to have them."

If he'd raised his head just then, Alyon would've seen the frown spread across Elliot's lips.

"And you know what just kills me? I forgot what color her eyes were. Every time I fall asleep, I'm in that stupid room, and she's on that table, freezing from the inside. The whole time, all I can think is that I put her there. If I'd only thought about what I said to her a few minutes before, she'd still be alive, Elliot."

M

Unbeknownst to the boys in the Shadow Blade compound, Alyon had good reason to be wary, for deep within the slums of Beggar's Cairn, the prince's fears were beginning to gain ground.

Guild enlistment reached fever pitch, and all willing parties had already chosen sides. The majority of neutral individuals were also the poorest in Lydia, and it was a dangerous time to go wandering the streets alone.

One drafter chanced upon a young boy in this exact situation, but he didn't expect his offer of recruitment to get turned down so swiftly, resulting in him running after the child down an alley.

"Come with me you stupid boy!"

"Don't you know what the word 'no' means? I don't want anything to do with your guild, idiot!"

The man recoiled. "You have some nerve for an orphan. I'm doing you a favor. Come with me and maybe you'll survive what's coming."

"Go to hell!"

"Why y–"

The child backed into the wall of a building. He reached down to grasp a fistful of dirt and gravel.

The brute lunged at him. The boy threw the debris at his eyes. The adult swore viciously, giving way for his mark to duck, but a meaty hand locked his arm in its ironclad grip.

"Let him go!"

They spun at the high-pitched voice.

A girl stood in the middle of the empty street. Her eyes were glassy with a mixture of determination and fear. The man smirked from beneath his hood.

"You just made my job a world easier."

"Then why don't you move?" she snapped back.

The two in the conflict looked at the ground. Frosty mist enveloped their feet, encasing the man's ankles in solid ice.

The boy's arm was released, only to have his hand grasped by his rescuer.

"Come on!" she urged. "It won't hold him long!"

M

"Hey, Old Man, where's Nyx?" It was the question asked by one of the wards before he sent him off to bed, and more importantly, it was the question Old Man had been asking himself for the last half hour. Where was Nyx?

As he looked out the gaping hole of a broken window, anyone could see that he wasn't old at all, contrary to his moniker.

The one called Old Man was only nineteen, but relative to the children he looked after, he supposed he did look, well, old.

The name stuck after their guardian didn't show up to work one day, leaving him in charge of twelve little ones on very short notice. The truth was that Old Man had moments when he forgot his previous name entirely. All he knew was that it began with an R.

Or was it an H?

No, no. It was an R, he was sure of it.

Though Nyx was ten years his junior, Old Man considered him second in command. If he managed to get caught by guild recruiters, there was precious little hope for the rest of them.

The life of an orphan in Lydia was a hard one. They were the cripples, the outcasts, and the immigrants from outlying farms. They had dreams as lush and as alive as the plains beyond the Trench, but they were fools in the end.

Lydia was as beautiful as it was unforgiving. Old Man found that for all the intricate masonry, the walls, and canals that ran throughout the High City, he and his long-dead parents had been deceived. Stone, no matter how lovely it appeared, was still so very cold. People of the sun and the fields can neither settle nor flourish. They wither. They die.

Old Man considered taking his gathering of discards to the Shadow Blades, but rejected the idea. While it was a bastion for the unwanted, it was still the property of the monarch. Though he had to put up with Beggar's Cairn, with drafty rooms and too-often leaking roofs, the orphanage was his territory. In it, he would not see children used. Not by guilds. Not by anyone.

A pair of little figures rounded the street corner. Old Man whirled on his heel, rushing downstairs in time to witness the door slam open.

"Nyx! What happened?"

The boy braced himself against the doorframe, heaving for air. He threw his hand beside him at another child. Her hair fell over her face as she breathed, revealing tipped ears beneath.

"A half-elf," Old Man said dumbly. "You saved her, Nyx?"

His young counterpart shook his head. "She saved me. She's got magic, Old Man. Froze a recruiter's feet to the ground solid!"

The two turned to the newcomer with interest. When she caught her breath, the elf-child formed a sliver of ice in the palm of an outstretched hand, verifying that she was indeed a mage.

"You're not... afraid of me?"

"Should we be?" asked Old Man.

"I'm a half-elf," she pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Lydians don't like them much."

Old Man tucked back the hair at his ears. Her eyes shined at the tips protruding from someone other than herself. Soon, she grinned so wide it began to hurt her cheeks.

"I thought I was the only one!"

"We have a few half-elves in the orphanage," Old Man explained. "You see much more of them in Beggar's Cairn. We even have two or three elves, last I checked." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Be proud of what you are. Most Lydians are idiots who deserve a swift kick to the back of the head."

She giggled.

"Anyone who judges a person by their blood is a moron. Anyone who judges a person by their words is an even bigger moron."

"Then how should we judge them?"

"In an ideal world? We shouldn't judge. But it's our nature to judge whether we like it or not. Anyone saying they don't judge is a–"

"Moron?" she guessed.

"Now you're learning!" He rested a hand on her head and gave Nyx an approving look. "You brought a bright one."

"You didn't answer her question yet," Nyx replied.

"What? Oh!" He scratched the back of his neck. "Right. See, if you've got to judge somebody, do it by their actions. I don't care if someone has a king's blood in them and says they're a saint. If they go around kicking people down, they're a damned liar, got that?"

"Yup."

Nyx sank to the floor, content to observe the newcomer. The girl wasn't anything special, even if she was an elf-child. If anything, she was annoyingly cheerful in their dismal surroundings. He almost regretted taking her with him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

A sad and deeply troubled look flashed across her face, making her appear as old as some of the adults he saw on a regular basis.

"I'm called Silhouette. Who are you?"

"Nyx." He pointed over to their respective elder. "That's Old Man. He takes care of us kids in the orphanage since the last owner ran out on us."

"Probably ended up killed by some drunken guard," he piped up, irate. "That guy was never much good in a fair fight, let alone at the end of a sword."

Nyx glared at him, using his eyes to motion to the girl. She stood there, horrified.

"Ah." Feeling stupid, Old Man let out a long sigh. "You're not from Lydia, are you?"

"Is it really that bad?" she asked.

Silence was the only answer she got in return.

"I... got to go."

Before either one of them could say anything, she ran back outside. Old Man was the first to get back to his senses, taking a look at the boy on the ground.

"She saved your life tonight, Nyx. You owe her."

"But I dragged her back here!" he argued. "We're even already!"

"Fact one: she's a mage. She would have been fine without you. Fact two: you wouldn't have made it here if she didn't help."

Nyx chewed his lip. "You think she'll be alright? She's obviously not from around here."

"I already told you. She's a mage–"

"Magic can't cure stupid."

M

"Is Lydia really such an awful place?"

"It can be."

Feyt wasn't pleased when Silhouette decided to save the boy, very much against her advice. She went sour after he dragged her to the slums.

"I thought only Daerin was that bad," Silhouette murmured to herself. Seeing the destitute area had shaken her considerably, though the full reality hadn't hit yet; orphans, elves, thieves and kidnappers. "Alyon has to live here?"

"Don't worry about Alyon."

"I gave him my promise. I have to."

Feyt rolled her eyes.

"Do you think there are more kids like me in that orphanage?" Silhouette wondered aloud. "Faodrin is nice and all, and so are you, but I want to find other people to play with."

"I wouldn't trust them." He sighed, unhappy with the direction of their conversation. "There's no telling what might happen if any of them get too close to you."

"You're close to me," the girl pointed out.

"I'm neither alive nor dead. And I am not a child."

"Could've fooled me," she muttered, earning a startled glance from her companion.

Stowing her ire, Feyt concentrated on the task before them, which was finding the entrance to the aqueducts.

Lydia changed much in the brief period she was away. Like a face fogged over by cobwebs of memory, familiar only in the sense that she knew she'd seen it somewhere before.

This once vibrant, seductive stranger was frowned upon by the years. Its hair turned as gray and brittle as the stone of its streets. Once glittering eyes were as opaque and shrouded as the people in its dank halls.

Feyt saw this pattern before, where all children of Hope fled a place, leaving only a beautiful corpse behind.

Lydia was dying.

"Silhouette, do you see that bridge there?"

Their path led to a building very different from the ones Silhouette had seen in Lydia up to that point. It didn't have the sharp edges and contours of the rest of the imposing place, but was far more delicate. This structure was supported by flying buttresses over a small lake. Its walls were covered with glass pipes, circulating the water that fell onto its roof. Arched windows and stained glass glittered among the downpour. The doors continued the trend with intricate iron bands weaving across their surface, far too delicate to have been crafted by human hands.

"What is that?"

"The Waterglass Library." Feyt took a moment to admire the sight. "It holds more books than a man could read in a lifetime."

Silhouette gushed with excitement. Her companion held her back by the wrist when she started to march towards the door.

"We'll visit later. First, mind the bridge leading to it." Feyt pointed at the walkway. "Do you see the small hollow beneath, right above the water?"

The child had to walk around in order to get a better view, and eventually saw what Feyt was talking about. Just at the water level was what appeared to be a rusted, iron grate.

"There's a lock on it," the woman warned, "but it's old and it should break easily. You might just be able to use ice to pry it open."

"I'll try."

The girl rolled up the bottom of her pants before stepping into the lake. She rubbed her hands against the sides of the lock to find that rust made it incredibly sharp. Silhouette didn't know what Feyt meant by prying it open, but there was one thing that might work.

Seconds passed, and all Feyt saw was Silhouette staring at the grate, until she heard what sounded like an explosion.

The girl ducked beneath the water to avoid the shrapnel that flew out from the socket. The dark woman dragged her up.

"What happened?!"

Silhouette pointed. "I opened it."

"Where's the lock?"

"It had a little hole in it, so I put in some ice and made it grow until it broke."

The girl didn't know why Feyt groaned at this. She thought it was a good idea. It worked, didn't it?

"It's a wonder you didn't get hurt," she muttered. "Come on, if you want to go to the aqueducts, you'll have to climb down."

8: The Ghostwalkers

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it."

Helen Keller

Feyt held her by the shoulders, then the arms, and then the wrists. Each increment lowered Silhouette to the railing in the hole. The fact that water flowed over it didn't make the matter any easier. Silhouette shrieked several times, insisting there had to be another way down. After coming so far, Feyt was having none of it.

Silhouette held her breath and shut her eyes tight, descending the metal ladder. Water streamed into her nose and mouth every time she gasped for air, and the torrent raining down on her made gripping the iron that much more difficult.

By the time her feet touched bottom, her legs were shaking uncontrollably. Silhouette backed away from the ladder, slipped, and collapsed on her side. Feyt's presence was the only thing that kept her from bursting into tears.

"Do we have to go out the same way?" she whimpered.

"It's a possibility." The woman squeezed the excess water from the child's shirt, patting her on the back to move forward. "There's a good chance we could find another way to the streets."

"It's cold."

"Bear with it."

"I'm tired."

"I'll leave you behind," Feyt threatened.

"I can keep up."

"I thought so." Feyt stopped. "Take a moment to close your eyes and listen to the world around you."

"What am I listening for?"

"Anything," said her voice in the dark.

"I hear... water. Lots of it is coming from the ceiling."

"What else?"

"I can hear you breathing, and I can hear"–she hesitated–"a really soft sound. It's squishy."

"Very good." She felt Feyt pat her on the head. "You're a half-elf, Silhouette. While there's little difference between you and a human child, you still have sharper hearing. Learn to use it. Now, what do these sounds tell you?"

"There's someone down here?"

"Summon a bit of light."

The two winced at the glow of the thread pulled from the air. The little sorceress handed it to her companion, who tied it into the child's dripping locks. Feyt couldn't help but admire the soft whiteness of the ribbon. It shimmered as if shyly waving hello.

With the shadows thrown back, the two were startled by the tunnels. Immense stone pillars neatly lined the waterways. Simple geometric patterns adorned the roof. Even the ceiling, which they had to squint to see, was covered with embossed copper. The traditionally amber-gold metal was a mossy blue, and reflected the rushing water in a surreal imitation of starlight.

"Wow."

For once, Feyt agreed. "The dwarves are nothing if not fine architects."

"Dwarves? They're real?"

"Of course. They just prefer to stay in their tunnels beneath the earth."

"Why are there dwarven tunnels under Lydia?"

"Because we built Lydia."

Silhouette whirled around. The light flared in response to her surprise. Both Feyt and the new arrival swore under their breaths, looking away to avoid the blinding glow of the ribbon.

"Sorry!" she called out. "You scared me."

"Well, what the hell do you think you did to me?" a harsh, heavy voice snapped back.

Silhouette caught the chastising glare Feyt was giving her. She tucked her hands behind her back.

"Oops." The child raised her head towards the stranger's gloomy corner. Remembering her experience with Daerin, her fingers twitched behind her, ready to fling shards of ice if she needed a quick escape. "Who are you?" she asked warily.

"You barge into my home and ask me for my name? Has your mother taught you any manners?"

"I don't have one."

"Ah."

The single syllable hung in the air. The dwarf was a good head and a half taller than she was, and was the same as a human or elf in proportion, though sturdier. Two brown eyes peered down at her, and while intimidating, she felt that they meant no harm.

"Now it's my turn to apologize." He extended a muscular hand. "My name is Yherod, and for the last decade, I've called these halls my home. Who might you be, little one?"

"I, uh–" She looked in Feyt's direction. The dark woman inclined her head. She could answer as she pleased. "I'm Tera."

He scrutinized her appearance. The child was wearing clothes very ill-fitted to her tiny frame. Taking the fact that she was sopping wet into account, the girl was a sight to behold in the worst possible way.

"Come on, let's get you dried off."

M

The aqueducts proved to be much larger than Silhouette expected. Rather than a few deep tunnels, the place was more akin to its own city.

"Do you live alone down here?"

"No," Yherod answered, rounding the nearest corner.

"There are a lot more of you?"

"What business would a single dwarf have down here?"

"The same kind of business I do?" she ventured.

"You've got a smart mouth." Yherod halted abruptly, extending an arm to bar Silhouette's way. "Turn off your light and look straight ahead."

"But–"

"Just do it."

Silhouette dimmed the thread into nonexistence. The dwarf pressed his palm against the wall to the right of them. A long strip of amber-hued ore came to life, growing brighter from the point in contact. The resulting world shone as if from behind a veil of syrup.

"What do you know about Lydia's founding?"

"Not a lot. Elves and dwarves built it."

Yherod cocked an eyebrow. "That's more than most. There are few texts and fewer scholars willing to acknowledge that elves had any part in it." Curiosity overcame him. "Who told you?"

She looked back for counsel. The dwarf was beginning to suspect she had an imaginary friend.

"My grandfather."

"His name?"

"Uradden."

A wondering glint appeared in his eyes.

Soon, the smooth walls of the tunnels gave way to a vast cavern. Entire buildings were carved into the earth. What's more, it wasn't dark. Countless gems were embedded in the stalactites above their heads and in the flutes of columns across the ground. These stones cast a translucent glow, set in every shade of violet imaginable.

Silhouette noticed more dwarves dotted across the town's streets, giving her curious glances as she passed. She inched closer to Yherod.

"We don't get many visitors," said her guide. "Let them look. They won't harm you."

"What do you call this place?"

"The Undercity."

"The Undercity," Silhouette uttered the name to herself, and in it, she found the courage to return some of the glances the dwarves had been giving her. Some jolted when her eyes met theirs, and the child came to understand that they were just as wary of her as she was of them.

"Ivane!" Yherod called.

A woman stuck her head out from one of the shuttered windows. Her hair was braided into a bun beneath an orange scarf, with a face that Silhouette could only describe as fluffy.

"Yherod! What took you so long?"

"I found a guest." He stepped away and nodded at Silhouette, who felt very exposed without the large figure to cling to.

Ivane grinned. "Coming!" she sang.

Silhouette rocked back and forth on her heels, uncertain of what to expect. Yherod placed a hand on her head and leaned in to inform her, "Ivane adores children. The minute she starts to wear on your nerves, make this sign." He clenched a fist and packed it into his other palm.

The door flew open before the girl was given a chance to nod. Without a word of warning, Ivane pulled Silhouette into a suffocating embrace.

"Oh, she's just an absolute darling! Wherever did you find her?" There was something maudlin in her voice that made the child think of honey. "But she's soaking wet!" Ivane knelt so she and Silhouette were at eye level. Her eyes were bright amber, and between them, with her rosy cheeks and the faded floral print of her dress, Ivane was the antithesis of the cavern she called home.

Silhouette felt her warm palm press against her brow.

"Thank goodness you aren't sick." Her smile was a tiny, nearly perfect heart. "How about we get you dry?"

"Okay."

M

The dwarf woman left for her bedroom, where Yherod had already seated himself against the wall.

"I keep forgetting that there's an entire city above us." Ivane made her way towards her dresser. "Lydia just keeps getting crueler. Did you see how that poor child acted, Yherod?"

"Her name is Tera."

"Lovely name." She lifted a shirt up and inspected it for holes.

"She says her grandfather is Uradden."

Yherod opened one eye to see that Ivane hadn't moved a muscle, but the blouse had dropped back in with the rest.

Ivane glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. "Do you think her mother could be–"

"I don't know," he cut her off, pressing his lips in a thin line. "She uses light magic, though. I've only known one other mage who did."

"Kendra's daughter," she breathed. "It's almost too good to be true."

Yherod waved at the door. "Good? The girls were taken to Riverstone for their own protection! There's no way Jerrold would've allowed them to return to Lydia." He pressed a hand to his forehead.

Ivane selected some clothes from her collection. "Maybe Jerrold wanted them to learn more about their mother?"

"With the political climate being as it is?" he asked. "Uradden and Ezara are on top of these matters, as much as they would have any fool believing otherwise. Jerrold is informed by them. The less his daughters know, the safer they'll be."

"You still can't be saying that."

"The hell I can't!" he barked back. "Kendra died here. And I have enough sense to know that what got her is still around. If either one of those girls finds out how it happened, they won't be separated from their mother for much longer."

"You don't know that for certain."

"Neither do you."

M

"Feyt," Silhouette called. The elf walked around the screen to find the girl swaddled in linen sheets. She plopped onto the ground. Her head drooped to one side. "Why do you trust Yherod?"

"He's your mother's old friend." Feyt stared through strands of her hair. "He was something like her Godfather. When hard times came about, she would turn to him for help. If there's anyone you could turn to in Lydia, it's Yherod."

The girl eyed her suspiciously. "You wanted me to meet him."

She didn't deny it. "You need allies."

"I have Faodrin."

"You don't know if you can trust him."

"He took good care of me," she argued. Her small mouth turned down at its corners. "He said the whole world can turn against me and he'd be there."

"Someday, you'll come to understand that promises mean nothing. You can't trust someone on words alone."

"Then why should I trust you?"

Silhouette gave her a long, harsh stare. The child was learning quickly, and Feyt had overstepped her bounds.

"You shouldn't." Feyt folded her arms. "Trust invites betrayal."

"I don't believe you'll betray me."

"This belief is based on a whim."

"You saved my life."

The woman huffed. "I'm using you and someday, I'll throw you away."

Rather than become upset, Feyt sensed an aura of resolution.

Silhouette met her gaze without a shred of judgment. An almost-smile hinged on her mouth. "Least you're honest about it."

"Tera?" Ivane peered behind the screen to find her squatting on the floor. The dwarf presented her with a large sweater. "We can't have you sitting around in sheets. Come on, arms up!"

She raised her hands over her head. Ivane hesitated, eyeing the amulet that hung at her ribs before slipping on the article of clothing.

"Good enough," she approved. Ivane swiveled her towards the table. "Now, let's have ourselves a proper meal. It's a bit cold, since Yherod came late, but it'll have to do."

Silhouette didn't have much of an appetite, and what little she did went away the instant she saw what Ivane ladled into a bowl. The concoction was thick, brown, and pasty. Chunks of meat bobbed to the surface. The girl prodded it with a fork.

"Uh, thank you," she began, "but what is it?"

"It's better not to know," Yherod replied, earning himself a whack to the back of his head. He glowered at the dwarf woman, who tapped a wooden spoon against her palm menacingly. "It's edible, at any rate," he added. "Hasn't killed me yet."

Whack.

"Dammit woman!"

Whack!

His scalp turned an angry shade of red. Ivane huffed indignantly, seating herself beside the girl. She gave her an encouraging smile.

"Go on, have a spoonful."

For the sake of not appearing rude to her hosts, Silhouette dipped her spoon into the mixture and brought it to her lips. Several thick globs splashed back into the bowl.

And while they couldn't see her, Feyt was standing beside Yherod, greatly amused by the spectacle. The dark woman wondered how the dwarves would react if they found out that Silhouette ate Daerin's poison more willingly than the stew on the table.

Finally, the girl put it in her mouth.

"Well?" asked Ivane. "How is it?"

"Chewy." Silhouette swallowed. The chunks glided down her throat.

"Rats often are."

"Rats!" she squeaked.

Yherod roared with laughter. The room rumbled with him. Ivane threw a cup at his barrel chest, but it bounced off pathetically. Silhouette pushed the bowl away, focusing on keeping the food from coming up, though she doubted it could taste worse the second time down.

Ivane submitted to the unspoken verdict and put the stew aside. She brought out a loaf of bread and a jar of apple butter, something her dinner guests greatly appreciated. As they ate, the two dwarves continued to bicker at one another over trivial matters, and the child enjoyed the show.

"Tera," said Ivane when they'd finished their meal, "I couldn't help but notice that necklace of yours earlier. Would you mind if I took a better look?"

Feyt didn't object, so she complied. The dwarf patted her hand.

"Thank you. I'll return it quickly." She set it on the table, sliding it closer to Yherod. "If this isn't proof that it's her daughter, I don't know what is."

His expression darkened. The dwarf inspected the chain and its heart with ritual care. He tugged it, turned it, twisted it over in his hands, firm enough to test its strength with respect to its limits.

"It's the original," he announced, almost sounding disappointed. "I'd know my own craftsmanship anywhere."

Silhouette leaned on her arms. "You made it? Did you give it to my mother?"

"It was a present for when she was accepted into Lyssa's court," he spoke softly. "She was eighteen." He raised his gaze to meet hers, and had known in his heart the minute he spotted her that there was a resemblance. The eyes were a dead giveaway, but since her hair was washed and dried, the feathery gold only affirmed what he knew. "Why are you in Lydia, Tera?"

M

It took nearly an hour for Silhouette to recount everything that happened from the moment Daerin found her in Riverstone. She was careful to omit anything referring to Feyt out of respect for the woman who saved her life, and convinced the dwarves that her coming to the aqueducts was her own doing. There were points when she felt Ivane squeeze her arm out of support or disgust, and times when Yherod turned a furious red, trembling with rage.

"You can't go back there. Stay with us. We'll look after you."

"No." The girl was remarkably collected. "Daerin threatens people a lot, and when he does, he means it." She laced her fingers together to keep from fidgeting. "I don't really trust Ballard or Heron, but they aren't mean to me either. And Faodrin is my brother. I don't want him to get hurt."

Yherod sighed heavily. "I'll allow it on one condition. You have to visit once a month." He raised a finger for emphasis. "Just once. If you don't show up, we'll come to the surface to find you."

Ivane added, "If–"

"When," Yherod corrected. "When we find you, you'll live here. No arguments after that. Fair?"

She considered it. "Can Faodrin come?"

"Can Faodrin keep a secret?"

"Yes."

"Then he can come." He folded his arms across his chest, frowning deeply. "Daerin will turn Lydia on its head if it means he can find you. The man is unstable. We don't know what he'll do anymore."

"He wasn't always this way?"

"There was once a time when we would've trusted Daerin with our lives." Ivane smoothed her hair. "Clever as a fox, polite, charming, but after Kendra died, he started falling apart. You'll have to play the crutch for a broken heart for a while. Hopefully, he'll come back to his senses someday."

Ivane glanced at the clock on the wall and gasped at the time. She ran to the other room and gathered the recently dried clothes the child had arrived in.

"We have to get you back before morning. Come on, it's time to get dressed."

M

Ivane took a full minute in saying her tearful goodbyes. This was the first time Silhouette encountered someone with such an unguarded heart. Yherod rolled his eyes the entire time.

"Yes, yes, we'll see her again. Get a hold of yourself."

Whack!

Silhouette smiled into her scarf.

The man took her by the hand and walked her through the Undercity. Some dwarves she spotted upon her arrival were still present in the windows, watching her. She smiled and waved at them. This time, a few smiled back.

"Tera, there's one more place you need to see before we go to the surface."

Silhouette looked at him. "Where's that?"

"The Core." He pointed towards a crevasse in the otherwise smooth walls of the cavern. The passage was illuminated by two rows of torches.

"Why is it called the Core?"

"It's at the very heart of Lydia." He pointed to the ceiling. "Above us is Hangman's Cross, the lowest tier of the city."

"Why do we need to see the Core then?"

"Because it's where Kendra died."

The schism led to a great hall. Its architecture was unlike any other in Lydia, covered in runes, pictures, and diagrams. There were precious few areas like this throughout the continent, and less than a handful of people knew what they truly were. To most, it was a mystery that could never be solved.

To Feyt, it was the remnants of her past.

This place was empty, save for a stone slab at its heart. Dust powdered its surface and the air crackled with static. Yherod reached towards the table, but didn't touch its surface.

"It looks like a cross," Silhouette observed, making out a faint impression where the dust wasn't as thick, or rather, where the dust refused to land.

"A sword," Yherod corrected. The dwarf clasped his hands behind his back. His face was very grave. "A sword fell from the Dead Realm. It hit the earth with such force that all High Cities felt the impact." He traced the outline with his dark eyes. "Those nearest it, a tribe of men led by a seer, our clan of dwarves, and your grandparents, arrived to inspect the scene. A great basin was culled from these mountains, and in it, at this Core, rested the blade."

"Heavy sword," she commented lightly.

"Its metal was not of this world, Tera." He tried to queue her into the gravity of his story. "It contained the soul of the greatest criminal of our forgotten histories." He looked to her from the corner of his eyes. "Any scholar would tell you that Lydia was founded by the seer I mentioned, and that much is true, but he was a puppet king. His only purpose was to read the future and stop those who wanted to reach this weapon."

"Who was inside it? The sword, I mean."

"A magus. The member of a race that predates all others." He pointed to a pictogram on the table's rim. The character he pointed to was a figure with pitch-black skin and moon-white hair. Silhouette's eyes widened. She looked across the table at the woman that only she could see.

"Feyt." Yherod scowled. "She was one of the oldest of them at that. It was said that her power could shape the fabric of this world. At some point, she was even worshipped as a goddess among her people, or so your grandparents told me."

"I knew they're old, but that old?"

The dwarf paused to smile. "They created this room. All things you see here are from a different time."

"What about Feyt? And where's the sword?"

"There was a legend surrounding Feyt, about destiny and being able to change it. That sword contained most of the power that she held in life. It was her body, and the Core"–he motioned to the room around them–"was her prison. The Shadow Blades were named for her vessel, and their true purpose was to act as jail wardens. Like the king who ordered them, they were also part of the fake monarchy. It only became real over time as more humans settled in Lydia, but your mother changed all that." Yherod pressed a hand to his forehead. "Kendra inspired people; made them believe the impossible. She convinced Lyssa and me to allow her access to the Core. Kendra claimed she saw Feyt. Her phantom."

Silhouette remained silent.

"And there were others like her, who said the same thing over the years." Yherod walked to a different end of the platform, pointing this time at a long string of faceless people. "They are the Ghostwalkers."

"The Ghostwalkers?"

"Someday, you may hate me for telling you this." He grimaced. "But freedom, our choices... these things were never our own. Our destinies are as solid as the stone around us. Feyt challenged that order."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

He stared at her, trying to find a way he could express himself so she might understand.

"There is a balance in this world. For every fortune, there must be misfortune. For every advancement, there must be a setback. For every night, a day." Yherod watched her nod. "I don't agree with much of the Threads, and it does disturb me that my life is out of my hands, but they maintain that balance for us. If we had golden ages and bursts of growth, then we will also have wars and plagues. The Threads prevent us from overstepping our line of sight, creating consequences too far off to account for, or to comprehend. Without the Threads, we will likely tear each other apart."

"Did Feyt know all that?"

At this, Yherod shrugged. "Your grandparents mentioned that something horrible happened as a result of her meddling. According to Kendra, and I'm assuming it was the same for all of them, the Ghostwalkers could see Feyt's form. Through them, she continued her mission to unravel the Threads."

She stole glances from the woman who saved her life, and each time, found truth to what the dwarf was saying. Feyt seemed smaller, and at one point, Silhouette thought she saw her tremble.

"Why do you think they're called Ghostwalkers in the first place?"

"Because they see Feyt?"

Yherod shook his head. "Because, in a sense, they become ghosts. The Threads represent all we see in the world. Ghostwalkers are no longer part of it. They linger, trying to fulfill an impossible quest." He rested a finger on one of the heads painted on the slab. "Those who have no faces cannot be named, or known. The inescapable fate of all Ghostwalkers is to never belong."

Silhouette clenched her fist around the locket and braced it against her chest.

"Your mother was a Ghostwalker. And Feyt murdered her like all the rest."

M

Feyt watched her head droop. Shadow shrouded her eyes from view. A hard line formed in the place of a smile, and all emotion disappeared.

"I already died once."

These four words were met with an appalled stare.

"I went against the Threads and died months ago. It was an accident."

Yherod placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "This is no joke–"

"Do I look like I'm joking?!"

Two tears fell down her reddened cheeks. Feyt realized that the child didn't stop feeling, but contained her turmoil. She was trying to keep herself together, but the woman picked up on traces of what she felt. They were sensations so strong, there were no words to do them justice.

Yherod was speechless.

"I am a Ghostwalker." She straightened her small shoulders. "And Feyt isn't a bad person."

"What?"

What?

Silhouette wiped her tears away with her sleeve. "She tried to convince me to stay dead and move on. I wanted to come back to life! I made her do it."

"You can't possibly think that," he whispered. "She's ancient. There's no telling what she could do to persuade–"

"But she gave me one condition."

"I knew it–"

"To stay alive." Feyt felt naked. "She looks sad, you know. Sadder and more sorry than anyone. Maybe she did make mistakes, but I think it was an accident, just like mine."

"You think?"

Silhouette returned his skepticism with a glare of her own. "I believe."

"You're far too young, child," he warned. "You don't know how she'll damn you."

"She tells me that a lot."

He blanched.

"I'd rather be damned by someone who's honest about it than someone who's not."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

He rubbed his forehead, trying to find some reason in what the obstinate girl was telling him. Yherod resorted to the last idea he had.

"Feyt stole your mother from you. You should hate her if you have any sense left. You know what it's like to be a half-elf on that surface."

"I was born a half-elf. My mother made me an outcast here way before I met Feyt. And she was still Lydia's hero. She was the Ghostwalker who belonged. She didn't fail to break the Threads. Because she belonged, she succeeded. I won't become faceless." She kicked the ledge of the platform. "Daerin already took my name and I'm still here!"

The dwarf felt powerless. He didn't know where this brazen courage came from, and he really didn't know how she could say such things without uncertainty to keep her mouth in check.

"Tell me, how do you intend to do all that?"

She looked at him with a twinkle in her eyes, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "I'll be worth remembering."

M

The dwarf's jaw flapped open and shut, sputtering half-baked syllables. Where the little girl learned to speak like that, or talk back to her elders, was anyone's guess. Unable to think of a way to revive his composure, Yherod resigned himself to leading her back to the surface.

"Remember," he said, once they'd reached the exit. "Visit once a month."

Silhouette nodded at the hatch. The dwarf opened it for her to get through, and the door closed just as quietly as it swung out.

Yherod came to the conclusion that his memories of Kendra were tinted in roses following her death. Hearing the backtalk from her daughter brought back similar arguments that were far more colorful.

Silhouette was a child, and he would see her as one until the end of her days. He also knew from experience that with some women, even that young, the only council they adhered to was their own. That stubbornness was what made him take a shine to Kendra in the first place, just as much as he damned it ever since.

Like mother, like daughter. Yet, there was a difference.

Kendra may have been a hero in the eyes of the people, but she was only human in the eyes of her friends. Entering court, learning magic, taking up the sword; all of it was done out of whimsy. Her interests and attention could seldom settle before taking flight all over again. Hers was an existence so fleeting that one could reach out with all their might and never possess an ounce of it.

Silhouette wasn't the same. Yherod saw it in her eyes—the purpose her mother never had.

"There are certain people in this world," he mumbled to himself. "They're magnetic."

Others get swept up by them, pulled in by the sheer force of their personalities. Kendra was one. Her daughter was another. With Kendra, there was a balance. She was a woman with everything. She never felt a strong calling in her life. She simply was.

At this point, Silhouette had nothing, not even the liberty of her own name. There was something intriguing in her occasional bouts of wisdom, but the thing that troubled Yherod the most was her desire.

She had the ability to want. She had the courage to pursue it.

If Feyt's deal was any indication, she was willing to go to impossible lengths to have those wishes granted. People would get drawn towards her given enough time. Silhouette will set events in motion that, as Yherod had guessed, were too far off to see the scope of their consequences.

And someday, that wanting would consume her.

M

Silhouette fluffed her pillow. Feyt stood beside the door, looking more lost and pathetic than ever.

"Thank you... for earlier," she managed finally.

Silhouette threw her arm across the empty half of the bed. "Sleep here!" At the startled glance she received, she muttered, "The bed's too empty."

Feyt did as she was ordered.

Silhouette tried to pull the covers up over the woman, but they fell through, and she was reminded that she was the only person she could touch, and vice versa. Considering what Yherod mentioned earlier, it all began to make sense.

Ghostwalkers weren't a part of this world. Feyt wasn't a part of it either. Somewhere in between, the two collided and could interact.

"Don't get it wrong," Silhouette pouted. "I'm angry. Really angry with you right now."

"What for?"

"You should have told me my mother was a Ghostwalker."

"Silhouette, I'm–"

"I don't wanna hear it. I know, okay?"

Feyt lowered her eyes guiltily.

"And it's not your fault." Silhouette's voice grew softer. "You want us to live, that's why you try to help. If I know that, I'm sure my mother did too." Unable to help herself, the child flopped back around and took the blackened hands in hers. "If you help me stay alive, I promise I'll be the last Ghostwalker."

Ever.

9: Enter Elvawein

"Explain the concept of death very carefully to your child. This will make threatening him with it much more effective."

P.J. O'Rourke

Two months passed. Old Man sent Nyx to Hangman's Cross to pick up a shipment of flour. The boy scratched his scraggly hair and spat on the side of the road, earning glares from those closest to him.

Buildings there had lush plants and wooden shutters. Flowers hung from window baskets and navy banners spanned the streets. Its people were impeccably dressed. Like colorful birds, they made fools of themselves in broad daylight, vying for the attention of anyone who'd look their way.

"Idiots," he grumbled.

"Nyx?"

He found a face he never expected to see again. Silhouette eyed him curiously.

"You're Nyx, right?"

"Who's this?" Nyx raised his head to inspect the men beside her. There were three in total, two adults and one around Old Man's age holding her hand. He seemed glad at the surprise meeting. "You made a friend?"

"I don't know." She looked at Nyx. "Are we friends?"

Old Man's words gnawed at him. You owe her, Nyx.

"Yeah." He sighed. "I guess."

"I'm Faodrin," said the man holding hands with the mage. "Her older brother." He pointed back at a man with ruddy brown hair. "That's Heron." Then at an unfortunate-looking redhead. "And that's Ballard."

They waved halfheartedly. Nyx could tell they didn't want to be there.

"So where are you going?" Silhouette asked. "We came to see the statue."

"Statue?"

"Of Kendra," Heron interjected. "Silhouette moved here from Riverstone and has been sick for a while, so this is her first time getting a look at Lydia."

"Riverstone? That explains the ears."

The company stiffened at his comment. She tugged on the edges of her hat.

"Why don't you come with us?" Ballard suggested. "Seems we're going in the same direction. It's safer, considering that kids are going missing left and right these last few weeks."

It hasn't only been the last few weeks, Nyx grumbled inwardly, but it was true. He decided it wasn't a bad idea.

"Sure. I'm just getting an order of flour for the orphanage."

"The orphanage?" Faodrin gave Silhouette a suspicious glance. "That's in Beggar's Cairn. How did you two meet exactly?"

"Um, he was walking around and was on our street," she lied.

Nyx snorted. "Yup, just taking a stroll." His fingers mimicked footsteps across the air.

"I see." Faodrin wasn't buying it, but he didn't seem like the type to press much further. He probably didn't want to know.

Nyx surveyed his entourage from the corner of his eyes, noting that Heron and Ballard were constantly scanning the area. Faodrin and Silhouette exchanged playful light shoves, but Nyx recognized the fact that her brother was alert. The only one who seemed blissfully unaware of the atmosphere was the sorceress in their midst.

Things had become very quiet in Lydia. It started with the commoners who whispered incessantly among themselves, peddling rumors and gossip about revolution and justice, which were no more than pipe daydreams on their part. Soon, that soft buzz turned into a hum, and from a hum, a song. This tuneless melody spread like a wildfire and everyone–bastards, poor, and rich alike–fell eerily silent.

More and more people were wearing hoods on the street, he noted. They never stared one another in the eyes for too long, so eager to get to their destinations while never seeming like they knew where they were going.

Old Man often compared the High City to a coiled spring. Wind it tight enough and sooner or later, it's bound to snap.

"Something bad is going to happen."

Nyx practically jumped out of his skin. Silhouette leaned into him, whispering, "You think I can't tell?"

His own smile surprised him. "Not bad."

"I'm happy I got to see you again."

"How come?"

"I wanted to tell you something."

It hadn't been long since he saw her, but it was clear she wasn't as ignorant as before.

"Take everyone in the orphanage to the aqueducts. I unlocked the gate in the alley behind it."

"What?"

"Yherod will be waiting for you."

"Wait, wait!" He shook his head. "Who? Why?"

Rather than answer his questions, Silhouette turned to her brother.

"Hey, Faodrin? Can Nyx and I run ahead to the statue?" She pointed down the street. The structure was at the end of their field of vision. "You can see us the whole time."

He and the other two men had a wordless discussion. A consensus was reached.

"Go any farther than that and you're not going outside for a week."

"Got it." She grabbed Nyx's hand. "Come on."

Silhouette sprinted just out of earshot. Her eyes pointed to the faces around them, making a full circle before returning to her peer.

"I'm not stupid," she stated, practically reading his mind. "Something isn't right. I know that." The girl stared off to the side, though when Nyx looked in the same direction, he found nothing but the standard throng of people. "I've been thinking about the night I met you," she started up again. "Guilds were trying to take you in. I hear it everywhere. Something big is happening." He struggled to hear her in the crowd. "The aqueducts are safe. I talked to Yherod. He'll take everyone in."

"Who's Yherod?"

She grimaced.

"If you don't tell me, I won't listen," he persisted.

Silhouette shifted her weight uncomfortably. "He's a dwarf."

"That's not funny."

"I'm serious!" She pointed at the statue before them. "Would you believe her?"

Nyx lifted his head to the image of Kendra Illuminias, immortalized in alabaster, a stone that seemed to glow from within. She stood tall, her hands resting on the pommel of her sword in a suit of armor.

Whoever fashioned the statue was an unquestionable master. Strands of cropped hair flew in the nonexistent wind. Her eyes were determined. Her smile was childish. It appeared as though she would come to life at any moment.

Silhouette tugged at a chain around her neck, bringing an amulet into view. Nyx eyed it until it hit him that he had just seen it a second ago.

Would you believe her?

"You're–"

She clamped his mouth shut with her hands, nodded, and released him. "Please. Take them to the tunnels. They'll be safe there."

"Safe from what?"

"Ever since you told me about how dangerous Lydia was, I started to see it too." Silhouette surveyed the shops. There was palpable tension humming in the street. "Things are going to get really bad, aren't they?"

The boy leaned against the base of the statue behind him. "What are you getting out of this?"

"What do you mean?"

"You honestly expect me to believe you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart? We're orphans, bottom-feeders, outcasts." His brow knotted. "At best, we're resources, cheap and expendable. Stick a broom in our hands and we'll sweep the floor. Stick a knife in them and we'll stick a knife in whoever you want. You're up to something."

She giggled, irking him that much more. "I'm not smart enough to come up with that on my own."

As much as Nyx didn't want to admit it, she had a point.

"When I first got here, I didn't know Lydia was this scary. But I'm lucky since I have people who take care of me. I saw where you live." Her eyes met his, welling with concern. "You have Old Man, but I don't think that's enough. At first, the aqueducts were just my hiding spot, but I don't want anything bad to happen to the other kids."

He'd heard similar words before, running the gambit from all sorts of characters, and there was always a catch to the pitch. There he was, listening to yet another string of pretty sentiments, but this time, he felt inclined to believe them.

"I'm not making any promises," he relented, "but just so you know, I still owe you from that time you saved me. If we end up doing what you want, then everyone else will be indebted to you too."

"I don't want that," she piped up.

"I don't either." Nyx straightened his shoulders. "So I'll take that debt on for them. The only one owing you is me. Got that?"

"But you don't–"

"I do, so shut up."

She swallowed.

"So now, you've got two lives: yours and mine. If you get stuck in something really hairy, just use me whenever."

"Okay."

Nyx glanced between the sculpture to his left, the runt at his right, and snorted. "Unbelievable."

"Be safe, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

She watched him disappear into the crowd.

Faodrin, Heron, and Ballard met up with her. Silhouette instantly grabbed her brother's hand. He patted her head.

"Had enough sightseeing for one day?" he asked. "Where'd your friend go?"

"Home."

Faodrin made a face. He didn't trust the boy.

"Who made it?"

"What?"

She pointed upwards. "The statue. Who made it?"

"No one knows." He turned her by the shoulder. "It's one of Lydia's many mysteries."

"Give the girl a straight answer," Heron interjected. "It was made by a dwarf."

Faodrin scoffed, "Aren't you a bit old to be telling lies so shamelessly?"

"Who're you calling old, oversized brat?"

"I believe you."

All three of them stared at her.

Silhouette thought of the grumpy dwarf with a sad little smile. "He must have loved her very much."

M

A crowd of people waited at the door. Daerin allowed them in.

At this point, everyone who mattered, meaning everyone who looked like they'd be any good in a fight, had already chosen guilds. The stragglers, mostly women and children, found their way to him. What they expected of his humble shop was anybody's guess. In fact, Daerin wanted to send them away when they first started coming, but Kendra's face flashed before him. Before he realized it, he was holding his door wide open.

"Excuse me." A child held out a sheet of folded paper. "A lady told me to give this to you."

"Did she say who she was?"

He shook his head. "She had a mask. I didn't even see her."

The paper itself was unmarked, though the material was very fine. No commoner could've afforded it. The man opened it to find a crude map scrawled out in black ink. It was of Lydia's coastline and the adjacent Vaisya Isle.

I've been watching you for quite some time.

I know how you've resented the world. I even know you obtained something that was never yours to take. Rather than report you to the authorities, I applaud you.

Because I, too, have something I want.

Lydia grows restless. Much of that is my doing. Each guildmaster has received a letter similar to the one you're reading, sent by one of the many children on the streets.

They are my resources, you see. Just like the girl is yours. You know who I mean. As you and I are, in this way, similar, I cordially invite you to participate in my game. The concept: a sheep in a wolf's den. I am the leader of my pack, naturally.

Hide her well, Daerin. Teach her how to run. Or make her strong. Show me what a lamb looks like when fighting for its life. Tonight, Vaisya Isle will be the torch. When it burns, the game begins. I am Elvawein.

Welcome to the Guild War.

His hands were shaking.

"What sort of joke–"

But that was the problem. It couldn't have been a joke.

The handwriting was neither his, nor Ballard's, nor Heron's. It didn't belong to anyone he knew, and no one besides them knew about Silhouette. Did they?

"But how?" he began to mutter to himself. "How could they have possibly–"

Daerin ran through the possibilities. Heron and Ballard cared far too much about the girl to risk her safety by telling others, or did he underestimate them?

Did they call his bluff? Even if they did, who would they tell? This Elvawein character?

Unlikely.

More important was why Lyssa hadn't been taking any action. Daerin never knew her to be so lax. She was a woman that ruled with an ironclad fist, tolerating no chaos within her borders.

Why didn't he notice that before? She stopped making public appearances weeks ago.

"Impossible," he murmured. "Where is she?"

Daerin knew of Abbot Ekarius. He wasn't the High Priest of Heldarien just for show. That elf's power rivaled that of Uradden's. If someone existed with the means to quake a High City in this manner, he would have heard of them.

How could Lyssa stand by and watch as this happened?

All he had was his cunning and street-savvy. In his arrogance, Daerin neglected the thought that someone existed who was even more competent, and Silhouette was going to pay for his mistake.

"Just like the girl is yours."

The line struck him like a raindrop.

"...you and I are, in this way, similar..."

He had a vague image in his mind of an older Silhouette. She would be resistant to every toxin that called Lydia its home, capable of fleeing to safety before danger had the chance to glance in her direction.

"...make her strong."

M

"To heal is to love." Ekarius held a long finger to the air. "To love is to be selfless, to give all of oneself to another, and through that, fill a hole in the heart. It's cliché, but that doesn't make it any less true." His sandy hair tumbled over his shoulder as he turned. "It's impossible to truly love when your own heart is broken. Instead of trying to mend another person who's hurt already, everything you do will only invite more damage. To heal someone, you must be whole yourself. Any questions, Crimson?"

Crimson scratched the side of her head. "Yes. Does this mean I just have to be healthy?" She showed him her arm, which had a small cut from preparing dinner the night before. "I can't heal if I'm hurt like this?"

Ekarius took her by the wrist. His fingers were so cool and smooth that she jumped at the touch of them.

"I meant mentally and emotionally." He let her hand fall back into her lap. "Let's say you see a man commit a terrible crime, such as killing someone. How would you feel?"

"Scared," she answered. "I wouldn't like him."

"And let's say he gets critically wounded as he gets caught. He has to stand trial and you're asked to heal him so he can receive a punishment. Could you?"

"I'd try."

"Do you want to heal him?"

"Not really."

Ekarius stretched his legs, staring into the sky. "If you really were in that situation, Crimson, which I hope you never will be, I'll tell you that even if you tried your hardest to heal that man, you wouldn't be able to. Your heart has already been shaken and a judgment made in your mind. You believe that he deserves to die."

"I never said that!" she objected. "I just said I wouldn't want to help him."

"Not helping him will lead him to his death, Crimson. As a priest, you must always remember that our assistance and life often go hand in hand. The opposite is also true. The only way to heal such a person is through the reminder that we do not know the whole story." Ekarius smiled to the wind. "We don't know why he killed someone. Sometimes things happen that are beyond our understanding or control. This is why healing and loving go hand in hand. We must believe in someone else, regardless of what decisions they make or what consequences arise as a result of them."

"I... don't know if I can do that." Crimson played with the ends of her braid. "But I'll try."

"I know you will."

"Does time magic work the same way?" she asked.

"It's... similar. There needs to be a significant amount of emotion behind it; a genuine desire that enables it to happen. You'll find that time can be manipulated in many ways, and since each person has a different understanding on how it passes, much is self-taught. The price, though, is the same for everyone."

"Price?"

"You can't turn back someone's time if you yourself don't have much left. We transfer our lifespan to the recipient, which is why it's a rare, rare thing bestowed upon very few. The price varies depending on how extensively you use that ability, though I'd say a good rule is that for every minute you undo, you lose twice as much."

"That's not fair."

"You're restoring someone, Crimson," Ekarius reminded her. "We're potentially undoing something that should have happened. This is one of the few ways we can tamper with the Threads of Fate without changing its design. Of course the price is high."

"Threads of Fate?"

"Let's call it a universal law. It's far better if you don't know."

"Abbot!"

They swiveled to see a frantic Tamil. He heaved on his cane, the color drained from his face.

"Ekarius," he croaked.

The elf slid off the fence, closing the space between the two men. His attendant whispered something into his ear. Ekarius's eyes grew wide.

"What?" he breathed.

Ekarius nodded a moment later, took Crimson by her shoulder, and started walking towards the shore.

"I'll be back shortly!" he called. "I leave things to you until I return!"

Crimson didn't get the chance to hear Tamil's reply. She couldn't catch her breath to ask what was going on.

"I'm taking you down to a boat," he explained. "If I don't come back for you within the hour, half an hour," he corrected, "I want you to take it and go straight to Lydia."

"I thought the rocks made it impossible to sail there?"

"Situation calls for it."

A troubled expression settled on his face, humanizing the elf in a dark way. Ekarius was afraid, and that frightened her.

He led her to a throng of shrubs. She spotted an old rowboat beneath the foliage. She had no idea how she was supposed to use it without paddles.

"Leave this place now."

"But I thought you said–"

"Forget what I said before. Leave. Leave as soon as you can. The Isle is a sanctuary no longer." He lifted the petite girl into the boat. "Do you remember what I told you that night in the bell tower?"

She raked her memories. "It is not our privilege–"

"But our duty to be human," he finished for her. "Never forget that. Never, ever, ever forget that. Do not judge consciously. Do not harbor hatred in your heart if you can avoid it. Do not become like me."

Her eyes began to water.

Ekarius pushed the rest of the boat into the water, muttering an incantation below his breath. It quickly aligned and began its trek towards Lydia.

A rush of wind tossed his hair across his face. The muddy hem of his robes twisted around him like a vine.

That was the last memory she had of him.

M

Bells reverberated throughout the monastery and its outlying grounds. This was not the steady rhythm that announced a time for prayer. This was a cacophony.

Senior priests ushered children into their rooms. Young initiates unlocked doors to the armory, clumsily pulling out weapons covered in dust. All others filed into the halls, taking orders as they came.

Tamil's cane clacked against the floor as he limped into the chapel. Before him was a scene from a nightmare. Several corpses lay strewn over the pews and upon the altar. An old friend knelt, hunched at its heart.

"Did you get Ekarius, Tamil?"

"He's on his way." The man stared at him. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know. Just, please, kill me before I do anything else."

"Hendrick, do your best to remember," Tamil ordered. "Who killed you?"

"A..." Crimson's father stared at the gaping hole in his chest. The wound was still hemorrhaging, but the longer he looked, the harder it became to recall. Images, if he could call them that, flitted through his memories. "I- I don't–"

"Looking for me?" A woman approached. One of her eyes had been recently replaced by an emerald, the other covered by a patch. Black hair curled around her face wildly, and she offered them a mad and lazy smile. "Good day to you."

"Defiler. What have you done?"

"I freed him from the Threads."

"You have created an abomination!" Ekarius roared, storming into the room. The elf didn't even blink at the corpses around him. "Burn them, Tamil."

"What?"

"Burn them. It's the only way to prevent resurrection." His voice brooked no room for argument. Tamil took the body closest to him, and with startling strength, dragged it into the hall.

The woman clapped. "As expected of the High Priest. You know your craft well."

"Feyt cannot be getting so desperate as to resort to senseless bloodshed. You are no Ghostwalker. Who are you?"

"Elvawein," she replied sweetly. "And you're right. I'm not a Ghostwalker. Doesn't that prove that this was all meant to happen? That I'm destined to free everyone I can?"

"You're destined to die," he muttered dangerously. "I can't allow your madness to progress any further than this."

"You mean Lydia? I'm afraid you're a bit late for that, Abbot. The Guild War has probably started by now."

"Guild War?"

"Surely you've heard of the unrest, being its closest neighbor."

"Lyssa would've put a stop to it."

"Now where have I heard that name before?" Elvawein lifted a finger to the emerald in her eye socket. "Ahh yes, Lyssa was kind enough to give me this from her diadem. Lovely woman, lovelier screams." The sleeve of Elvawein's shirt brushed his arm as she moved past. "It's been a nice chat, but I have a prior engagement."

The elf collapsed to his knees, staring up at Hendrick's face. It had been a long time since he last felt the tip of a knife. His attendant's once bright eyes were black. His tears resembled wet ink. An apology whispered its way from his cracked and bleeding lips.

"Come, we have a busy night ahead of us." Elvawein waved at the door. Hendrick jerked towards her, as though pulled by an invisible string. "Sleep well, Ekarius."

M

Damian heard the monastery bells from his boat. The sound wasn't nearly as pleasant as it normally was. This was a tirade of senseless noise. He rolled off the side of his bed and left the cabin to the main deck. Fire greeted him on the horizon.

Vaisya Isle was in flames. The smoke stretched so high that the moon was nearly blocked from view.

Behind him, in Lydia, he also heard hell breaking loose. The unmistakable clash of metal rang in the distance.

"Help!" a little voice shouted from the darkness. "Help me!"

He scanned the water frantically. "Where are you?!"

"Water!"

Not far from him was a young girl, clinging to the side of her small craft with all the strength she had. Damian dove into the water. It took some time and navigation to finally reach her.

"Come here. There's a good girl."

She grabbed hold of his neck. Damian pushed his way to the shore. The final wave practically kicked them back onto dry land. He pulled her in and leaned her against one arm, giving her lower back several firm whacks. She coughed up water and rested against him, shivering.

"A-Abbot sent me here."

To his left, the Isle was burning. To his right, Lydia was falling apart. He lifted her into his arms and started towards the Shadow Blades, hoping the cover of night would be enough to hide him. The girl stared at her old home, wondering about her family and the others still on it.

"The Isle... is lost."

"We all are."

M

Iago raised his head from the chessboard. "It's started."

"What started?" Alyon rested a finger on one of his bishops. He tilted his head at the window. Smoke rose over the treetops.

"The Guild War." Iago sighed. "So, Elvawein wasn't bluffing."

Like all the other guilds, the Shadow Blades had also received a letter from Elvawein, only theirs was sent straight to the prince himself.

Stay within your walls if you wish to live, Your Highness.

The sentence caused Alyon to clench his fist.

Lyssa is gone. The Isle will burn. Bloodlust blinds your people.

Alyon stopped reading it then to report it to one of the saner adults around him. Uproar ensued. Some people ran into the city to find Lyssa, but there was no news of her. Damian was also gone, never around when he was needed most.

"Aren't you king now?" Iago asked. "You are the only heir."

"I'm still a kid, Iago. No one will listen to me."

"No one listened to Lyssa either."

Alyon's glare silenced him. His finger was still on his bishop, shaking the piece and the board along with it. "The king is the worst piece," he said after a moment. "It can only move one square each turn. What other piece can move only once?"

"Pawns, after their first move at least," Iago answered, uncertain of what Alyon was trying to get at. "Except those are only good at moving forward."

"Exactly." He folded his arms, slumping in his seat. "Pawns don't need protection. They're not arrogant enough to have the entire game depend on whether or not they get taken. They have others they can stand with, and they never go back. What's so great about being a king, anyway? You're alone, you can move anywhere but still risk getting cornered, and you have to sacrifice everybody to save yourself."

He finally moved the bishop.

Iago tapped his chin, analyzing possibilities. He reached for his knight.

"Say goodbye to your queen."
Part Two

The Bastard Prince

The nobility fell first, but it didn't stop at that. Drunk off their perverted justice, the revolutionaries turned to pillage their neighbors. This was how a once-great High City fell asunder; at the hands of its very own people.

An uneasy silence fell upon Lydia for many years. During this time, I came to terms with an infuriating foe: my optimism.

I danced the fine line between contentment and calamity, but even the nimblest performers are susceptible to fatigue. I grew tired, but rather than misstep, I collapsed.

Everything I worked so hard to build began to crumble. Destiny waited many years to make its move–to devastating effect.

I was Feyt's champion, but she never told me I'd be pit against the one person I thought I could believe in.

Myself.

Silhouette Spiderlily,

The Last Ghostwalker

10: Spiderlily

"The one thing I want to leave my children is an honorable name."

Theodore Roosevelt

She heard footsteps as he walked around the table, smelled chemicals in the stagnant air and envisioned snakes coiling in on themselves within glass containers.

"I'm doing this for your sake, Kendra."

Daerin's face appeared over her. His eyes were foggy. The scars on the outer rims of his ears seemed fresher than ever.

"I'm Silhouette."

He hesitated, but then she saw disapproval spreading in his frown. A hand nestled against her cheek.

"You wound me, Kendra." She hissed at the needle puncturing her arm. Daerin smoothed her hair back, shushing. The world misaligned. There were two versions of his macabre smile. "Does it hurt? Does it hurt as much as you hurt me?" He squeezed her face. "Answer me!"

The basement used to be for embalming and cremating corpses, but it had become a place of weekly torments.

Silhouette rested in a clay tub. Straps bound her wrists, ankles, and neck. It felt as though every time Daerin left after one of their sessions, he lost another part of himself. There was a decade of missing pieces.

"You're the one hurting yourself."

Feyt winced at the whip of a hand striking her face.

"It's your fault!" Daerin shrieked. "You picked the wrong one!"

"You should know better than to provoke him." Feyt sighed.

Silhouette found that she could only frown deeper the harder she tried to laugh. "But where's the fun in that?" she wondered, looking at Feyt.

Daerin narrowed his eyes. "Fun?"

"I'm not talking to you."

He scanned the room, on edge. "There's no one here."

"That's because I'm the only one who can see her."

"Kendra, stop speaking nonsense." His expression softened. He removed the needle from her flesh and bandaged it tenderly. "I see. You're tired, aren't you? Poor dear."

"I'm speaking nonsense, am I?"

"Of course," he said. "There's only me. Only for you. No one else."

He pulled up a chair, folded his arms against the table, and beamed. Time was not kind to him. Creases webbed the surface of his face. Deep lines and sleepless blemishes further marred his complexion.

"Look at yourself." She laughed darkly. "You crazy bastard."

"Now Kendra, that's not nice."

"Silhouette, don't even think a–" Feyt warned.

"I'll do as I damn well please!"

They recoiled.

"You know," said Silhouette back to Daerin, "maybe you do see my mother in me, but the thing is that I'm still alive. Do you remember? The little girl you stole from Riverstone? Tera?"

He shook his head at the unpleasant reminder. "No, no you're–"

"I'm not Kendra!" she yelled, lurching against her restraints. "I'm not your doll! I'm not some replacement!" Silhouette felt the effects of the poison dissipating. She barred her teeth behind her lips. "We both talk to someone no one else can see, but the difference is she's dead, Daerin."

"W-what are you–"

"A lot of things." She lowered the volume of her voice. "But I'm not her."

"You're lying." His hands covered his face, looking through his fingers. "You're lying, right? You're still here, Kendra. I can hear you, can't I? I can touch you, can't I?"

He started for her hand when white mist spread over its surface. Icicles shot from her skin like a shield. One shard stabbed through his palm.

Daerin released a yelp of pain. He stared at Silhouette in askance, but was met with a glare so sharp it could cut.

"Get away from me."

The man backed out like a wounded beast, and when it became certain that he wasn't going to return, Silhouette dropped her head against the table, breathing hard. "I hate him."

"Your body is already strained."

"I hate him."

"Are you listening?"

Silhouette stared at the ceiling, trembling. Feyt felt her frustration, but not the hatred Silhouette spoke of. If anything, it was fear.

"I hate him," she squeaked.

Feyt rested a hand over the place Daerin hit her. "Breathe deeply," she mouthed, and watched as her chest rose and fell. She inspected the throbbing handprint. It would bruise soon, gauging from the faint yellow outline. "I'd cut off his hands if I could."

"You should be thanking him. You wanted a monster, and he's creating one."

Her words stung deep.

Feyt frequently reminded Silhouette that she was her last chance at undoing the Tapestry of Fate. The girl survived this long, which was more than she could have asked for, but the strain was also more than she anticipated.

It was a special brand of torture, watching her evolve into something that could survive in the warzone Lydia had become, feeling pieces of her breaking, rearranging, and falling apart. The child Feyt knew was lost somewhere in the journey, making rare appearances in a smile that seemed artificial.

At times, Silhouette was everything Feyt asked for, and at other times, she barely was.

"Silhouette?" Heron appeared. "I was wondering why you didn't arrive after Daerin."

"Ran away with his tail between his legs?"

He scowled. "Sooner or later, someone is going to cut that tongue out."

"I'd bite it first."

Heron gave her a chastising look, undoing the straps.

"Is Nyx late again?" she asked.

"He's on the rooftop," Heron said back. He paused after undoing the last strap. "You still haven't told Faodrin anything?"

"No," she said, wary. "Have you?"

"No. It's just, he's worried."

"He'll be more worried if he knew what I was doing. Now give me my assignment."

"In your current state?"

"Who dies tonight?" Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Or are you volunteering?"

M

Silhouette dragged her feet to the edge of the roof. She sank to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and hugged herself.

Nyx waited, knowing better than to speak when she was like this.

"Shut up."

"What?"

Silhouette lifted her head, exasperated. "Not you."

"Feyt?" he asked.

Silhouette told him about Feyt not long after the Guild War began. Nyx called her crazy. Weeks of bickering led Yherod to settle the truth for what it was. The brat he met on the streets was a Ghostwalker. He came to believe it somewhere along the way.

"Of course I have to."

Nyx traced the angle of her eyes. He backtracked and pointed to empty air at his left. "Is she here?"

A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. "I'd get your hand off her ass if I were you."

He laughed. "My mistake. No offense meant."

"She's not buying it."

"She knows me so well."

Nyx sat beside the mage. He guessed she did something to piss Daerin off again. It was an injection day, after all.

"You know, I've been looking into the Ghostwalkers," he mentioned absently, wondering if he was interrupting the conversation.

"Find anything?"

"Only that I'm allergic to copious amounts of dust. I must've gone over a thousand books at the Waterglass Library, but not a single mention of Ghostwalkers or elves in the founding of Lydia."

Silhouette nodded to the air. "Feyt says that's because the records are in the Shadow Blade compound, probably in a place only Lyssa could access."

"Do you think Heron would know where? He is technically their spy, isn't he?"

"Not a very good one if we know about it." She extended a hand to help him off the floor, taking the opportunity to change the topic. "You already checked the orphanage?"

"There were two kids. I took them through the Waterglass hatch."

"Good," she said, leading them through the rooftops.

After the fighting broke out, it became apparent what guilds were stealing children for. They needed expendable labor: cooks, stewards, errand runners, soldiers, shields. They disappeared one by one, until Lydia became a place devoid of laughter.

Silhouette wasn't the sort of person to turn a blind eye. She risked her life to smuggle every child into the Undercity. During those nights, when Daerin kept her from this hobby, it was Nyx's job to act as her replacement.

At first, he hated her troublesome idea of time off, but years passed. The children grew older, and he realized that such a simple thing might never have happened if they didn't help when they did.

He didn't always agree with Silhouette, but there were few people in Lydia deserving of the respect he had for her.

"So, who is it this time?"

"Thomas Farhan."

"I've heard of him." The look on her face asked him why she should care. "Low-born blacksmith. Made weapons in his spare time. A hobbyist. The Guild War happened and he's been selling them off to the highest bidder ever since. The man made a fortune!"

"A killing," she muttered dryly. "Is he a very famous arms dealer, then?"

"An independent one, yes." Nyx scratched the back of his head. "How you're going to break into his place, I have no idea. Probably has it built like a fortress."

"Why would Daerin want him dead?"

He gave her a dull stare. "Are you telling me you've been hacking these guys off for almost a year now and never bothered to look into who they were?"

Silhouette shrugged. "If I try to figure out what's going on in Daerin's head, I'll probably go insane myself."

"The only thing insane is your lack of common sense. Is he trying to expand his influence?"

"He just wants his turf to be left alone." She released a deep breath. "I'll worry about it later. For now, I need to find the place, and you're on lookout again."

"Oh joy. I get to watch a maniacally depressed drunk all night." He made a face at Hangman's Cross. "He'll be drinking himself into a stupor, starting a fight, wandering around, or some combination of the three. He's not the person you used to know."

"I'm not the same person I used to know," she pointed out. "I kill someone every other week."

"But you kill criminals, bad guys."

"Murder is murder, Nyx." Silhouette smiled. "I can't blame this on Daerin because he isn't the one standing here. He isn't the one pulling out the knife, and he isn't the one who lands the final blow. I am."

"Still," he insisted. "You're better."

The half-elf tilted her head to the side.

"To make one thing clear, Nyx, I never thought about the man he is. To me, he's just a man. And to me, as long as he's alive, in a place I can watch over, it's enough. We all make mistakes, Nyx, but the real question here is if we can own up to them. He's just... not quite there yet." She pressed a hand over the locket at her heart. "Neither am I."

He pivoted away. "I can't decide if you're wise or if you're a fool."

"I'm wise because I'm a fool." Silhouette gave a little bow. "Think about it."

Nyx mulled it over, but by the time he turned to say something, Silhouette was already gone.

M

Alyon?

Do you think it's true?

The story about the spider lily...

The words were faint. He struggled to remember where he heard them.

Small hands. Effervescent laughter. Cutouts of images bathed in light.

At first, he cast them off as illusions; things conjured up by cheap alcohol and bad music, but that couldn't be right. He'd been broke for little over a week, and sober for that entire stretch.

"Elliot, how much is the pay for this job?"

The dark-skinned agent sat across the table. Elliot finished off a sentence to his report before looking at him. "It's been stumping everyone for months, longer than any case we've had before." His friend scratched the side of his neck. "You can get about," he murmured, thinking to himself, "two month's salary by my estimate?"

Alyon revitalized. "So let's go over it one more time. Around a year ago, a string of murders started to happen."

"Not uncommon," Elliot interjected, "but every corpse was placed flat on its back, eyes closed with a square sheet of cloth covering their faces."

"The Shrouds. It's their calling card."

The man opposite him nodded. "There's more. You know how Iago can identify how people were killed, right? Poison, slashing, down to the metal used and sometimes even the smiths who forge it."

"Get to the point."

Elliot leaned in, taking on a haunted appearance in the glow of the lamp. "All bodies have evidence of stabbing, but according to him, no weapon was used. There's also a lot of water at the scene."

"Maybe the killer used water to wash off their tampering?"

"Iago says it doesn't work that way. It takes alcohol or fire to do something like that." Elliot pointed to the trinket he had brought along with him, resting on the surface of the table. "We know it's a Shroud member, but this suggests an individual. The secondary identifier."

Alyon picked it up by the stem, twisting it over in the firelight.

"The red spider lily."

"You're the only person who knew that apart from Damian." He folded his arms across his chest. "It's not native to Lydia, so where did you learn about it?"

Elliot watched his green eyes scan the length of the flower, tracing the curvature of the red petals. He looked into a different time, too far gone to be disturbed.

Do you think it's true?

Alyon?

"Alyon?"

"Huh?" He blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Where did you learn about the lily?"

"Oh." He placed the flower back on the desk. "Saw one in Riverstone."

"Do you think the killer is trying to leave some sort of message or... ultimatum?"

"Ultimatum for what? For someone who's been doing this for almost a year, they're being awfully patient and methodical about it."

"Well he can't be from Lydia."

"Why not?"

"These flowers don't grow here. He couldn't have used a real one as a reference to make them."

"There are books," Alyon pointed out.

"A murderer who reads books?"

"Just look at who's being killed, Elliot. It's the third parties. Merchants, traders, slavers; everybody who doesn't directly fight, but adds fuel to the fire," he explained. "It would make sense that they were educated. It's a smart way of not bringing much attention to yourself so you can work without immediate backlash. If Spiderlily tried to kill off a guildmaster, whole districts would be out for blood. When one provider stops providing, everyone just moves on to the next person who can. It's strategy."

Elliot glanced at him, half-joking, half-serious. "You don't moonlight as an assassin, do you?"

"I wouldn't be so broke if I did."

He laughed.

Alyon allowed himself a bemused grin. "You seem convinced Spiderlily is male."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

He received a blank look.

"Oh, I don't know." Alyon stretched. "Maybe the fact that he uses flowers? What guy pretties up a corpse before setting them out like a funeral service?" He shook his head. "I bet you it's a woman. It's no wonder she hasn't been caught if you've been out looking for some balding, middle-aged man."

"And what's wrong with a man liking flowers?"

Alyon didn't see fit to grace that question with an answer. "How about you tell me why you came to me for help instead," he suggested. "Everybody else knows better than to ask me for anything other than disappointment."

The prince sat patiently, willing to wait it out if he had to. Elliot was competent in many respects, but he had serious issues coping with silence. Ten seconds passed. Ten and a half.

"It was the lily." He motioned to the one in front of him. "This one was the first of them, and it's been like this the entire time. It hasn't withered. It's cool to the touch, and more like glass than anything else."

"That still doesn't answer my question."

"It was familiar." He paused, his eyes trailing from the desk to Alyon's face. "Then I realized I saw it somewhere before."

"Somewhere?"

"Your key, Alyon. I think it's ice."

Alyon reached for the earring. It was a part of him for so long that he didn't pay its chill much thought. After Elliot mentioned it, he touched the anthers of the lily in front of him, startled, but mostly irked that he hadn't noticed it himself.

Ice that didn't melt.

Elliot saw him rise from his seat, grab the flower, and walk to the exit.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

And the door clicked shut behind him.

M

Feyt sat on the pergola overlooking Farhan's garden. Tomatoes grew plentiful. Heads of lettuce dotted raised beds like blades of grass. Due to its isolation, Lydians always had some degree of self-sufficiency. After the Guild War, the easiest way to detect where survivors lived was by whose roofs were tended. Farhan's crop said much about him. He chose hearty, bountiful harvests, and the sheer quantity proved he had many hands to help him. Hands guarding the inside of his estate.

"I'm terribly curious to see how you're going to manage this," she said, resting flat on her stomach.

Though Silhouette's back was facing her, Feyt could see the image of her face, tense in concentration. One hand's fingers curled and uncurled around the locket at her heart.

"If the walls weren't so smooth, I might be able to climb to that balcony." Silhouette directed her eyes two stories above the garden. Feyt spotted a small terrace with flowerpots overhanging the rail.

"Why not use your ice to make footholds?" she proposed.

The young woman plopped down in one of the beds. "I'd slip," she pouted. "Sure, the ice can't melt if I don't want it to, but I can't make its surface rough. I've tried before, but my magic has limitations. It's useless."

"Don't say that," Feyt scolded. "You've been practicing all this time. That effort never goes to waste."

"That effort's not going to get me in there before sunrise, unless I..."

Feyt learned to become very apprehensive when she heard this tone in Silhouette's voice.

"I've been thinking."

Here we go, she thought.

"Way back, before I became a Ghostwalker, I could see the light in everything, even empty space," she explained. "After I became one, I couldn't, but I could still pull light out from the environment."

"So?"

"So," she continued, "what if your Darkness canceled it out? I mean, we already share the same body, in a way. And we definitely share a sensory link, so maybe–"

"No."

Silhouette flinched at the prompt rejection. "Oh come on."

"No," Feyt repeated. "You don't understand the basis of my domain. A vague feel for it is far from enough. And I don't need to get into the semantics of how perilous Darkness can be."

"Hold on!" she objected. "Both you and Daerin gave me lectures on this. Magic is like a tree. It's easier to learn branches closer to your own."

"Correct. Darkness is the antithesis of Light, completely different."

"Two branches of the same tree, two sides of the same coin," she argued. "At any rate, what do you want me to do here? Kill everybody on the way to Farhan? It's wrong, first of all, and second, it can't possibly be any riskier than what I'm suggesting."

"You can always walk away from this assignment."

"And have a kid die in his place at dawn?" she asked. "Which child under our roof is Daerin going to drag off, Feyt? How do I face the mother and apologize for sentencing her child to death because I was too incompetent to do my job? You're not going to make amends. Daerin sure as hell isn't. So tell me how I'm supposed to make everything better."

"You've already saved dozens below the surface, Silhouette."

"I can save dozens more and it won't make any difference." Feyt saw a flicker of the child she once knew. "A life is a life. I can't put a value on that. Please don't make me."

Feyt set her hands on Silhouette's shoulders. "Your compassion is a wonderful thing, but you forget that my role here isn't just to support you, but to ensure your safety. And it's hard for me since you are the only thing I can interact with." She smoothed out a lick of hair to prove her point. "I'm not saying that I don't value the lives of others, and you're right. They are precious things, but so is yours. I don't want you throwing your life away if it can be avoided, and in this case, it can."

The corner of Silhouette's mouth turned down. Feyt knew the words got through, but she was inclined to ignore them, as always.

"Alright, let's make a deal," Silhouette announced. "You say I can't learn your branch in a day. I'm guessing you also meant I wouldn't be able to use it at all, right?"

"Naturally."

"Well, if I do pull it off, you'll let me use it to get inside Farhan's place. And if I don't, I'll go through the front entrance and run the gauntlet." She bent her fingers into the shape of a man, running it across the air. "I'll probably get pierced, slashed, and bludgeoned half to death, but who cares so long as the job's done, right?"

Feyt ran a hand down her face. "You're not giving me a choice."

"There're two choices," she disagreed. "Bad or worse. Pick one."

"Fine!" She pressed two fingers against her pulsing temple. "Go to the wall."

"Yes ma'am," she said, all smiles at having her way.

Feyt followed close behind, dumbstruck by the girl's nerve.

"Hands on the wall," she ordered. "Focus on exactly what you want to happen, or you might destroy the building." Feyt paused to grimace. "I- I want you to picture something simple. A shape, a color–"

"A silhouette?" she joked.

Feyt scowled.

The mage sighed. There really was no way to lighten the mood. She chose a blanket of snow for her mental image.

"Now, I want you to make it as dark as you possibly can."

Fog washed over its glistening surface, which turned to ash, and then soot.

"Darker."

It went from soot to coal, and coal to ink.

Feyt centered her palms on the girl's back. Misty tendrils slipped from between her fingers, into the mage.

Silhouette felt her heart pound with fear. She struggled to maintain her concentration. Feyt gave her a harsh mental pulse to stay in line.

An outline appeared in the blackness, of someone, something, expanding and enclosing all around her. Silhouette fought to keep from being consumed by the void.

The pulse she felt was not of this world, but Silhouette understood, with sickening clarity, that it was every bit as alive as she was. The invisible predator crawled over her feet, to her ankles, up her thighs.

With every ascent, she lost feeling from her hips, up her waist, to her shoulders.

Then the phrase. Two words so soft they seemed to be spoken worlds away.

"Let. Go."

A hand flew over her mouth in time to contain her scream. Silhouette sank against Feyt, shaking furiously. The phantom closed her eyes, absorbing the girl's terror. She stilled after a moment. Feyt leaned down and whispered to her ear, "Now, do you see?"

"What..." She couldn't find the words to speak. Then awareness hit. "It hurts!" she breathed.

"Where?"

She removed her gloves, shocked to see that her palms were heavily grazed. Her eyes watered.

"Oww–"

"Freeze it," Feyt instructed. A thin layer of ice stretched over the open wounds. "You got off quite lucky."

"Lucky?" she squeaked. "What part of this is lucky?"

"Look." She pointed to the wall.

Silhouette raised her head. Cracks spanned all along its surface.

"There's no debris," she commented. Something the girl hadn't noticed before. "One could say that Darkness is the antithesis of existence. The price for using it is losing a part of yourself."

"That's what turned you into this," she stated numbly, alluding to her spectral form. "You, you ate yourself away."

"Let's not talk about this."

"What did you try to–"

"Silhouette," she said urgently. "Please."

The mage cast her eyes down. Her link with the woman made it perfectly clear that this was a raw topic. Silhouette was reminded of Feyt's ancientness.

It just went to prove that there were some wounds all the time in the world could not heal.

M

Half an hour passed since Nyx and Silhouette parted ways, and her precious little prince was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't difficult to spot him in a crowd. His hair was a mess. He either attempted to cut it himself, whoever cut it for him was blind, or he was simply cursed with an unmanageable head. The point was that he was a wreck on a good day. On a bad day, he was still a wreck, just a barely functioning one.

Nyx only saw him do one of three things: drink, fool around with women, or get into fights. So long as no knife was pulled, Nyx considered watching to be a crude form of entertainment.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sang, scanning from right to left. "Found you."

He walked around the corner, through an alley, and past the bar. Alyon continued down the street until reaching one of the stairways up to the next terrace, and made his way towards another.

Nyx ducked around two buildings. Alyon continued ascending.

"What are you up to?" he muttered.

Something glinted in his hand. Nyx squinted. A red spider lily.

"Oh no."

11: Find Me

"We are all children of chance and none can say why some fields will blossom while others lay brown."

Kent Nerburn

The door off the balcony was locked, but destroying it was a simple matter. Silhouette enjoyed the process of breaking barriers by expanding ice inside them.

Thick tapestries covered the walls and intricate rugs lay across the stone floor.

Shelves full of leather-bound books lined the space opposite where she stood, and finally, a canopy bed sat to the side.

In it slept a man she could only presume to be Farhan.

He was a sturdy-looking figure, with hardened muscle peeking out from beneath his girth. His hands were lined with calluses, much like hers would be when her skin grew back.

There was something honest in his face; about the lines and the tanned skin, the troubled way his mouth curled down at its ends, how his brow creased on itself. Silhouette decided he was a decent man. Survival was his only sin.

"You shouldn't waste any more time," Feyt said behind her.

Silhouette eyed the back of his neck, the portion least protected by his meaty exterior, and summoned a sharp icicle in her palm.

Kshh!

The mage allowed the protruding end to melt faster while she flipped him over. She brought out a gray, square cloth, smoothing his face with one hand, and covering it with the other.

"I hear someone coming."

The mage stiffened. "How many?"

"One."

Silhouette ducked behind a heavy curtain.

Feyt surveyed the room. "A man just came from the balcony. He has one of your lilies."

The mage heard the gentle sound of padded footsteps. Whoever it was knew how to move quietly. They stopped at the edge of the bed. She listened to folding fabric. He was turning.

"I know you're here," he called. "You haven't made the lily yet." More footsteps. "I just want to talk to you. I'm not looking for a fight."

M

The curtain rustled. A young woman stepped from behind the heavy fabric. She moved with caution. Her long limbs and lank hair reminded him of a wary animal. She seemed as surprised to see him as he did her.

"I can't believe the Shadow Blades would send their only prince after me."

"How did you–"

"It's not that hard to spot a seer," she answered back.

They stood still, neither one willing to move. As though this would upset an unseen balance.

"You said you wanted to talk," she reminded him.

"Ah." He didn't expect to run into her, or for her to be so compliant. "You can finish what you need to do. Would you walk with me afterwards?"

"Walk."

"Or sit," he offered, feeling more than a little stupid. "Just anywhere but here."

Spiderlily approached Farhan only when Alyon stepped away. She drew her fingertips together, closed her eyes, and breathed.

Stalks of ice grew from her skin, winding into the shape of the flower he held at his side. Twisting the stem with one hand, she whirled her finger around it. Miniscule threads appeared out from the nothingness, wrapping around the little sculpture. Within moments, the finished red spider lily glowed in the darkness.

She placed the flower over Farhan's heart and was still for a time. Rather than the cold-blooded killer everyone was gossiping about, what he saw was a girl who seemed both reluctant and respectful.

"Why the spider lily?" The question came out before it registered that he was the one asking it.

If she was taken aback, it didn't show. Spiderlily gave him the tiniest of smiles, reminiscent of an impish girl he once knew.

"I wanted to say goodbye."

M

Alyon scaled down first. There was no telling whether Spiderlily would try to run off if she hit the ground before he did, so he took the lead as a preventative measure. Pain flashed on her face every time her hand grasped the holds, and it was then that he saw her swollen palms.

She slipped. She screamed.

He cringed. "Are you okay?"

"What does it look like?" she snapped.

Her face blared red. The assassin they'd been looking for was little more than a child. A clumsy child with a flair for theatrics.

"Come on." He pulled her up by the wrist, careful to avoid her injured palms. "I don't think you broke anything. Did you sprain your ankle?"

"No."

"Good." He gave her a quick once-over. Alyon spotted a dark outline at the side of her face. He reached out. "Looks like you've already–"

"Don't!"

He lowered his hands.

Her eyes fell to the floor. "Please. Don't touch me."

"Alright." He backed off. "I'm sorry."

"You had questions?"

"What's your name?"

"My–" She hesitated. Unlike when she hadn't so much as batted an eyelash, she stumbled at the simplest query of them all. "I'm Silhouette."

"You really have a thing for clichés."

Silhouette narrowed her eyes. "Names are things forced on us whether we like them or not. I'd rather you not pick at them, Your Highness."

"Don't call me that."

"Then don't criticize me."

"I wasn't criticizing anyone!" he fumed. "Why are you so defensive?"

She gave him a look, reminding him that they were in a warzone.

"Right," he muttered aside, feeling stupid. "Never mind."

The pair moved into an open plaza. There were several people on the streets around them, cleaning windows and sweeping their steps.

"I've been wondering why you've been assassinating merchants for the last year," Alyon started. "You never take anything, from what we can tell. What's there for you to gain? Attention, like the kind you're getting, will only see you dead."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she spoke, though he could detect a smile in her words. "And I guess that the 'we' you mentioned is your guild? I'm surprised they bothered."

"I only found out about this recently, so I am too." He tucked his arms behind his head. "I'm not really a part of it, though."

"That's also not a bad thing," she said again. "You're not being used to further anyone's agenda. Try to keep it that way. No good comes out of this mess out here."

Alyon smirked. "For someone who makes her living off of 'this mess,' you sure are selfless. Or do you just want less competition?"

"You're ten years too early to think of competing with me on anything," she shot back. Her shoulders sank. "I don't make a living off of this, though. You could also say I'm not really a part of it, same as you."

"Are you trying to tell me you do this for fun?"

"I do it because–" She stopped in her tracks, thinking on how to best put it. "I think you could call it blackmail, right?"

"Who's blackmailing you?"

"Daerin," she answered. "Right before the Guild War broke out, a bunch of women and children came to him for sanctuary. Now they help barricade the place, cook, sweep, iron," she listed. "But starting about a year ago, it wasn't enough for me to do that anymore. Daerin gave me a hit, and for every night I put it off, a kid dies."

The color drained from his face. "Do you have any idea why he's doing this?"

"Not a clue." She shook her head. "Daerin is crazy, and I mean crazy, but he's sharp. I can't say what's driving his plans, but I know they've been calculated carefully." Silhouette gazed at him. "Very carefully."

"Did he also tell you how to kill them?"

"Nope. I'm not the first assassin in his employment. We do have a couple guys as nuts as he is. Just doing whatever they want. They're of the common thug variety. I wanted to, well, separate myself from them."

"Pride?"

"Partially," she admitted, "but I'm not that shallow. First, regardless of what they did, I do think it's wrong to kill someone who hasn't done anything to you, so I try to keep it quick and clean. Second, I wanted to pay some kind of respect, you know? Like say I'm sorry, and it's not personal."

Alyon laughed. "If I was about to get killed, I'd take that very personally."

"You don't say?"

The conversation lapsed, and the two were content to keep moving without a destination in mind.

The night was sticky and wet. Cicadas made their presence known from the gardens above their heads. Vines rustled in the wind.

Silhouette stole glances of him, marveling at the passage of time. It was his eyes that were most familiar. They were as dark and beautiful as she remembered them, framed by lashes that seemed too long to belong to a man.

"And of all the flowers you could've picked, you chose the red spider lily," he mulled aloud, pulling her from her thoughts. "Why?"

"I told you already. I wanted to say goodbye, and it means goodbye." Silhouette kicked a pebble on the street. "There's something called the Language of Flowers. It's still used among certain circles to send messages to one another."

"Is it very common?"

"Not at all." She smiled. "But you can pick it up in just about any horticulture book." She rested an inquiring eye on him. "Now I'm wondering why a boy like you, who doesn't know a thing about gardens, even knew it was a lily."

"I thought I was asking the questions."

"You never said I couldn't ask my own," she countered.

Alyon chuckled. This was something else he didn't expect; that Silhouette would be any good at talking, and that he would actually enjoy the conversation.

"I heard a story about them a long time ago, that's all," he brushed off easily. His brow furrowed into a knot. "The girl who talked to me about it was also a mage."

"Was she now?"

"An ice mage," Alyon specified. He turned his head to the side so that she might get a better look at the frozen key on his ear. "This was hers."

Silhouette forgot how to breathe. It took every ounce of effort she had to keep from reaching for the locket beneath her shirt.

"Is ice a common power?" he asked.

"Ah, well, I'm not sure. Just because it looks like the same power on the surface doesn't mean it is."

"How?"

"Well, it could be ice, or snow, or temperature. Specifically, the ability to lower it. It could be a skill to pull cold water from the air, or combine cold air with water, or freezing in general." She scraped her mind for more possibilities. "There's really no right or wrong with magic, but there are a lot of variables to consider."

"Really?" His tone made it clear she made quite the impression. "I never knew that."

"I'm glad I could help clarify things." The mage gave a little bow. "So, this girl–"

"She's dead."

The quickness of his response threw her off guard. "She can't be."

The words left him numb.

"If it's fire, it'll extinguish. If it's water, it'll evaporate. If it's ice, it will melt. Unless it's carved into stone, all magic reverts to nature after the caster dies."

His hand trailed up to the key.

"That ice is proof." Silhouette's heart felt as though it was being squeezed dry. "She's alive."

"But I saw her–"

"How long ago?"

Her certainty resurrected memories he tried so hard to erase. This time, he could see it clearly: Renee's garden, the page of the book he was reading, and the soft voice beside his ear:

Alyon?

Do you think it's true?

M

The reality was that if the feeling fueling a spell was strong enough, it could last beyond death, but she couldn't stand him thinking that she was dead.

Feyt shook her head in disapproval, too frustrated with the girl to speak. Silhouette took that as a very bad sign.

"Thanks." She looked at Alyon, who rubbed the side of his face sheepishly. "You've been a big help, and now I'm just wasting your time."

"You're not," she said.

You noticed, she thought.

"I'll be sure not to get in your way anymore," he furthered. "Have a good night."

"You too."

She turned to leave.

"Silhouette?"

"Yes?"

"I'm usually on the lowest tier. You can find me there."

She knew she shouldn't ask, but she figured she'd dug herself into a deep enough hole that it no longer mattered.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you're decent company." He looked away. "And, nothing. Never mind."

"Tell me."

Alyon shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's stupid."

"Not leaving until you spit it out."

"I just get the feeling I'll see her again if you stick around."

Rather than call him an idiot or get annoyed, Silhouette stayed there, utterly silent.

Then, though he couldn't see it, her mouth formed a genuine smile.

"That's not stupid. But I thought of something that is."

"What?"

"That maybe," she said, "Just maybe, she's closer than you think."

M

Entry 238

Daerin has completely lost sight of reality. I don't know what he thinks anymore–haven't for many years now. What I do know is that he's hardening the girl, stripping her reservations, leaving a soldier behind.

She obtained immunity to plant-based toxins ages ago. I recently discovered her training now includes spider bites and snake venom. I don't see any need for this. I think Daerin just wants to see her suffer, but the child is ferociously stubborn. The more she resists, the worse the treatment becomes, and she shows no signs of giving in. I fear what this could escalate to.

This was why I left Daerin and came here, to the Shadow Blades. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't bear to watch that girl become content with her situation; couldn't stand to see the color fade from her skin, to see the light dying in her eyes.

A mere silhouette of the child she used to be.

- Ballard

Damian placed the report into the desk along with the others. The sailor took a deep breath, leaning into the hard back of the chair. "She sounds like quite the fighter."

"She is." Ballard put a cup of hot cider to his lips, sitting in a dark corner of the office.

The clock ticked away on the desk. Damian poured himself a glass of water.

"Do you think she'd take up an offer to stay here?"

"Not while Daerin's hit-policy is still in effect," said Ballard, "and it will continue to be in effect so long as Daerin's alive."

"I'm shocked she hasn't offed him by now."

"Everyone is. Heron thinks she's attached to him."

"But he treats her horribly."

"He's nearly everything she knows. Besides," he continued, "Faodrin is there. While not related by blood, the two make for convincing siblings. The main reason she hasn't killed Daerin yet is because she's thinking about how it might affect her brother."

"I thought he was just a laborer."

Ballard put down his cup, leaning against the arm of the couch.

"He's a unique man, highly intelligent, loves to figure out what makes things tick almost to the point of obsession. He's rearranged the entire infrastructure of the Shroud, made it more efficient and kept up with repairs all on his own." He looked out the window. "Had this whole mess not happened, he would've been invaluable as a mason or engineer. Another reason why Daerin keeps him around is because he's one of the few people who can get through Silhouette's head."

"Is she that difficult to handle?"

"Kendra was difficult, this one is impossible." Ballard ran his hands down his face. "No one knows what she's thinking. One minute she's reclusive, and the next, she's apt to bite the first person she sees. She'd cut off her nose to spite her face!"

Damian snorted. "You do understand she's a teenage girl. Allow her a margin for insanity."

"A teenage girl is bad enough without sorcery thrown into the mix. She's dangerous. I'm not sure how she'd fare in a standard fight, but the girl knows how to strike from thin air."

Unable to bear the strained exchange any longer, Damian lifted himself from his seat and declared, "I can't keep her hidden forever, Ballard. Someone, anyone, needs to get through to her and figure this out. It's been a year now. Any longer, and things are going to go downhill faster than a rock off a cliff."

"I can't," he insisted. "I told you already, Damian, no amount of pressure will make her change her mind, and anyone who tries is endangering themselves."

"She's endangering herself!" He threw an arm out to the side. "Half the High City knows about 'Spiderlily'. They expect us to maintain some kind of order. I don't need to remind you how much the Shadow Blades have changed in the last ten years. The lame are mostly dead, the young now grown, the lazy suddenly competent, and everyone hotheaded. Sooner or later, someone will find her and put her head to a chopping block." He scowled at the urn beside the window, overflowing with weeping red petals and their eerie inner light. "If she didn't make these, then I could've just pegged the murders on Daerin's madness and been done with it."

"I know," he responded, "but things have run too far along their course. We can't do anything but watch."

"I pray she knows what she's doing."

"She does."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Can I afford not to?" Ballard chewed on the inside of his mouth. "Why haven't the other guilds acted?"

Damian stared at the spider lilies, his face illuminated by their faint red glow. It added a sinister element to his solemn disposition. "Fear," he replied finally. "She may not have gone after high-profile targets, but she has plenty to her name. It carries weight."

"They want to use her?"

"They want to see what she'll do. We both know she'll die if she's apprehended by us now, but I'm terrified to think of what might happen if she keeps on evading attempts to find her."

"Terrified?" Ballard asked, surprised. "What's there to be terrified about?"

"Children grow, Ballard. Their guardians can only influence them so much. At this rate, she'll have as much sway as any other guildmaster. If she keeps on as she is now, I'm afraid she'll start a campaign."

"Now you're being ridiculous."

"Think about it." Damian rested a hand on his head. "What if she tries to take over? It's hard enough running the guild here, and I know I'm not doing a good job of it. Don't think I don't hear the whispering done in these halls."

Ballard's face flushed red; a whisperer himself.

"And my son, the only child left to me, is Havoc incarnate. He doesn't want to rule. He has the knack for it, and what does he do? Wander around doing Gods know what. I did everything for Alyon. I tried to be there, but he pushed me away. And Silhouette is doing the same with her thrice-damned theatrics, flowers and all."

"You know, I have to wonder," said Ballard. "What if Alyon meets her?"

A blank expression came over the sailor's face. "After everything she's been put through, practically dying, the kidnapping, the brainwashing, the trauma, I'd be shocked if she even recognized our names."

"Do you think he'd recognize her?"

"Doubtful. While I hate to say this about my own son, he's not exactly good at recalling... anything."

"Except for times when it's convenient for him–suspiciously so," Ballard stipulated. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Glad he learned something from me." Damian's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I pray they never meet."

"How come?"

"Because Alyon will know that I've lied to him, and Silhouette will learn of all the opportunities we had to get her away from Daerin." Shame fell over his face. "None of us have done right by the girl. We used her to placate a madman. If it weren't for these"–he pulled a thick stack of reports from the drawer–"we would've allowed ourselves to be oblivious. She's been surviving on her own while we watched and hoped things would get better." The guildmaster squeezed his eyes shut. "But they got worse. Much, much worse."

"And she got stronger."

"Right before all this happened, I lectured Jerrold about being there for his daughters. Being a part of their lives." His mouth contorted. "What a hypocrite I've become. I threw Silhouette to the dogs."

Ballard squeezed his shoulder hard. "Listen to me. Your priority is to protect the Shadow Blades. The Guild War won't go on forever. Play your cards right and Lydia can become a safe place. A brighter place. What happened to Silhouette was tragic, yes, but at least she's alive."

"She shouldn't have been put into that–"

"It is what it is," Ballard interrupted. "Silhouette is more trouble than a thief in a treasury, but if there's anything I know more, it's that she's competent. She can look after herself and she'd cut you in half if you ever suggested otherwise."

Finally, Ballard thought, seeing the reluctant smile inch its way over Damian's lips. "You worry about Lydia. Leave Silhouette to her own devices. She's known Daerin long enough to make her own decisions about him. At the rate things are going, she'll kill him herself."

"You do realize she'll become the Shroud's guildmaster when that happens."

"I do."

"And that would make her my problem."

"Yes."

"And between my duties to protect her and Lydia–"

"I know!" Ballard knew where this was going, and he didn't want to hear it.

"I have to choose Lydia."

The declaration stung. If she kills Daerin, she'll become guildmaster. If she becomes guildmaster, she's a competitor in the fighting. Damian will be forced to take her down while the Shrouds scramble beneath an inexperienced new leader. People will be sentenced.

Either on the streets or in some cell, Silhouette was going to die.

12: Never Alone

"Children learn to smile from their parents."

Shinichi Suzuki

Feyt remained mute on the way back to the Shroud. Silhouette never saw her so irate, something she made no effort of hiding through their sensory link. Feyt was a whirlwind masquerading as the surface of a still pool.

"You've said too much." Each word was clipped, but hearing her voice was a wave of relief. "It was bad enough that you were determined to watch over him, but interaction? I wouldn't be surprised if he learned you were a Ghostwalker."

The accusation was hardly what she expected.

"What? How would he guess that?"

The fact that it hadn't crossed her mind seemed to agitate Feyt more.

"Remind me, Silhouette, what did you promise me when we made our contract?"

"To defeat destiny?"

"Precisely. And do you know how a Ghostwalker does that?"

"No idea."

Again, Feyt's all-too familiar ire flared through their conjoined senses.

"You. Don't. Know."

"You never explained it."

"It was self-explanatory!"

"Obviously not." Silhouette swallowed her tongue at the look her guardian gave her. "Could you explain, please?"

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose, piecing her composure together.

"There is a reason I asked you to stay alive, Silhouette. Existing is what causes the Threads to unravel."

"Then shouldn't my job be done already?"

"Not even close." Feyt's long hair swung with her shaking head. "A Ghostwalker is an abomination. Those who cross the Threads should die and stay that way, yes?"

"Or so I've been told."

"There is a consequence for being my host. I resurrect you, give you a second chance. Your Thread that you originally had is still there in the Tapestry of Fate, but now, in place of where it should've been tied off, the fabric has changed. Your very nature has changed."

"So what is it now?"

Feyt came to a halt. "While there is no exact way to put this... wind."

"Wind?" she repeated. "Why wind?"

"Pull your hair over your eyes."

Silhouette drew her bangs forward.

"Imagine those are the Threads."

"Okay."

"Were the wind to blow toward you now, what would happen?"

Realization dawned. "They would separate!"

"Now you understand." Silhouette didn't need to see to know Feyt was finally pleased. "Upon first becoming a Ghostwalker, the strength of your wind was, at best, a breeze. Now it's consistent, but far from the strength we need it to be. Live long enough, you'll become a gale."

"I need to be a gale to unravel the Threads?"

"To unravel them, yes," Feyt nodded. "To do it indefinitely, no."

"What's stronger than a gale?"

"A hurricane." She took two steps forward, resting her palm over the bruise Daerin had left behind. "If you keep being so reckless, you may not live that long."

Silhouette grabbed her hand and thrust it away. "Again with the cryptic warnings!" she fumed. "I'm beginning to think you want me to die!"

"That's the price I told you about," Feyt reminded. "If it were that simple, then I would've been free by now."

"What is the price exactly?"

"The Tapestry is not a row that simply goes in one direction like strands of hair. All people, all things, the way they live and interact, this is the pattern. It's no coincidence that history repeats itself. It's in the design." Feyt crossed her arms. "By encountering new people, objects, and places, you push against their Threads, moving them off their intended course, but the longer you live and the more your influence grows, the harder these Threads will sink into their places, cutting you rather than giving way."

"You lost me."

Feyt narrowed her eyes, beginning to get frustrated for not having this conversation earlier.

"The people you come to meet will become more stubborn. Pillars could fall on your head when you pass. You might get struck by lightning. Your luck becomes such that it can crush you beneath its weight. The Threads can fight back, trying to reclaim the place you're shaking. They will try to push you out. The longer you live, the stronger you get, the more they resist, the easier it is to die."

Those words stayed in her head, resounding for the better part of a minute.

"You still didn't tell me how Alyon could figure out I'm a Ghostwalker."

"Clairvoyants are given the ability to follow the design. If Threads that were once there are gone or out of order–"

"They can't see the future."

"Correct."

Silhouette said nothing, shrugging off the information. Feyt expected more of a reaction than this, and couldn't help but feel a little disappointment. The girl allowed none of her emotions to slip into their fold, so she was rendered as curious as she was clueless.

That was when she spotted the upturned corners of her mouth.

"You knew!" she gasped. "You knew he'd lose his ability to See!"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later." The mage rounded the corner, eyeing the Shroud at the edge of the next street. "I knew all about seers using the Threads to look into the future. If just by breathing, I can interfere with them, then I can't say I feel all that bad about it."

"And if he discovers your identity?"

"He knows I'm 'Spiderlily,' so what if he knows I'm a Ghostwalker? Maybe he'll help me."

"He doesn't know you."

"He used to," she whispered. The young woman looked at her guardian in askance. "Is it really so bad to want him to know me again, Feyt? Is it a crime to want somebody I can call my friend?"

The loneliness in her voice betrayed everything about the ragged young woman. Lydia forced the girl to adapt very quickly, a circumstance made worse by Daerin's suffocating grip. They surmised years ago that Heron and Ballard were distant observers, helping her on almost arbitrary whims, and couldn't be counted on for anything. Faodrin offered her the nurturing to sustain her, but it was best to keep him in the dark, and Feyt was simply there to advise when necessary.

All of them had a role to play in her isolation, making her wear a different mask for every person she came in contact with.

"Isn't Nyx your friend?"

"Nyx always made it clear he hangs around to clear his debt for saving him and the orphans. He's been kind to me," she admitted, "but I've been putting him in danger. That's not something a friend would do."

"I see." Feyt hesitated. "Just be careful. You can't be sure how Alyon changed over the years. He may not be the same." She bit her lower lip at the thought. "In fact, I'd bet on it."

"You're sounding just like Nyx."

"He has a valid point. For all we know, he could be your enemy someday."

She shook her head, but Feyt knew better. The words cut into her like a knife. A pang of sorrow stabbed the mage with every step she took.

M

Faodrin didn't bat an eyelash when Heron told him about Daerin's assignments. There was never a shortage of excuses for Silhouette staying out at night. With the nervous families in their care, the talk of Spiderlily on the streets, and the wounds that would mysteriously appear on Silhouette's body, he'd have to be an idiot among idiots not to notice.

"I was waiting for her to tell me on her own." He stacked a clean glass into the cupboard over his head. "I've known for months now." He opened one eye at the man. "That means you have too."

"The circumstances are more complicated than you think. Do you have any idea who's invested in her life?"

Faodrin slapped his palms on the table. "No. You won't tell me. I don't care. Are we clear on that? Now, hand me that parsley if you want to make yourself useful."

Heron plucked a handful of parsley from the ceiling and dropped it into the bowl Faodrin held out for him. He proceeded to throw it into the pot over the stove.

"Soup again?"

"Yeah." He reached for two more spices. "It's one of the few things she can eat without spitting back up." He wiped the sweat from his temple with the back of his hand.

Heron wondered why Faodrin stuck to making the same dishes over and over. His meals were typically some variation of stew or pudding. He felt stupid for realizing that Faodrin had been staying awake for Silhouette to come home. These were small gestures, but they proved how much he cared.

"Something smells good." The mage unfastened her bracers and set them on the windowsill.

Her brother rested a large hand on her head, allowing her to duck beneath his arm and wriggle closer to his side. It was a sign of affection she reserved for him and no one else.

"Soup?" she asked, leaning over the pot.

"It'll be done in a few minutes." Faodrin stirred the golden liquid. He glanced down. Her wrists were scraped. "Gloves off."

"Do I–"

"Off," he demanded.

Silhouette grumbled, removing the fabric. Heron blinked at the bizarre wound. The uppermost layer of her skin was shaved off. Faodrin gave it a stern look.

"Farhan must have given you a lot of trouble."

She shot Heron a venomous glare.

"It's not news to me, Silhouette." Faodrin tapped the spoon on the rim of the pot, setting it down on the counter. He reached for the cupboard, bringing out a solution and two sets of linen. "I've known for a while. If you want to be angry at someone, it ought to be yourself. Hands out."

He took her wrists over the sink, pouring the tonic over her injured palms. A foul scent blossomed in the air, strong enough for Heron to cough. The wound frothed over and Silhouette's eyes watered. Faodrin turned on the faucet, rinsing it off. He proceeded to bind it with the clean strips.

"I can't get in Daerin's way, but I hope you're more careful from now on." Faodrin handed her a bowl of soup. "Pass this to Heron. Yours is next."

She did as she was told. Heron didn't miss the wary look she cast him.

"That's it? No lecture?" Silhouette asked.

"Do you need one?" returned her brother.

"No!"

"Then get eating and try not to burn yourself."

"I can just freeze my tongue if I do."

"What did I say about using magic at the table?"

She pouted, reciting in monotone, "No magic in or near the house."

Heron smiled. If he were to be honest, he was fond of Silhouette. She was an average girl, powers and profession aside. Faodrin was all the family she lost, and more importantly, the only one who could discipline her without fear of retribution. She was simply his little sister, and he was the brother she adored.

Dinner passed in relative silence. Heron excused himself to his room. Silhouette gathered the dishes and set them in the sink. She and her brother trudged up the stairs to their room.

They were lucky they had the space to themselves. It wasn't much, but compared to the others who had to double up two families in a similar area, it was no small blessing. Faodrin had his bed and a desk in the corner with a neat row of books. Cogs and contraptions sat on every free surface. Diagrams of potential projects were pinned to his walls.

Silhouette's side was sectioned off by a short curtain. Colorful glass bottles hung from their necks on the ceiling. Several stuffed animals rested on her cot. She had a small stack of books she used as a nightstand, home to a gas lamp and a music box. It may as well have been two rooms, with its occupants having such different living arrangements. His was all about efficiency, and hers, comfort.

She burrowed beneath a mountain of pillows. "Faodrin?"

"Hmm?"

Her nose peeked over the blanket. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

"I can't be mad for something that isn't your fault." He tugged on the covers. The rest of her face came out from hiding. "Why were you trying to keep it from me?"

Silhouette averted her eyes. He couldn't stop the frown that came over his face when he saw the bruise Daerin left. He heard the slap as it happened.

"I didn't want you to worry."

"It's because you don't tell me anything that I worry." Faodrin sighed. "To think there was a time you followed me around everywhere. You told me everything."

Her cheeks went red. Silhouette pulled her covers tighter around herself. "You taught me to figure stuff out on my own before I come and ask for your help."

Faodrin laughed under his breath, pleasantly surprised.

"I'm glad you took it to heart, but sometimes I miss those days." He pinched her nose between his fingers. "I want you to talk to me once in a blue moon, you know? I don't think you realize just how difficult you are to read. Think you can manage that?"

"I'll try," she said nasally, her nose still hostage.

"Promise me?"

"I promise. To. Try," she emphasized.

Knowing he wasn't going to get a better answer than this, Faodrin finally let go. He returned to his bed, situating himself within its folds. "And Silhouette?"

"Yes?"

"You're not alone in this."

Sleepiness was the only thing that prevented her laughter. She turned on her side, eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Trust me." Her gaze rested on Feyt, who dozed off beside her. "I know."

M

Sunlight streamed in through a crack in the drapes. One eye fluttered open. Then another.

"I was beginning to think you'd never wake up."

Alyon bolted into an upright position. Elliot sat on the bed at his end of the room, a book in his hands. He pointed at the title.

"Encyclopedia of Flowering Plants? Didn't you kill the last plant Crimson asked you to watch?"

"I met Spiderlily."

The book fell from his fingers. Elliot's brown eyes became complete circles. "What?"

"It's a she after all."

"A woman?"

"A girl."

His friend laughed. "For a moment there, I thought you were serious."

"Her name's Silhouette." Alyon folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

Elliot waited nearly a full minute for the punch line, but when it didn't come, he knew. "You are serious." He grabbed a chunk of his hair, staring in disbelief. "What happened?"

"Daerin's blackmailing her to do the killings. Apparently, there're a lot of kids under his roof. She doesn't kill, they die. Simple as that."

"That's..." His voice dropped. "That's awful."

"The rumors about Daerin being nuts? They're true. Every last one of them."

"Then what are we going to do?" Elliot swung his legs over the edge of his bed. "The guild wants her dead. Plenty of others outside of it do too. She disrupted every trade line available."

Alyon sat up again, rising to his feet. "I'll tell you what we're going to do." He pulled a clean shirt over his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Silhouette's done nothing wrong. She didn't choose this life. She's just doing what she has to, no different from the rest of us."

"Yeah?" Elliot challenged. "Well, the 'rest of us' won't think so. We have to tell them something."

"We will eventually, just not now." His green eyes fixated on the cover of the book. "Given enough time, I think we can pin this all on Daerin. Just need to find some really damning evidence and we're good to go."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"Keep in touch."

"With a serial killer?"

"With a victim." He narrowed his eyes. "She is, you know."

"Something is different with you, Alyon. You don't give a damn about others unless you stand to gain something from them."

"Well, things can change."

"Overnight?" he asked. "You're not telling me everything."

"There's nothing more to tell."

"Bullshit!" He flung the book at his chest.

Alyon swore at the blow. His dirty look was short-lived, cut off by Elliot's stunned expression. "What?" he snapped at him.

"It hit you."

"Of course it hit me! That's what you were going for, wasn't it?"

"Well, yeah." He shuffled his footing. "But you usually dodge."

Reality sunk in. Alyon stepped in front of the mirror, leaned in, and inspected his eyes. The layers of green were as deep and piercing as ever, but the movement, the clockwork meshing within his irises, had stopped.

"How did I get here last night, Elliot?"

"You walked."

"And then what did I do?"

"Fell asleep."

"And?"

"Stayed asleep."

"I haven't slept like this since..." The corners of his eyes creased as he strained to remember. "Since... ever. Don't you see?" A smile so big spread across his face, it felt as though it would break. "It's gone. I can't see the future anymore!"

"How is that possible?" Elliot set a hand beneath his chin. "Do you think it might have something to do with Spiderlily?"

"Why would it?"

"It's the only correlation I can think of." He held out his hands for emphasis. "You meet her last night, you lose your powers by morning. It sounds like more than a coincidence to me."

"Maybe it's Destiny," he mocked.

"Destiny or not"–Elliot picked up a pillow–"I can get used to this."

Alyon jumped for the nearest cushion with an evil smile. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was the childish voice again. If he hadn't known better, it was coming from the frozen key, whispering to his ear:

Alyon?

Do you think it's true?

The story about the spider lily...

13: Grim Revelations

"I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children."

Marie Antoinette

Lydia was a High City built upon a sea of blood. This was Feyt's fault.

If she had allowed the Threads to remain unfettered, kept her arrogance in check, and bent knee to the role she was assigned, none of this would have had to happen. There would never have been a need to build Lydia upon bodies. The blood engulfing them would never have run in the first place.

Feyt wasn't content with her initial act of defiance, dragging in generation after generation in a quest doomed from the start. The thought that it all could've been avoided was infuriating. Elvawein spent her lifetime searching for a method to counteract her madness, and she found the answer in what became known as the Guild War.

"Aren't you going to come in?"

Her guest moved from side to side, swerving into the shadows.

"So dark... so dark..." he muttered.

"You'd prefer light, then?" At the snap of her fingers, a candle burst into life. Daerin shielded his eyes. She snapped again, and the dark returned. "I can't know what you want if you don't state it clearly."

"Want." The word hung on his lips like an aberration. "I want... Kendra... but she doesn't want Daerin. She started saying... things... awful, awful things."

Elvawein raised an eyebrow. "What manner of things?"

"That Kendra"–he shuddered, fearful–"wasn't Kendra. That Kendra was d-dead."

Elvawein allowed herself a small smile at Silhouette's backbone. Her fiery outbursts proved to be remarkably entertaining. She was well aware of the situation at the Shroud. Daerin told her every last detail.

"She hurt me." Daerin clawed his scalp, tearing at his hair. "She always, always hurts me!" He choked on a knot in his throat.

"Oh Daerin," she crooned. "Poor, sweet Daerin. Come."

The broken man found his way to her side. Elvawein lightly touched him by the hand.

"You've sacrificed so much for her." She sighed. "Your family, your race..." She traced one of the scars lining the rim of his ears. "Such devotion was thrown away so thoughtlessly."

A whimper escaped his throat.

"Tell me, does it hurt, Daerin? The pain of maiming yourself? Does it hurt as much as she hurt you?"

She could feel him shaking, no doubt biting his lip to keep from crying out. Tears coursed from his eyes and onto the thick hewn fabric of her skirt. Elvawein did nothing for him then, allowing the minutes to tick by.

For the sake of love, Daerin abandoned everything he had, and Kendra married another man. Her death was kept hidden from him for an entire year after the fact.

Elvawein was the one who told him she was dead.

Daerin later returned to the Shroud that same night, stared into the water of a basin, smashed it into a dozen pieces, weeping and bleeding among shards. Elvawein admitted that she felt some guilt over the matter. To make up for it, she told him where he might find her grave to offer his respects.

He found Kendra's replacement in the form of her daughter. Not long after, his friends became indifferent to him, then hostile altogether.

He had no one. No one but her. So Elvawein made it easy for him to reach her, to pour his loneliness and pain at her feet while she listened there in the shadows, sopping it up until he had nothing left. Then she would say her piece.

In his battered state, he could only listen to her words as they filled his empty self. It hardly mattered that what she told him didn't always make sense. All that counted was that she was there for him, and like a dog craving the affections of its master, Daerin was loyal to no one's fault but his own.

Every word that parted past his lips, since the night he learned of Kendra's death, was paraphrasing all that she told him from her dark, dark room.

"I do believe I know a way for Kendra to accept you."

He said nothing, but she could see the light in his eyes.

"We all need someone to rely on. It's impossible to function otherwise." Elvawein ran a finger along his jaw, curling it beneath his chin. "You have me."

"I have you."

"You can't live without me."

"I can't live without you."

She beamed. "But if you had others you could rely on, then you would be able to live without me." Elvawein relished the lost look on his face. "You'd still have them."

"I can't live without..." He was silenced by a finger over his mouth.

"Think about who Kendra relies on. One of the people is you."

"Me?"

"She lives under your roof, after all." Elvawein smoothed back his hair. "And if she can only rely on you? Then?"

"Then..." He thought, and with each connection, his expression came more alive. "Then she won't be able to live without me."

"Exactly right." She nudged him. "Get going. It's best to sleep on it while the thought's still fresh."

Daerin didn't offer a word of opposition, scurrying out of the room. Elvawein collapsed into a fit of giggles, gushing at her brilliance. Silhouette wouldn't be able to live without him? She'd be so devastated, she wouldn't want to live at all.

M

Lydian summers were scorching hot. The High City was built within a stone bowl, and while the Rim did provide shade, the noonday sun made walking unbearable. Its proximity to the Ralina Sea made it humid, so much so that the air felt like syrup; hot, pungent, and sickeningly sticky.

Crimson fanned herself for a very different reason that morning, as the air was dry and carried an overwhelming stench of embers. Sure enough, thick black ash marred the lawn like a scar in the central courtyard. She recognized magefire when she saw it.

"Oh Vale," she groaned.

Some other members gave her a sympathetic look. The rest were busy wafting at the smoke. Crimson wiped the sweat on her head and threw her small frame against the door leading to her clinic.

"It's the third time this month!" Iago shouted.

She rolled her eyes, set down the pitcher, and locked the door.

"Just because you're near the entrance doesn't mean the others can't hear you," she spoke calmly. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't disturb them."

Iago raised a finger. "Stay out of this," he growled.

Crimson took several measured steps. Just as he opened his mouth, she snapped her fingers, and the motion of his lips came to a standstill.

"You can bark at me whenever you like, Iago." She smiled. "I know how much you love that privilege, but let me make this very clear: when I took this position, I asked that this clinic become a refuge, for me and my patients. It is my castle. I am its Lord. Defy me in these walls again and we'll see how willing I am to help you in the future."

The moment she made direct eye contact with him was when he began to move normally. Iago was stubborn, so he maintained his angry façade, but Crimson knew she'd shaken him. The man glared at Vale over Crimson's head.

"This isn't over." He stormed out of the room.

Crimson exhaled.

Iago always had it out for her.

She'd dealt with him pulling her hair, putting mud in her closet, cockroaches on her pillow. The list went on, each offense greater with every passing day. He never liked her and he made that perfectly clear, but because of her oaths of benevolence, her means of fighting back were limited.

Most members of the Shadow Blades knew to keep them on opposite ends at all times. Though apart from Alyon, Elliot, Damian, and a handful of others, most were too intimidated by Iago to say or do much against him.

"Thanks for chasing him off."

"You're very welcome." She approached Vale. Though he was responsible for the mess outside, he was also the biggest victim. "I take it no one else was hurt in the blast?"

"Only me." He nodded to the burns across his arms. The priestess struggled with the cork in her jar until it shot across the room with a loud pop!

"It'll be quite a sting, but bear with it."

She took a smooth, curved chip from the pocket of her apron, scooped a generous amount of the paste, and slapped it onto his inflamed skin. Vale let out a small cry at the burning sensation that followed. The woman slathered on an even coat, from the back of his hands all the way up to his elbows.

"Why can't you just, you know, heal it up in one go?" he asked.

She opened one eye at him, half-playful, half-serious.

"If you tell a young child not to touch a stove, what will he do?"

"Touch it."

"And what will happen to him?"

"He'll get burnt."

"Do you think he'll touch it again after that?"

"No."

The priestess wiped the excess cream onto the rim of the container, and then on the hem of her apron.

"Pain is a part of life and a valuable learning tool," she continued to explain. "Like anything, it's good in doses, but if someone brings it upon themselves, it's usually good to let them wallow in it."

He fell back onto the bed, minding his stinging and swelling arms.

"I didn't mean to do it."

"That doesn't change the outcome."

Crimson's words were an oddity. Vale felt as though she was scolding and soothing him at the same time.

She returned to his side, this time with a bottle of clear liquid in tow. Crimson surveyed him from his tanned skin, to his black hair, to a set of highly unusual violet eyes. Stress weighed on him. This much was obvious from the way his muscles tensed beneath his skin. She pondered how best to approach the source of his problems.

"It's been almost a year since you arrived," she began. "How do you like it here?"

"It's weird."

Crimson forced a laugh.

"Not in a bad way," he assured her a few seconds later. "You don't always have to look back over your shoulder or keep a hood over your face. Here it's..." He stopped to listen to a large crowd walking past the door, laughing. Crimson understood what he was trying to say.

"You must've been very young when the War first started. This was how things used to be, both in Lydia and the Isle where I come from." Her eyes glittered with nostalgia. "What you see here is a bit of the past."

Vale continued to stare at the ceiling. "The fire. It just happens, you know? One minute I'm fine and the next, I just... I remember everything all at once and something is burning."

"What do you remember, exactly?"

"My family. My friends."

"Were they lost in the fighting?"

"Yeah. Lost is a good way of putting it. You see, to a lot of folks, this Guild War business was bad news. Most of us just thought it was a bad joke. Some people who were smart enough left with what they could carry on their backs and ran before Elvawein shut down the Trench. Us? We were stuck right when she clamped down on it. Parents got killed so quickly, they were dead before they even hit the ground."

"Then what?"

"I ran off with a couple other kids. We lived on the streets for a while, dodging drafters. Few years went by and half of our group was gone. Eventually, we got lucky and found a building that'd been abandoned in the slums," he said with a small smile. "It wasn't too bad. Took a while to get the rooftop garden back in shape. Had to steal now and then for dinner, but overall, it was better than it'd ever been. We even got an offer to get taken away to someplace safe."

"Here?" she guessed.

"Nah. Said it was something called the 'Undercity.'" Vale sat back up with a wry gleam in his eyes. "If I could believe him, which I'm still not sure I do, apparently, he and some other people were trying to take as many kids off the streets to keep them away from the fighting. Locals in the district were pretty quiet about the whole thing."

"Did this man ever approach you again?"

"Couple times." He took a drink from the glass on the table. "But we were doing alright, so he just left. Couldn't have been a drafter or slaver or anything. They wouldn't have let up as easily as he did. Probably should have taken him up on his offer when we had the chance, though."

Crimson took note of how quiet Vale became. His eyes darkened, looking back on that time.

"I don't know what happened. I don't care," he started, "but something changed with Elvawein in the last year. Before, she was fine just raising the dead and keeping them near the Trench, but now she's sending them all over the place. One day, a whole bunch of ghouls showed up at our doorstep. Our dead parents, our old friends." He looked to her. "Have you ever seen a ghoul up close before?"

"I can't say I have."

"Well, they're exactly how they were like when they were alive, except their eyes are totally black. It's like the pupil swallows up the irises and they're these two huge, shiny ink dots. Really old ones got this weird smell, and their personality and everything is the same." He frowned deeply. "But Elvawein controls them somehow. Can you imagine your own friends telling you to run away before they try to kill you? I thought I was as good as dead, then everything just lights up. I wake up later and the whole place is a pile of ashes."

"Then how did you come to be here?"

"Ah." He scratched his chin. "Fires in Lydia, the place being made of solid stone and all. It's a pretty rare thing. Bunch of people were outside when I walked out. I got dragged off to some tavern, got asked a lot of questions. Alyon found me, offered to let me come here, so I did."

"So the memories of that night are triggering your magic?"

"Yeah, I guess." He picked at some of the ointment crusting on his skin. "You know, I always had mages pegged for freaks. Even healers like you. Hardly anyone thinks they're natural."

"It's a stigma that won't go away anytime soon," she agreed, resting a hand on his back. "The only time we're wanted is when there's a need for us."

"It makes me feel so cheap," he muttered sourly. "Only two ways to prevent a body from becoming a ghoul is dicing them up or burning them. I'm a walking crematorium."

She did her best not to laugh at the description.

"We all have our parts to play in this." She tried not to smile.

"Until a year ago, I didn't even know I was a mage. Now, people I've known all my life are treating me like I betrayed them or something." He allowed Crimson to set a towel beneath his arms. She began to chip off dried flakes of the medication she'd applied earlier. "I don't want this!" he hissed.

Vale was young; thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. She remembered when the Abbot told her she was a mage. Her initial response was embarrassment. That only proved that while it may have been fairly normal on Vaisya Isle, as opposed to Lydia, there was still negativity associated with it. Magic was synonymous with anathema.

"I wish I knew what to tell you, Vale," said Crimson, "but what's done is done. I can tell you that your memories will fade given enough time, but they'll never completely go away. I know this because I've had your same problem."

He looked at her with renewed interest. "You did?"

Crimson allowed herself a small smile. "I did. I was evacuated from the Isle the night the Guild War began. One minute, I was having a lesson in the fields, and the next, I was dragged off to a raft. I gave everyone here so much grief during the first few months." Her face twisted. It was unpleasant to speak of. "I constantly woke up screaming in the middle of the night. For a time, they fixed up one of the cells in the basement and locked me in there to keep me from disturbing the others."

"They kept you in the dungeon?"

"They did." She folded her hands. "I thought I'd lost my mind for good. Every night was the same. The smell of smoke. The entire island covered in flames." She was so ashamed, she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "So I know what you've been through. If you ask around, I'll bet you'll discover you're far from the only one with a story like that." Crimson shook the flakes into a waste bin. "Remember what I said about pain being a lesson?"

"Yeah."

"It also binds people together." Crimson placed her tiny hand on his head, tousling his hair. "Sooner or later, we either move on with our lives or watch as it passes us by. If you're clever enough to survive this long, then I'm sure you'll find a way to adapt to life here."

He looked down, unsure of what to say. "Thanks, Crimson."

She waved goodbye up until the door came to a close behind him. Her professional mask fell away, revealing a very strained, very tired woman underneath. The cleric shuffled her feet to the edge of her bed and collapsed within its folds.

She stared at the inside of her eyelids, wondering what did it. What made her so exhausted? Was it the heat?

Ring.

"Ah," she breathed.

The bells.

Ring.

Crimson spent the last decade trying to forget the sound of the great brass instruments. Other times, she did all that she could to remember. The harder she tried to recall their pitch, the fainter it grew in her ears. The faster she attempted to run away, the louder they resonated. The only solution was to keep herself occupied, tending to her patients, concocting new formulas, cutting strips of linen bandages.

Anything, anything to forget the bells.

Ring.

Ring.

She turned on her stomach, clamping her pillow over her ears. Her gut churned just like it had when on that ancient boat, getting thrashed from one wave to another, her eyes anchored to Ekarius' silhouette against a backdrop of raging fire.

"'Do not judge consciously,'" she whispered to herself. "'Do not harbor hatred in your heart if you can avoid it.'" The Abbot's last words to her flowed out like a mantra, stopping the bells in their tracks.

"'Do not become like me.'"

She lay there for what felt like hours, helpless against summer's spell, lulling her into a hazy state of mind. Her eyes dragged to a close.

Ring...

M

The Frozen Mirage was a low-end pub situated at the farthest end of Hangman's Cross; the heart of Lydia, above the Core. A shoddy place, with faux wooden flooring that was little more than planks of bark nailed into the stone, several tattered quilts on the wall being passed off for rugs, and more than a few cobwebs meshed in the rafters. Despite its shortcomings, the cheap alcohol made it a popular stop for shady and poor individuals alike.

The night after meeting him face to face, Silhouette took Alyon up on his offer to see him. He nestled himself at a window, whose sill was extended with horrific craftsmanship. It served as their table, and apart from the occasional glance from other patrons, the two were left alone.

"So let me get this straight." Silhouette waved a fork at him, one cheek stuffed with potato. "You never wanted to rule this place? Ever?"

Alyon sat with his hand angled down over his eyes, glancing at the better part of the room and back to the girl seated beside him. "Can you get any louder?"

She turned red up to her ears. "Sorry. I keep forgetting most people can't figure out who you are just by looking."

"The fact that you can is surprising." He made a face at his drink.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's warm."

"Hold on." Silhouette reached over, resting her fingertip on the base of the mug. Delicate branches of frost spread throughout the liquid. It wasn't long before foam frothed over the rim.

"Now that's handy."

"It can be," she said with a small smile, "but it's tricky."

"Tricky?" he asked, taking a sip from the mug.

"You see, when I use magic, it's instinctive, like breathing," she explained. "My specialty is ice, so it takes some effort to change it into a specific shape or state."

Alyon looked from her, to his drink, and back again. "Out of curiosity, what happens to you when you overdo it?"

"Ah." She shifted in her seat. "That depends. If you're gradual about it, you'll just get very hungry. If you force it, you'll sleep more than you typically do. A bit more after that, and you can faint. Any scenarios after the ones I mentioned will typically result in internal injury to death." With her chin tilted down, she lifted her eyes to meet his. "I've even read accounts where mages were vaporized."

"And why do I get the feeling you've done something like this before?"

Silhouette hunched her shoulders, her palms facing up at either side. "So I might get a little carried away now and again. I'm not nearly as bad about it as I used to be."

"Try to avoid it. It's hard enough finding a good drink in this place, let alone good conversation."

"Good conversation?" Silhouette looked left and right. "Me?" she asked, pointing to herself.

"You," he answered, lowering her hands back down.

"Even though I'm usually the one doing all the talking?"

"My father said something unusually intelligent once: women talk much, but say little."

Alyon laughed as Silhouette kicked him.

"Then how about you tell me something?" She rested her head over her arms on the table. "You're intelligent, competent, and sane. Why aren't you the least bit interested in the throne?"

That was all it took for his mood to sour.

"Can we not talk about this?"

Silhouette placed her hands over his, her skin foreign in its smoothness. She stared at him with insistent eyes. "Could you humor me just for tonight?"

Feyt watched as he lowered his head, thought, and relented.

"There's no throne at the moment. Even if the Guild War was over, and even if there was any mention of me in the aftermath, I'm still a bastard, Silhouette. Prejudices run strong here."

"Changes start with minorities. You don't need everyone to make that difference."

"Who in their right mind would accept me?"

"I do."

Those two words snapped him out from the gloom.

"I can't guarantee I'm in my right mind, though. Still, it counts for something, right?" Her amusement was contagious. "I'll happily join your minority."

"You have too much faith in me. Faith that's sorely misplaced."

"I'm just compensating for the lack of faith you have in yourself." Silhouette stole a sip from his drink, returning with a mustache full of foam. "One person is all it takes, Alyon. Hold the torch. Become the beacon."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you found me. What's been taking others a year took you a night." What she said next hit too close to home. "I believe in you, Alyon. I've always believed in you. And I always, always will."

He was so stunned, he asked the only thing he could in that situation. "Why?"

"I don't know." She beamed. "Do I have to?"

Alyon couldn't remember the last time anyone called him anything besides an idiot, embarrassment, or some variation of the two. He was known for letting others down, messing up, and causing havoc. He didn't know when it first started, but others expected it of him, and going with it brought about far less pain than fighting against the status quo.

Here was a woman, little more than a girl, saying everything he'd been told was a lie. That he was worth something.

"Thank you."

The simple sentence escaped under the volume of a whisper. Silhouette must've grown tired of waiting for him to snap out of it because she was leaning forward, her mouth hovering over the windowpane. Cool mist flowed from her throat, coating the glass in a thick layer of frost. She proceeded to draw a crooked smile with the tip of her finger.

"Our minority just got a little bigger!" she exclaimed.

"An idealist, so rare this day and age."

"My guilty pleasure."

"And why should it make you feel guilty?"

"Fatalism is in vogue, haven't you heard? Could you imagine what people would do if they discovered an optimist in their midst?" she gasped. "I'd be eaten alive."

Half the room eyed her. Magic, while tolerated, was frowned upon. She went pink in the cheeks, coughed once, and settled down.

"In all seriousness," Alyon continued, directing the conversation back on track. "The chance of me getting anywhere near the throne is almost nonexistent. Where do I even begin?"

"With the Shadow Blades," she answered, as though it were perfectly obvious. "Not to say anything bad about Damian, but everyone knows all he's been doing is acting as a figurehead. Your members are wandering around and doing what they think is best, and while a few people find it reassuring, all the other guilds think you're a joke. Flies aimlessly buzzing around some turd."

What Silhouette was telling him wasn't news, but hearing it from somebody else was still unpleasant. Alyon couldn't help but feel agitated and ashamed, if only because it was true.

"My father keeps everyone together. Ballard probably runs things the most."

"Ballard?" she asked. "So that's where he's gone."

"He's been one of us for as long as anyone could remember."

"Is that so?"

"How do you know him?"

"He was friends with Daerin until one day, about two years ago, he just left. Couldn't take it anymore. Haven't really seen or heard from him since."

"I'm surprised a man like Daerin has any friends."

"He wasn't always nuts." Silhouette stole yet another sip from the glass. "Something about Kendra sent him over the edge years ago."

"Kendra?"

"Illuminias."

"He knew her?"

Feyt gave the mage a stern look. The dark woman prodded her through their link, a not-so-subtle reminder to mind her tongue.

Silhouette did her best not to turn away from Alyon to give Feyt a dirty look. Instead she nodded, lowering the volume of her voice.

"He was in love with her, but it was unrequited. She's all he ever talks about."

"That's..." Alyon paused. "I never would've guessed. So Ballard left because of all that?"

"His friend going crazy, keeping children hostage, turning me into a murderer... I'd say those are good reasons as any to run off, yeah."

It was impossible for him to miss the sarcasm in her tone.

"At least Heron sticks around." She made note of how Alyon's eyes widened. Before he could say a word, she added, "Unlike Ballard, I know Heron's working for you. I've seen him skulking in and out of the Shroud long enough to figure that out. It makes more sense, now that I think about it. With Ballard at the Shadow Blades, all he has to do is talk to Heron at a midway point. It's pretty smart, I have to admit."

"I haven't heard of any of this."

"No?" she asked. "Only one way to find out."

"You're not suggesting–"

"I'm telling." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Ask your father. I bet you he knows. I'll talk to Heron. We'll get to the bottom of this."

"But if they've been keeping an eye on Daerin all this time, then why haven't they done anything to stop him? And doesn't that mean they know you're Spiderlily?"

Silhouette froze. The thought hadn't occurred to her. "You're right," she said. Her eyes became very hard. "Maybe that's the reason no one's found me. It's not that they're clueless. They're letting me run free."

"Yes, but why?"

"Why?" She felt sick to her stomach. "I can only guess."

Alyon had a point. If they were conscious of the fact that she was behind the string of murders, she should've been caught and executed. It wouldn't have made a difference if they were observing Daerin. That left only one other option.

They weren't watching him.

They were watching her.

That meant they knew for years, perhaps from the moment she was brought to Lydia, that she was Teraliel. So why?

Why?

"Silhouette?"

Why didn't anyone come find her?

Her nose turned red and she swerved away from him. He felt a sense of concern that hadn't come to him for a very long time. There was something about her trying to be stronger than she really was that struck a chord in him. It made a fine distinction. Finer between the role she had to play and the girl she was behind it.

"Silhouette, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she whispered. "Is it alright if I gave you something to hand to Damian?"

His first instinct was to find out what upset her, but her voice brooked no room for objection.

"Sure."

She folded her hands over his, closed her eyes, and breathed. Alyon felt frost spread across his palms. A flower bud appeared on his skin.

"Show this to him."

"A daisy?"

"An anemone," she corrected. "Be sure to tell him who it's from." Silhouette dropped two coins on the table. "I need to go."

"Why?"

Exhaustion crept into her face.

"I have an assignment tomorrow." She gave him a look he couldn't quite understand. "Goodnight, Alyon."

14: Abandoned

"It is easier for a father to have children than for children to have a real father."

Pope John XXII

Nyx walked to the Core, where a familiar face was waiting.

"Hey," he called out. "Sorry I haven't shown up in a while, Old Man."

The half-elf smiled, and when he did, his brown hair swept off to the side of his face, revealing two black eyes of a ghoul.

Years ago, after Silhouette told Nyx about the aqueducts, he brushed off her warning. He completed his errands and returned to the orphanage, thinking nothing of it. Then clashing metal filled the streets. Nyx bolted to Old Man and relayed everything she said.

The young leader wasted no time in ushering them to the aqueducts, but they were chased by a group of drafters on the way. Old Man slowed them down to ensure every last child made it down the hatch, and then he followed after sustaining mortal wounds. He resurrected as a ghoul, and was quarantined to the Core by Yherod.

"How many more did you rescue today?" he asked.

"Only one tonight. I think we've gotten all we could off the streets alone."

"And Silhouette?"

"Off with her dashing prince again," he muttered, making no attempt to hide his distaste.

Old Man chuckled. "Ah, to be young and in love."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Then why mention it if you don't want someone to listen?" he asked with his trademark smile, filled with equal parts joy and joking. "Would you allow me to give you some well-meaning advice?"

"Why ask if you're going to tell me anyway?"

"Well put." The ghoul slapped a hand on his shoulder. "You, my dear friend, are a coward. You don't tell her, nothing will change."

"It's not that simple." He threw the hand off of him. "Even if I told her, nothing will change. She thinks we have a debtor-loaner relationship. That I'm only nice because I'm paying her off."

"Paying?" he asked, brow arched. "What pay? She never gave you a single coin. A whore gets paid more than you do."

"Who're you calling a whore?"

"You're running around and following her orders. Your body is at her service. Tell me if that's not whoring yourself around."

The serious look on his face was what threw him off. It took him half a minute to realize Old Man was pulling his leg.

He laughed.

"Love isn't supposed to be easy," the ghoul remarked. "If it was, then it wouldn't be nearly as satisfying."

"Or as painful."

"Or as painful," he repeated after him. He gave Nyx a sympathetic stare, his coal-like eyes oddly comforting for once. "This is making you a better person. You used to be so hard on everyone, especially yourself. Even if she can't return your feelings, try to enjoy her company for what it is."

"When did you get so... wise?"

"Being cooped up here for the last ten years gave me a lot to think about." His smile sagged. "I used to hate being restricted to the slums. Now, I wonder why I didn't treasure them."

Nyx saw his regret. His eyes shone as though they would run wet with inky tears at any moment.

"So if you're going to do something, Nyx, do it now. That way, you'll never have to look back and wonder why you didn't."

"Be honest. Do you think I have a chance?"

"No."

"Can you tell me why?"

"Alyon was important enough that she ended up crossing the Threads for his sake, and that's how she became a Ghostwalker."

"Yeah–"

"She died, Nyx," he stressed. "Sure, Feyt gave her the ability to return, but without him to anchor her, that wouldn't have happened. By becoming a Ghostwalker for that reason, Silhouette marked his existence as the center of her world," he said, slow enough that the depth of its meaning was not lost on his young friend. "To her, he's her friend, her dreams, her life, maybe even her God. That's something you can never replace, Nyx. To Silhouette, Alyon really is everything."

He took a long breath before continuing. "She's only had a month or two to interact with him. Right now, no matter who reaches out to her, she'll set him as her priority. I say let her know what you feel, but don't expect her to act on your advances or even give them much thought until she's satisfied."

"He doesn't even know who she is."

"She could easily prove her identity if she wanted to reveal it, Nyx." Old Man scratched his elbow. "Silhouette no doubt has her reasons for not wanting to tell him. Besides, a lot of time's gone by. It isn't typical for anyone to remember someone from so long ago. Not to mention that she's done a lot of growing up since Riverstone. You can't blame Alyon for not recognizing her."

"I still don't like him."

"Aww, you're so cute when you're jealous."

"Gross."

Old Man batted his eyelashes.

Nyx backed away. "I'll get going now."

"If it doesn't work out with the Ice Queen, I'm always available!" he sang.

The young man shivered. He wasn't even certain if he should wave goodbye after that, but he did out of habit.

Nyx spied buildings ahead, their shadows dancing in the glow of magical sconces. It was a strange but lovely place, and Nyx was proud to call it home.

Denizens flocked to the streets, resulting in a bustle that could only mean one thing: Silhouette was back.

Those who were awake scuttled out to greet her. Ivane wasted no time in smothering the mage in her formidable bosom, which terrorized the youngest of the refugees, and traumatized those who outgrew them.

The half-elf escaped from one set of arms only to fall into another. Half a dozen small hands reached out and tugged at the hem of her shirt. She lifted the two smallest children she could get a hold of. They each took a side of her head in their hands and planted kisses on her nose and cheeks, which she returned happily.

Nyx kept his distance, enjoying the rare sight.

"So, she finally decides to grace us with her presence, eh?"

The boy looked down to see Yherod standing beside him. The dwarf had his hands over his hammer, situated on the floor. His eyes were directed at the welcome in front of him.

"She does what she can."

"Odd of her to come at this hour. Shouldn't she be at the Shroud?"

Nyx hadn't noticed it before, but Yherod was right. It was one thing to burn daylight when the streets were deserted. It was another for her to walk in when she was expected to be home.

"Something must've happened."

Yherod made a gruff noise in agreement. "You're probably the one who she'll share the news with, boy. Unless she tells you otherwise, let me know as soon as you find out the problem. She keeps too many things to herself."

"I know."

"Get as much out of her as possible. I don't care if it's about the weather or if she got a scratch. Anything she lets go is one less thing she has bottled up, understand?"

"Yeah."

"So what's this thing you know that you haven't been telling me the last few weeks?"

Nyx cringed. As always, the dwarf was more perceptive than he gave him credit for.

"She met Alyon."

"She did what now?" Yherod gave his arm a powerful tug, bringing him to his knees, and at eye level, in an instant. "You tell me everything. Tell me everything or, Heldarien help me, I'll crack your skull open like a walnut," he warned, shaking the stem of his hammer.

Nyx told him what he knew, which wasn't much, and didn't take more than a minute of explanation.

"So he doesn't know who she is? He has the key, yes?"

"No and yes."

"Make sense, boy!" He shook him.

"No, he doesn't know who she is, and yes, he has the damn key."

Yherod slapped his arm. "Mind your language when speaking to your elders!"

Nyx sighed.

The dwarf slapped him again.

"What was that for?!"

"Your rotten attitude." Yherod crossed his arms, ignoring the angry, bewildered look on the youth's face. "Things are about to get very interesting, boy. Very interesting."

"Not the sort of interesting I'm looking forward to."

"If those two can somehow manage to form a bond, Nyx, what do you think will happen?"

"I don't want to think of it."

Yherod sighed. "Look around you, boy. If she just asked, she'd be a veritable guildmaster in her own right! If Alyon gets his act together, the two can join forces and put an end to this Guild War nonsense."

His eyes popped wide open, and Nyx looked again at the girl being smothered with attention. The fact that they'd managed to get away with their smuggling as long as they had was a marvel in itself, but he never thought of doing something greater.

She'd be a hero. A second Kendra.

"No," he said. "Just no. For that to happen, she'll have to tell him who she is and it isn't going to fly, Yherod."

"Things change."

"Things are fine the way they are!"

Yherod blinked, taken aback by the sudden desperation in his voice, and then he remembered. "Forget it, Nyx. As much as I sympathize, she'll never feel for you."

"You can't know that for certain."

"I can," he disagreed, "and I do."

"How?"

There was a pause, and in it, Nyx saw that the dwarf struggled over whether or not to tell him. His brow knit together, and he released a heavy breath of resolution.

"The locket. Do you know how it works?"

"Like any other locket?"

"In its base function, yes, but it can only be used properly by someone who knows light magic. Wearing it records a message inside. Not what's in their head, but in their heart." His eyes rested on the girl. "Every time she uses her powers, she's storing her memories, and the only one capable of seeing them is the key-bearer."

"Alyon."

"Yes, but," he stipulated, "the key-bearer isn't necessarily the one who holds the key, though it often is. Think of it as a symbol. You want to know whether she could ever accept you, Nyx? Try to open it. You'll get your answer."

M

Nyx followed Silhouette to her home. The bare walls and ceiling were covered in sheer, colorful fabric. Its inside resembled a giant tent. Metal candelabras stood about the place, though none had candles. Instead, she fixed permanent balls of light in their places.

Silhouette made no move to acknowledge his presence, pouring a glass of wine. She seldom imbibed alcohol, and the fact that she didn't blink twice alarmed him. She downed a glass.

Nyx grabbed her wrists before she could pour another. "Talk."

Her chin trembled. He walked her to bed while holding her hands. She was too shaken, too obedient, too hurt.

She told him what happened. The conversation with Alyon was fine until Ballard came up, at which point she connected one dot to another, and finally came to her conclusion.

"They knew, Nyx," she breathed. "They knew from the very beginning and they didn't even try to help me."

His expression fell. He knew that interacting with Alyon was a bad idea. He'd feared it would dredge up something terrible, and he was right, though not in the way he expected.

"Don't think about it. You've survived, and you'll keep on surviving. You have everyone here, and Faodrin, and me."

Her lips bowed in a sad pout. She looked at him through her lashes. Nyx thought she couldn't look more vulnerable if she tried.

"It's not about having people around me. It's about why they didn't do anything. What have I done to them, Nyx? I know I make mistakes, but I try to be the best person I can. At least I could have heard from Damian, just to hear that he knew I was alive." She pulled the blanket over her head, hiding. "I feel like I did something wrong."

"Hey, hey!" He peeled the covers from her face. "You did nothing wrong. They're the idiots."

"But–"

"No buts," he cut her off. "You've never done wrong by anyone and you do your best. You can't do more than that."

She looked out the corner of her eyes. "I should."

"Same can be said for all of us," he pointed out. "Don't blame yourself, never ever, okay? And... Feyt isn't around, is she?"

"She's visiting the Core. Why?"

"So I can do this." He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Typically, such an attempt would garner him an immediate slap. This time, Silhouette just wore a defeated smile. He almost felt bad for taking advantage of her depression.

Almost.

An idea struck him. "How about you tell Feyt to take the night off from guard duty? I'll keep an eye on you instead."

"You will?"

"Yup, what'dya say?"

"Deal."

"Now get to sleep before I call Yherod to knock you out."

She closed her eyes, and Nyx sat there until she dozed off. He wasn't certain how many hours passed before he was confident she wouldn't wake if he got up to move.

Silhouette was at that age where she could either be exceedingly awkward or surprisingly pretty. Some might go as far as to call her beautiful. She was equal parts girl and woman, wise and cunning, yet naïve and soft. He knew her in ways no one else did.

And he felt robbed by Alyon, because he could say the same.

Nyx tugged down the cover, careful not to wake her as he got to the locket. The moonstone glinted in the dim light, resting on her heart. He watched it rise and fall in time with her breathing, fearful and in awe of the tiny trinket. He could see lights, like little fish, swirling within the stone, and wondered what the difference was between a thought of the mind and a thought of the heart, and what rested inside hers. He reached out.

Crackle.

Ice crept out and threatened to freeze him to it. He whipped his hand back and watched as frost swallowed the amulet whole.

Silhouette continued to sleep.

The ice didn't melt. It shielded the locket like a wall around her heart.

M

The air was thick with moisture, yet Alyon was kept chilled by the bud in his hands.

Silhouette knew more than she was letting on, and he couldn't find it in him to ask her what it was, though he could ask his father.

On any normal day, he'd go out of his way to avoid Damian, lest he risk a lecture or questions demanding to know where he'd been. He heard it so many times, he had the words memorized by heart. After a while, his father's probing ceased being simply annoying, and Alyon wondered if that concern was superficial. Things ran far more smoothly when he wasn't around, and Damian's attempts to reach him garnered a lot of compassion from other guild members. Poor man. He lost a wife. His son is worthless. He's holding everything together on his own.

"Alyon."

Damian stood behind him, surprised and relieved to see his son back home. Expecting to be greeted with a typical huff or shrug, he was taken aback by how calm the young man was.

Without saying anything, Alyon extended his hand. A model flower sat in his palm.

"An anemone." His eyes met his father's with a glint of challenge. "It's from Spiderlily."

A knot formed in the back of Damian's throat. "What?"

"Silhouette." Alyon didn't turn his gaze away once. "Heron and Ballard would know more, wouldn't they?"

A part of him wanted to doubt that his father knew anything, but there was no denying the way his tan skin drained of color. Alyon felt disgusted, and more than a little betrayed.

Damian licked his lips. "It isn't safe to talk here."

"No."

"This isn't the time to be stubborn."

"How long were you intending to keep this from everyone?" Alyon demanded. "On the outside, you've always acted like Spiderlily was a criminal, but you know who she is and where to find her. Why?"

Damian covered his eyes with a hand, feeling the onset of a violent headache. "How much has she told you, Alyon?"

"She's being blackmailed into doing the killings."

"That's all?"

The man turned the anemone in his hands. Guilt washed over him. Silhouette wasn't going to tell Alyon, or at least not yet. He wronged her for years. The least he could do was maintain this one secret.

"Daerin is using her as his replacement for Kendra. Silhouette's been in his care since she was a little girl for that purpose. We can't risk him falling apart. It's too dangerous for common people on the streets."

Alyon heard one thing in translation. "She's a sacrifice."

His father didn't say anything.

Alyon let out a strangled laugh. "I can't believe this! You've been using her all this time. You, of all people."

"It was your mother's last order, Alyon."

"What does she have to do with any of this?"

"I can't tell you."

"You won't tell me," his son corrected.

"Not yet," Damian sighed. "There's only one person who has that right. Until they expose it, I have no right to say anything."

"Alright, who?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"What can you tell me?"

"It's better you stay away from her."

In spite of their constant disagreements, Alyon looked up to his father. He racked his brain, trying to find the reason Damian was condemning Silhouette, a girl he never met before, to suffer at the hands of a lunatic. And for what? All anyone had to do was usher a modest force and raid the place to keep damage minimal. Daerin would be killed, the children liberated, and Silhouette would be safe.

He'd only known her for a few months, but in that time, he believed he understood her better than most. She was headstrong, but determined, passionate, yet wary. She demonstrated a street savvy and sharpness of mind few others could match, all bundled together in the awkward, fleshy form of a teenage girl. Sure, she was an assassin, though it wasn't much of a choice on her part.

What, then, was her crime? Whatever had she done wrong besides living?

"This is shit." Alyon stood with his hands balled into fists. "The Guild War. Elvawein. Daerin. Us. Everybody is waving swords in the air, calling each other out, but nothing is being done about it." He glowered at him. "The next time something like this happens, Gods help me, I'll take the role of guildmaster myself and I swear to you I'll get to the bottom of every rotten secret you've been keeping from me."

Damian stood there with the expression of a man so defeated that begging was beyond him. Somehow, rather than rage, his son felt monumental disappointment.

Something. Anything. The quiet was evidence of a guilt so absolute it wasn't worth denying. He had damned a little girl, and he knew it from the start.

Damian watched his child turn his back on him. It brought back the memory of the first time the boy had ever told him he hated him, the night Teraliel supposedly died.

This silence hurt so much more.

M

The one-time sailor shuffled his feet through the darkened forest of the Rim, using the scent of salt to guide him. His boat was moored to the pier, much to his astonishment, though barnacles encrusted its sides. Someone had taken the time to tend to the old craft. Upon entering the cabin and seeing the empty wine flasks and books, he knew it was his son.

He'd yelled at him. Criticized him. Insulted him.

Alyon was a good boy. He was starting to become a good man, just as Ezara predicted years before. The proof was all around him, in the notes he'd made from studying; in how carefully he maintained one of the most beloved aspects of the life he used to have.

The frozen anemone sat in Damian's pocket, beckoning his attention.

Damian didn't understand why Silhouette didn't tell Alyon who she was. He didn't know how the two met and he didn't know what sort of influence she had over him.

Ballard cautioned him that the girl was clever, but Damian didn't expect her to uncover his involvement in her life. The fact that she used Alyon as a proxy to declare this fact was enough to learn she was confident Damian wouldn't send anyone after her.

Whether that would bode good or ill, he couldn't say.

Then there was the anemone. Damian knew about the meanings of flowers, and gauging by the encyclopedia on the hammock, his son had the same idea. The man flipped through the index, noting how worn the pages were, and glanced over several notes in the margins before stumbling across what he was looking for.

His throat constricted. A blot appeared on the parchment. Then another.

The book slid off his lap. He hunched, his back shuddering with every suppressed sob. He couldn't possibly imagine what the girl felt when the pieces fit together, but the anemone gave him some perspective.

It was a flower littered with many meanings.

Truth. Sickness. Diminishing hope. Abandonment.

But it was the last that struck him hardest. He imagined her voice, thick with emotion. Her eyes asking recompense in the form of even the tiniest, most pathetic excuse he could give.

You've forsaken me.

He used to have a vivacious circle of friends, whose good fortunes, they believed, would last forever. One by one they slipped away, to circumstance, in death, to war, in madness.

The tears streamed down his burning face. He bit down on his pillow and wailed.

Lydia had no hero. It had no queen. It had no allies. Its people were dead, undead, or divided. He did his best to keep everyone he could within the confines of the Shadow Blades, hoping that one day, they would leave and find that it was little more than a bad memory. The reports were what damned him, reminding him that there was something, someone, tying him to the outside. There were moments when he wanted to burn those scraps of paper, but she haunted him.

She was the anemone, the one he left behind.

15: Tales of Dead Men

"Nature reserves the right to inflict upon her children the most terrifying jests."

Thornton Wilder

People were under the impression that the Shadow Blades were there to set everything right with Lydia. Yet many of those they called 'guild members' were moronic squatters who were killed with commendable efficiency early in the War. As Iago sat in the courtyard, eyeing the instructors and students on the green, he remembered how they reacted when the names came trickling in.

He saw shadows lift from their faces as the deceased were announced; the relief, the joy. They were happy the degenerates were gone, yet they still tried to look devastated. He hadn't seen such bad acting in his life.

They'd make everything right again?

The tension of war was something they clung to in order to justify their prejudices. What was different, other than the fact that people had the convenience of dying in public instead of being restricted behind closed doors?

In a twisted sense, they obtained the freedom they'd been clamoring for while repressed by the aristocracy, exhibiting the ability to shirk social custom and status in order to be true to themselves. In words and in deeds, one was just as hideous as everybody else.

Ahh humanity. Hypocrisy at its finest.

As far as the guild was concerned, there was little that interested him anymore. If it wasn't for the Spiderlily case, he'd have left to live in the city.

Like Elliot and several others, Iago was permitted to hear the details. This was mostly because he was knowledgeable where it came to the victims, who were merchants in one form or another. He contacted all of them at various points, since as quartermaster, he had a job to keep supplies in check.

But he wasn't about to go tell the others this. They were more interested in what he could tell them about the method of killing rather than how he knew any of those involved.

The reason why was simple: he wanted to see it play out.

Spiderlily surprised him. He didn't think there was a way to murder someone that he wouldn't know of, which meant this was a professional, or more likely, a mage, also a detail he conveniently forgot to mention. He guessed, early on, that this serial killer would become sloppy, or a victim themselves, given enough time. The opposite proved true.

The points of the mortal wounds were fast becoming more precise, while less pronounced. The manner of entering the scene was difficult to gauge, and the marks left behind were practically nonexistent. It was almost as if they were dealing with a ghost.

In the last year, every major supplier of wartime goods had been terminated. The small fries were too terrified to step up to that platform, and too green to be of any real use. Poorly managed guilds began to fall apart because they couldn't adapt to being self-sufficient. Street fighting slowed to a halt because more people were needed to tend rooftop gardens just to feed themselves. The Guild War fell into a state of slumber.

"What are you scheming now, Iago?"

He looked up to find Elliot's familiar grin. "Your untimely demise?"

"How about I make an offer to dissuade you from that line of thinking?"

"I'm listening."

Elliot held up a linen pouch, the strong scent of baked goods permeating its pores.

"To think you'd stoop to bribery."

"I'd prefer to think of it as an investment." He invited himself to the empty spot on the bench. "You looked awfully deep in thought. Care to share what's on your mind?"

Iago bit into the flaky treat. Loud crunching followed. "Damian ran out of chores for you to do? Don't you have more pressing matters to get to? Like darning socks?"

"Your sincerity is on another level, as always."

Iago snorted. "I've been thinking about Spiderlily, Daerin, and Elvawein; our beloved trifecta."

"You make it sound like the three are related."

"I didn't mean to, but that is a nice theory." He scratched his chin. "Yes, I can see how that might work. Two of the three may very well be together."

"How do you figure?"

"One of Spiderlily's calling cards suggests involvement with the Shroud. What if it's only meant to look like that? Daerin is senile, caring only about his area, so there really is no reason for him to deny having Spiderlily under his orders, but Elvawein..." He wagged a finger. "She started the War. Yet after the first year, she's been a recluse. The ghouls wander like normal people, and apart from a few isolated incidents, she's been quiet. It's almost as if she's waiting."

Elliot swallowed. They'd been so concerned with Spiderlily that they ignored Elvawein outright. The notion troubled him.

"You're treating this like a game of strategy."

"Chess, precisely." Iago turned to face him, using his hands to set up an imaginary board. "The first game took place before the War started. Kendra was the Knight. Lyssa, the Queen, and Damian, the King. Everyone else was either too confused or scattered to matter. We all know what happened. Kendra died, the pieces got skewed, Lyssa was assassinated, and in time, Damian resigned, forfeiting everything."

"And Elvawein was the other queen."

"Indeed she was." He nodded. "She spent years churning up the ire in the people, her pawns, and grooming a handful to take posts as guildmasters, the other pieces. All she ever did was make a single move, setting fire to Vaisya Isle, and the rest just fell into place. She won the game. The Guild War began."

"Are you saying a new game started since then?"

"Yes. If Spiderlily was a vigilante, then I'd expect passion, emboldened by each successful kill. What I've been noticing is that rather than messiness or showmanship, Spiderlily seems intent on getting the hell out of the scene, like they don't enjoy it. If that was the case, then the murders would've stopped after the first few cases and wouldn't have blown up to be the issue it is today."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning someone is ordering our resident serial killer, something Elvawein has proven more than capable of. Maybe her ghouls are just the distraction. Maybe she's been active all these years and we never had a clue."

"Maybe you need more sleep."

Iago frowned. "You used to humor me more."

"Conspiracy theories are one thing. I think your work is starting to get to you." Someone called his name from inside. Elliot stood up and brushed the crumbs off his trousers. "Here we go again."

"Why did you bother to see me anyway? You typically have meetings at this time, don't you?"

"A minor scandal." He yawned. "Damian left the guild last night."

"What?"

"I wouldn't get too worked up about it." He waved. "He's been shut in here for years. I doubt any would-be killers would recognize him if he went out to blow off some steam."

"He's more disciplined than this," Iago murmured. "Something had to have set him off."

"Alyon, probably. They had a run-in right before he stormed off. I'm surprised no one heard a screaming match."

"Even more suspicious if you ask me."

"I didn't, but as a friend, I'd like you to consider taking the rest of the day off."

"Consideration rejected."

Elliot shrugged. "I tried. Now, since the council is through yelling at Alyon for not keeping his mouth shut, they're going to yell at me for not keeping it shut for him. If you see Damian, be sure to send him my way, would you?"

"Have fun."

"Oh, I will." Someone called his name again, this time adding a few choice words at the end.

While resting was out of the question, he was inclined to find himself some shade. Iago didn't take more than a couple steps indoors before he found the sailor. Things seldom surprised Iago, but for the first few seconds, he didn't know how to react.

Damian aged years overnight. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were swollen. The spaces beneath them were battered and red. He struggled forward beneath his weight, clasped Iago's shoulders, and held out an iron key.

"Take this," he said. "Keep it. Smelt it. Throw it away. I don't care. Never let me see it again."

Iago, so full of questions and never enough answers, just nodded.

Damian bolted away.

"Elliot said–"

"I know," he interjected, still plodding.

He stared at the heavy key in the palm of his hand. Keys meant locks, and locks were expensive.

Even so, the Shadow Blade compound had an impressive assortment. As quartermaster, he was privy to every single one of them, evident by the set of skeleton keys at his side. He spent years determining which prong belonged to what door, chest, nook and cranny, searching relentlessly for answers and found them all.

Save one.

He had to keep himself from running to the southeastern tower; the Queen's Keep. Home to a couple supply closets at its base, a kitchen, a library, and three rooms belonging to a personal steward, her handmaiden, and the woman herself.

At the very top was a door he could never open. Her office.

As he stood before the threshold, he fumbled with the iron tool, practically shaking as it clicked into place.

The room was unexpectedly plain, with the simplicity of its furniture flawed by its high quality, as though the owner tried to feign humble origins. A row of bookcases stood to one side. There was a map and tapestry on the other. A tiny seating alcove rested at the heart, and an imposing desk stood nearest a row of tall slit windows.

That desk was the only place devoid of dust, as if it were the single thing allowed to remain in a different time. Iago could imagine Lyssa sitting there, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in behind her. When he turned around, the place appeared alarmingly dark by comparison.

Cobwebs were strewn along the molding and base of the walls, in the shelves, and down a curtain. Dust turned the room several shades duller and grayer than before.

He walked to the desk and began to rifle through the drawers. Spare sheets of paper. Several bottles of ink. Two pens. A stick of charcoal. A wax block with its accompanying seal, several minor fire runes. A half-empty bottle of wine.

And the final drawer was...

Empty.

Iago frowned. He was sure there'd be something in it. It was deep, just like the one on the opposite side.

"Wait a minute."

He pulled out both drawers and took a step back, crouching at eye level. He was willing to swear that the bases were at different heights. He tapped the first. A good solid thunk awaited him. He tapped the second.

"It's hollow." His eyes widened like a cat at play.

Iago lifted the false bottom, exposing a thick stack of papers compressed by a long strand of twine. The pages were marked with dates starting just before the Guild War began.

M

He read, and read. He read until the sky turned dark, and then he read some more.

By the time he finished, it was well past midnight, but he felt more awake than ever before. To think that they had agents within the Shroud. To think that Damian was bold enough to maintain such a lengthy espionage mission.

But the more he read, the more it became obvious that Daerin was not the one they were watching. It was the child in his custody. Her name was blotted out time and again. Whoever she was, she was important enough for Lyssa to begin watching her. She wasn't human, or not entirely. She was a mage, and Iago knew she was Spiderlily.

Which meant that until recently, she was actually under their protection? Damian was not only the one leading the investigation, but he was also doing his foremost to stall its progress.

Oh my, thought Iago. Oh my, my, my.

The ink bottle spilled onto an empty sheet, and he set the reports on the other side of the table to protect them.

He blinked at how it wasn't seeping through. It spread, forming words in a hairline, elegant scrawl.

Curiosity is a fatal flaw, my dear. But I find it irresistible. Wouldn't you agree?

Tiny hairs stood up at the back of his neck as he wondered if Elliot was right and he truly did need more sleep.

Fine, don't answer me, the ink quipped at him. By now, you've discovered that our dear Damian has been keeping a secret, but you have no idea just how big of a secret this is, do you, child? Oh no. For that to happen, you must first ask yourself why the secrecy in the first place? Who exactly is this girl?

This ink, or rather, its writer, appealed to his lust for answers. Iago picked up a pen and jotted down his response: How do you know?

Child, what do you think I use the ghouls for? They're my eyes and my ears. It's my business to know everything that goes on within these walls.

Elvawein?

Indeed. A pleasure to meet you. Iago, was it? An interesting man, delighted by interesting things. Something we have very much in common. Now, do tell me before you get dragged any deeper into this garden of thorns, would you like to know what I know? Could you sacrifice yourself to sate that voracious curiosity?

Sacrifice myself how?

Well, I don't know, but we all lose something in the end. For Lyssa, it was her life, for Damian, his heart; for Daerin, his mind. For you... your soul, perhaps?

Iago licked his dry and cracking lips.

Tell me, he decided.

The girl is a half-elf. I'm sure you guessed. Upon entering Daerin's care, he gave her a new identity: Silhouette. But these days, I suppose it's Spiderlily. She's a good girl, I'll have you know. Charming. Dangerous. Friends with your young prince, if I'm not mistaken.

Iago blinked.

Alyon. Their incompetent Alyon was acquainted with a murderer?

Back to the point. It's not who she is in Lydia, but who she was in Riverstone. Damian and Alyon were there. Do you remember?

How could he forget? Waiting day after gods-forsaken day on that burning pier, eating mint snaps with Elliot and making pointless conversation while looking for a rickety boat.

Teraliel Illuminias.

He stared at the name on the paper. Illuminias?

It's exactly what you're thinking, Iago. The scandal! To think her daughter was elfborn. Daerin took a liking to her and spirited her away. Heron and Ballard were in his company at the time and alerted your dear queen.

If Lyssa acted rashly, the people would've gotten suspicious. If she waited for Daerin to make a mistake, she could save her. It all began to make sense.

But she didn't live, did she? No, I made sure of that.

He shuddered.

It was far too interesting. How would she grow, I wondered? Would she get swallowed up by the chaos? Would she learn to keep her head above water? Or would she become the eye of a hurricane?

Wait, he thought to himself. Damian and Alyon were in Riverstone. They were visiting friends there. If she and Alyon went way back, then... no, no, no, no. Alyon said that friend died, didn't she?

Didn't she?

But there's still so much more, Iago. Would you like to hear it? Have you ever heard of the Ghostwalkers?

M

"I'm sorry."

Those were the first two words Yherod had spoken to him in a very long time. Old Man raised his head, wondering how they'd react if Nyx or Silhouette learned that apart from their visits, he never smiled. It was an exhausting expression for him to make, and one in which he saw no point.

"You're wasting your pity."

"Were you this cheeky in life?" he asked.

"Life." The word drawled out. "I don't think I know what that is anymore." He looked around at the Core, where he had since memorized most of the odd pictograms lining the walls. "You're asking a corpse in a spacious stone coffin."

"We were preparing to give you a funeral when you... woke up." It was clear from the way the light pooled in his eyes that the memory disturbed him. "Undead are unnatural, especially on this large a scale. You have to understand, I put you in here as a precaution."

"It sounds to me like you're trying to convince yourself that was the case." Old Man laughed. "I don't need that reassurance. Would you like forgiveness, is that it?"

Yherod's stare grew as hard as the stone around them. "You've changed."

Old Man froze.

"You're dying more and more each day. I've seen men like you waste away before. Men who were still alive. You've lasted this long, and I respect you for it, but sooner or later, it'll all fade away."

"What do you know?" he snapped.

Yherod eyed the dried fruit and petals on the floor. Old Man asked for these things on occasion. To remind him of the surface, or so he claimed. The reality was different. It was to hide the smell.

"You're rotting," the dwarf announced, watching the ghoul flinch at the truth he tried to hide. "Whatever magic Elvawein used to resurrect you is wearing off. You can barely walk under your own weight. You barely smile because the muscles under your face are–"

"Shut up!"

Old Man breathed hard, or at least appeared to. He didn't know if he was breathing. He couldn't touch, taste, or feel. He couldn't smell, but he suspected he stank. He watched his veins shrivel beneath his skin. Watched them become pale, wiry, and drawn. He could barely see at all anymore. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't shed normal tears. He wanted to scream, but was terrified his throat would snap. When he tried to hit the table behind him, two of his fingers broke.

"You say I pity you," Yherod continued, perfectly calm. "If I did, I would've burned your body the moment it hit the floor. I've seen enough necromancy in my life to know you share a bond with your summoner. You may not know it, but you're her tool. I locked you here to keep you from learning anything she could use to harm the children. You understood that."

"I still do." He gazed at the floor. "Yet you seem to be careless by telling me about the Core, Feyt, and the Ghostwalkers."

"Because Elvawein couldn't have resurrected you if she didn't know about that already."

The ghoul looked to him. "How?"

"I don't know. Few people were privy to the knowledge. One of them must've told her. Under unfavorable circumstances, I imagine." Yherod frowned. He motioned to the room. "You know that the Core, that Lydia, was built as a prison. By keeping you in this room, I've kept you from deteriorating much longer than the ghouls on the surface."

"You did?"

The dwarf nodded. "If, upon death, one feels they have unfinished business, or took binding oaths, their spirits will remain behind to fulfill the requirements. Sometimes indefinitely. Feyt was a unique case. As a punishment, her soul was forcibly separated from her body and smelted into the metal that forged the sword holding her. There was always a risk that she could find a means to escape."

"The Ghostwalkers."

"Yes." Yherod bowed his head. "Before they were aware of that loophole, the Magi built the Core. Through it, the seer-kings of Lydia could continue to do so after their deaths."

"Are you trying to tell me the entire royal family is alive down here?"

He scratched his mustache. "It's a bit more complicated. They're alive, in a sense. You know that if a mage is powerful enough, they can maintain spells after they die. They strengthen the ability of the Core. It's a soul-siphon. Anyone who dies in Lydia fuels this room, and perpetuates the cycle."

"I still don't see how it applies to me."

"Most ghouls lose their sense of self before rotting. They go after the things they valued most in life; friends or family. In the process, they end up destroying everything they were, leaving mindless drones behind. For you, it's the opposite... for now."

Old Man closed his eyes, considering this all very carefully.

"So it was built just in case Feyt's soul escaped from the sword? It would be bound to stay within Lydia?"

"Yes."

"I see. And if you've been preserving me by keeping my soul here, are you telling me that a soul can deteriorate?"

Yherod nodded.

"So what happens if it's gone completely?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "You're gone forever, I'd expect."

Old Man was never afraid of death, but the pain of dying. He was right to fear it. In death, he was afraid he'd rot into oblivion. He was right to fear that too, but he didn't think there was anything worse than that.

Not until then.

"Why bother telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know that even something like this isn't foolproof. Souls escape all the time, like small fish through the gaps of a net, but something has changed with the Guild War. Elvawein found a way to trap all of them."

"What's your point?"

"She knows Lydia as intimately as those who built it. She's changing its nature. I've kept you around to see if maybe I could find out how she's doing it, but I can't." He placed a hand on his temple. "So I'm giving you an opportunity instead."

He brought his hammer out from behind him.

Old Man's blackened eyes gleamed in understanding. "When you said you were sorry, it wasn't about keeping me in here. It was about not doing this years ago."

"It's your choice," Yherod reminded him.

"What will you tell the others?"

"I've let you go."

He snorted. "Well it wouldn't necessarily be a lie. Although I will feel bad about the mess."

"It wouldn't look too different from Ivane's cooking, or smell far from it."

Old Man allowed himself a laugh, however macabre the comparison. It took him two lifetimes, but he finally saw a way out that included some hope. He found the strength to smirk.

"Though I didn't choose to be, I ended up in charge of those kids. I lost a lot of sleep over whether we had enough food, blankets, clothes, medicine, but when I saw them laughing I, I was proud of them. For not knowing how bad things were. For being brave enough to be happy. After a while, I'd stay up a little longer just to watch them sleep."

Two streams of inky tears coursed down his cheeks.

"I love those kids, Yherod. I've loved them a thousand times more than I've ever loved myself. And Gods help me, if you let anything happen to them, I'll never forgive you."

Old Man sat there, unable to move against the stone table, his head hanging off to one side. He appeared more like a broken doll than a man. "Promise me," he begged. "Promise me you'll protect them. That you'll do everything you can to keep them safe."

"You have my word."

He summoned all his strength to nod his head that one last time. "Thank you."

Yherod swung his hammer above his head and onto the ghoul before him. A loud crunching sound followed as he spurted across the floor. He swung a couple more times for good measure, and finally, with bits of him showered over his person, Yherod stared at the remains.

Old Man was young when he died the first time, and still young–fewer than thirty years. Suffering aged him more than time. Yherod knew that in other circumstances, he would have become a fine man; a finer father.

While his end was far from pretty, Yherod had a feeling that both he and the ghoul found humor in the irony of how wisdom made men ancient.

In the end, he knew more about life than people many times his age. An Old Man who died far too young.

16: Final Assessment

"Always kiss your children goodnight, even if they're already asleep."

Jackson Brown, Jr.

Heron didn't believe it at first. "Damian what?"

Ballard pulled his hood farther down his face. "He snapped. He said he can't afford to continue being pulled in both directions. He's not going to keep hiding her anymore."

"What changed?"

"They met. They know."

"Could you be a little less cryptic?" Heron snapped, irritated.

They paced themselves through the lower tiers, taking their time ascending.

"Alyon and Silhouette."

Heron's eyes bulged. "When the hell did this happen?"

"He doesn't know. He didn't ask." Ballard clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Apparently, Silhouette gave him a message. She knows everything. The reports. The spying. And she wasn't happy."

The blood drained from Heron's face. "Is that why she didn't come back last night?"

"I guess so."

"Gods save us all. I can forget about her listening to anything I have to say from this point on. Damian pretty much gave up and said she's on her own with all this."

"I know."

"She's going to die."

"Probably."

Heron yelled in frustration, throwing his hands behind his head. Ballard frowned in mute agreement.

"Things are going from bad to worse again, just like before the War started. She's never had a choice in any of this, and when she's finally privy to the truth, we're going to kill her for it. We're no better than Daerin."

"We were no better than him the moment we let him bring her here," Ballard reminded him. He looked around before asking, "Any word on her next assignment? Most of the merchants are gone, and two minor guildmasters are dead. Several others disbanded of their own volition. Pretty soon, only the large groups will remain."

"No word." Heron sighed. "Daerin's been unusually quiet of late. I don't like it. He's plotting something."

"Are you sure?"

"Well," he said, then hesitated. "Probably."

"Explain."

Heron glanced out the corner of his eyes. "He seems complacent this last week or so. He came to visit and talk one day. Little things, like what was for dinner or what I was reading. A long time ago, this wouldn't strike me as strange. These days, it's weird he doesn't spend all his time cackling over poisons."

"I see your point."

"And that's not all. Another night, when Silhouette went off on an assignment, he asked if she has any friends she can talk to."

"Now that is strange. What did you tell him?"

"I mentioned Nyx, what else? He looked relieved, asked if there was anyone else, and I said no. After that, he just got up and left."

"What the hell is he up to?" Ballard muttered under his breath.

"I don't know!" Heron fumed. "I'm starting to think his insanity is rubbing off on us. From anyone else, this level of kindness is expected. When he shows it, we're convinced he's going to commit mass homicide."

Ballard looked at him, perfectly serious. "Is he?"

M

"You tried to touch it?"

"I just wanted to get a better look."

Silhouette furrowed her brow at him. Nyx was tight-lipped all morning. She hadn't the faintest clue as to why she'd freeze her locket in her sleep when all Nyx tried to do was touch it.

What was strange was that this time, she couldn't break the ice. She tried to set it in fire, chipped at it with a fork, used a hammer, and even gnawed on it when all else failed. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could break it.

"You know I don't need you to walk me home," she reminded him.

"I wanted to."

Silhouette stopped, her expression turned suspicious. Daerin waved at the small group from the entrance of the building.

Feyt jolted from the shock she received through the senses. It was like being startled by the growl of an angry bear.

Nyx darted a quick look at him and back to his friend. "This isn't normal."

"No," Silhouette said tightly. "Far from it."

"What does he want?"

"Nothing good."

Daerin offered them a childish smile as they approached. "Welcome home!" Nobody missed how Silhouette flinched at the cheeriness in his voice. "I was worried when you didn't get back last night."

"Don't tell me there was an assignment."

"Oh no, no. You need a few hours warning for that at least." He waved. "And you must be Nyx." He extended a hand.

Nyx and Silhouette exchanged looks.

"Don't touch it," she warned him. "He probably has a knife up his sleeve."

Daerin frowned, retracting his arm. "You wound me, Kendra."

"Not nearly enough."

Anger flared across his face, but he composed himself easily. He turned to Nyx with a too-perfect smile. "Thank you for always keeping an eye on her."

"You're... welcome?"

Daerin stepped aside and waved them in. "Come in, come in!"

Silhouette scanned the room, containing many tables and many more seats, but all of them empty.

"Where are they?"

"Where are who?"

"The women," she said. "The children."

"I let them go."

"What?"

Daerin shrugged. "The streets are safer these days, and some guilds collapsed. Haven't you heard? I let them go so they can tend some rooftop gardens before winter sets in. You didn't think I'd keep them forever?"

"No," she replied sourly. "I thought you'd kill them before then."

"I was joking."

"If you're going to joke about someone's life, it should be yours," she snapped. The mage craned her head into the pantry, still searching. "And the men?"

"Still around here. Just because the streets are getting safer doesn't mean it's wise to go totally unprotected. Don't worry, I won't let any harm come to you."

Nyx saw that Silhouette was reluctant to trust him, and he didn't blame her for a second.

"Check the building," she said off to the side. To Feyt, he guessed.

Daerin readied cups for tea in the background. He set a tray down at the table when Silhouette paced up to him.

"Where's Faodrin?"

"Out back with the others." Daerin made a knowing sound. "Ah yes, he's going to give you your assignment today."

"Heron's always given me my assignments."

"Heron's out right now. He said he'd be back before dark."

Silhouette narrowed her eyes and looked at Nyx. "Run for it if he tries anything."

Feyt followed after the mage, who made her way out the back door, unprepared for what awaited her.

Faodrin sat on the ground. The look in his eyes was grave, and all around him, leaning against the walls, standing, pacing back and forth, were the guardians of the Shroud. They were mercenaries, mostly, whose services bought them a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. They never gave Silhouette trouble. They wanted as little to do with Daerin and his favorite as possible. They knew she was Spiderlily. They knew she was a sorceress.

They knew she couldn't take all of them at once.

"Faodrin?" she asked. "What's going on?"

"You shouldn't have come back," he said, taking his hands in hers as soon as she approached. "You should've stayed away. Far, far away from this place." He strained his neck, looking over her shoulder at the door. "Don't tell me Nyx is here."

"He is." She stared down at him. "I told him to run if Daerin tried anything."

Her brother released a long and heavy breath. "I guess that's the most we could ask for."

Faodrin had an unusual air about him. He was eerily calm, as though he'd resigned himself to something.

"I also had assignments when I was younger," he began with a nostalgic look. "Except they involved fixing things or just regular housecleaning. The last assignment Daerin gave me was something totally different from the rest."

The mage sat on the floor, crossing her legs. "He asked you to kill someone?"

"He asked me to raise someone. Dumped a kid on my lap and pretty much said 'You're a big brother now. Have fun.'"

Silhouette's shoulders shook as she laughed silently. "I was your assignment?"

"The best one ever." He rested a finger on the tip of her nose and pushed it like a button. "The most adorable whirlwind of trouble I'd ever met. You still are." He made a face at her. "Followed me everywhere, always wanted to play. I spent the first few months trying to get you to speak up and the next few years trying to get you to shut up. You just wouldn't leave me alone. Annoyed the hell out of me."

Her cheeks burned. Some of the older men around them remembered such a time, and hid their amusement expertly.

"But one day, it was awfully quiet," Faodrin said, crestfallen. "I turned around and you weren't there. Now you were running around, having your own adventures. It got to the point where you'd learned just about everything I had to teach you, and it feels like it was never enough. I didn't choose to be your brother. But I'm so glad I was."

"Faodrin?"

"You were my last assignment," he repeated. "Now, I'm yours."

The others looked away as soon as the words were spoken.

"No." Her bottom lip trembled, and her eyes welled with tears. She shook her head. "No. Faodrin, no! Not you!" Tears trickled from her eyes before she could stop them. "Please, please, no. You're lying. You have to be." Her voice shook as a knot formed in her throat. She looked around them, at the people refusing to stare back at her.

"You should've finished it by now." Daerin appeared through the door. She turned on him, enraged.

"He's got nothing to do with the War, Daerin! He didn't do anything."

"He did," he disagreed. "Because he has so much to do with you."

Silhouette bit her lip so hard it began to bleed. "You can't make me. The children are gone. I can just kill you instead."

He dragged Nyx by the collar of his shirt. Silhouette stared aghast.

"I think I might have slipped a little something extra into his tea. He's alive. For now."

"Let him go!"

"Finish your assignment and then talk to me."

"So that's it?" she asked. "Even if you kill him, what's going to stop me from going after you?"

Daerin stopped. "Oh Kendra. You don't seem to understand something." He smiled kindly, but his voice was condescending. "I am the guildmaster here, and these men are mine to command. I can guarantee a living. You're just a little girl. I give you an order. You obey it."

"I-I'll kill myself," she threatened.

"Then they'll both follow right after you," he called her bluff. "You try to kill me, I kill Nyx, and my men kill Faodrin. If you refuse to do anything, they both die and that'll make it all your fault, won't it?"

Silhouette glared at him, but this time, Daerin was impossible to faze. When that failed her, she slumped, eyeing the ground. Feyt felt how hard she was staring. She rejected the options in front of her, and with every possibility lost, it became a little harder to see past the tears. She clenched her fists, dragging dirt beneath her nails. A sob escaped her throat.

"You have five minutes," Daerin announced, all smiles gone. He dragged Nyx back inside.

Faodrin grabbed Silhouette by the wrist. "Summon some ice."

She did as was told, hoping he had a plan.

Faodrin placed his hands on either side of her face and kissed her forehead.

"I'm your brother," he whispered quickly, doing his best to hold her focus. "The whole world can turn against you, but I'll always be there."

He rested a hand over the icicle and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a tight hug.

Tears spilled across her cheeks.

"I'll always be there," he said again to her ear. "Count on it."

She just stared. A trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his lips.

She didn't want to release the ice; the item that kept them connected, and had effectively pulled them apart.

17: Purely Poison

"Children are educated by what a grown-up is and not by his talk."

Carl Jung

"She has eight hours left."

The needle fumbled between Ivane's fingers. Yherod sat across from her.

"She's cut it close before," Ivane reminded him, hoping to dull the edge on his tension.

"She has," he agreed. "But close was two days. She's gone. Nyx is gone. I want to know what the hell happened!"

His voice cracked the air. Ivane winced. Yherod pressed his crossed arms deeper into his chest.

"Do you hear that?"

Ivane listened. "There's nothing, Yherod."

"Exactly." He paced to the window. "This place is filled with children, and it's quiet. They won't stop yammering unless they're exhausted or sense a heaping pile of trouble."

"Well, what would you like me to do, Yherod? I can't see the future. I can barely make sense of the present!"

"I know," he muttered. "They've had a hard enough time accepting that Old Man is gone. They need those two more than ever."

Her lips puckered into a thin line. "Because you had absolutely nothing to do with that, did you?"

"What I did was a mercy."

M

The council was composed of a half-dozen men, including Ballard and Damian. They situated themselves in the original great hall, a place that was laughably too large for them, much like their individual opinions. It was there that the most trusted members of the guild gathered to discuss issues, and apart from escort or invitation, it was unthinkable to waltz right in.

So their mouths hung gaping at the man who strolled into the room.

Elliot and Iago looked at one another, their faces filled with silent questions. When it became clear that neither was in on this latest scene, they diverted their attention to the new guest.

"Alyon," said one of the councilmen, towering over his desk. "Unless you have guild business to report, I suggest you get out of here now."

The prince appeared unusually put-together.

He faced the room with a wide-legged stance, as if daring someone to move him.

"I do," he replied. There was a ring of authority that took them aback. Elliot didn't need to glance at Damian to see that the man was more startled than anyone.

The councilman cleared his throat and gestured in Alyon's direction. "Go on then."

"I wish to petition for guild leadership."

It was as if a rock fell in the middle of the room, and no one wanted to acknowledge its presence.

Iago grinned, delighted by the unexpected turn.

Elliot was troubled by the sudden announcement. As for the rest, they just stared.

"You cannot be serious."

"I am."

"Somebody get him out of my sight!"

"I claim my right to Trial by Combat!"

The guards reaching for him stopped to look at the council. It was Ballard, with his lanky frame and fiery red hair, who spoke.

"The boy is serious." He looked out from the corner of his eyes at those beside him. "Trial by Combat has been a tenet of the Shadow Blades since its founding."

Several of them opened their mouths to protest.

"Are we so lost that we will undo everything that made us who we are?" he demanded loudly, cutting off any form of argument. He looked at the sailor. "You can't refuse him, Damian."

"I understand." He stood and met his son at the heart of the room. "Unconsciousness, forfeiting, or death; three ways to end this. Once it starts, you can't back out."

"I know."

Damian found steel in his son's eyes that wasn't there before. He learned to use the depth of his gaze to show his determination. Had he approached them in anger, Damian would've denied him this right, sacred or not. Alyon walked calmly, ignoring looks of scorn. Much as Damian once did while walking through the palace those many years ago.

He appeared a little more proud. A little more confident. Everyone who once mocked him felt a fog lift from their eyes, and were reminded that this man was their prince.

Ballard dropped his hand. "Begin."

"I forfeit!"

This time, it was Alyon who looked more dumbfounded than anybody else.

His father hadn't even reached for the sword at his side before throwing his hands to the air. He smiled like he did before Lyssa died, without a care in the world.

"W-what farce is this?" asked the councilman.

"What farce indeed?" Damian placed a hand on his lower back and hunched over, stretching. "I'm not as young as I used to be. There's no wisdom in fighting." He raised his head at Ballard. "Well, was it fair or not?"

Even his friend, who had known him for so many years, appeared flabbergasted. "It... was."

"Well there you have it!" He clapped his hands. "All of you've seen it. Enjoy your new title, and I'll be off!"

Alyon marched after him. "So that's it?"

"Were you expecting something else?"

"A fight, for one thing."

Damian's eyes crinkled. "There was. You just didn't notice." They continued out of the room and into a new hall. "Am I allowed to know what brought on this sudden change? Few months back, you would've spat on all of us quite happily."

"I was thinking."

"That's dangerous."

His son scowled. "I was thinking," he continued. "Now that the guilds have more or less gotten quiet, it'd be a good time to start bringing some order to the streets again."

"And you didn't trust me to do that?"

"Sitting on your hands twiddling your thumbs doesn't count."

Damian laughed. "Oh, such little faith you have in your father. Not that I can blame you," he added quickly. "I'm a sailor and somewhat of a bum. I admit that. Leadership was never my forte."

"Then why did you even bother?"

"Because I loved your mother," Damian replied. A shadow of pain lingered over his happy expression. It tinged his words with sad nostalgia. "She was Lydia. If I turned my back on this place, I'd be shaming her in every possible way."

"Then why didn't you just put someone more capable up to the job?"

His father cocked an eyebrow. "When you get to my age, you see things you would've never picked up before, Alyon. Do you even remember those days before the War?"

"Clearer than I'd like."

"You and I both." Damian sniffed. "So you remember how every noble out there turned their noses when we came up in conversation, but the average folk loved us? You were still too young to be permitted outside to see that, though."

"I was under the impression they despised us too."

"In the streets? Of course! Did you think they'd be throwing roses from the rooftops while guards were around?" he asked. "No one in their right minds would hint at it in front of those thugs, but behind closed doors, things were different. Most people saw my marriage to your mother as a way to level the classes. That no matter how hard some might want to deny it, even a simple man like me had to be acknowledged. And when word got out that you were born?" He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, smiling wondrously. "Gods, Alyon. Fires were kept burning in Hangman's Cross for weeks. People were smiling! Drinking! Singing!" Damian looked at him. "For you."

"But... I was a bastard."

Damian saw old scars resurface on his son's face. It was then the man knew they should've had this talk much, much earlier. He clasped his shoulder.

"You were a chance. I won't deny that to some, you were just a slap in the face to the aristocrats, but there were plenty who believed you represented a middle ground, where two people of very different social standings could meet as equals. It was a time when everything seemed possible."

"Then Kendra died."

"Yes," said Damian, lowering his voice. "Then Kendra died."

"May I ask you something?"

"By all means."

"How did she die? All I've ever heard was that she had an accident."

His father waned. "Now that you're guildmaster, you deserve to know."

"It wasn't an accident, was it?"

"No, it wasn't an accident." He lowered his head. "It was murder."

M

They chitter, Nyx thought. Spiders chitter. The spiteful little creatures crawled, climbed, and spun themselves in circles in their glass containers. Daerin was kind enough to set a jar of wolf spiders beside him, where he could get a much closer look at their hairy, spine-shuddering exteriors.

Each day brought something vile with it, either in the form of food or injection, which never failed to make him vomit.

Nyx was in no position to do anything other than fight off the toxins that were trying to kill him.

He imagined how horrific this was for Silhouette, to deal with this for so many years. Nyx didn't think such strength could strike him as terrifying, but it did. Despite being weakened and foul-mouthed, she somehow managed to regain her footholds and smile again.

How? he wondered.

Daerin brushed into his hideous menagerie. Nyx did his best to crane his neck, but could only make out the back of his head. He listened to the sound of glasses clinking against one another, then the folding of fabric as Daerin graced him with his attention.

Liquid spurted from the tip of a needle in his palm. He approached. "Why you?"

"What?"

He slid the jar of gods-forsaken spiders away and pulled up a chair. "Why did she pick you?"

Nyx assumed he was talking about Silhouette. "Why do you think she picked me?"

"Because she always does the choosing," Daerin answered. "By the time we realize, it's already too late. Why you?"

Too late, he asked himself. What did he mean by it was too late?

"She saved me. I've been indebted to her ever since."

The man nodded, seemingly pleased by the response. "Many owe her their lives."

Nyx wondered if he was talking about Kendra or Silhouette. He wasn't sure.

"What happened?" asked Daerin.

He hesitated. "I was there for her to use." Nyx closed his eyes and snorted. "But she never asked for help outright. She's too–"

"Independent."

"Yeah."

He opened his eyes to find Daerin looking at him, not only with sanity, but with sympathy. In their dark depths, Nyx felt like he knew every secret, every dream, and every thought he ever had.

"You love her too."

The fact that Daerin didn't need to question this made him flinch that much harder.

"Does she love you?"

The pain in his chest made him want to curl into a ball.

"No," Nyx said, quiet. "And I don't think she ever will." He didn't know if it was desperation or carelessness, but he had to wonder. "Daerin, if I live as long as you have, will I turn into you?"

"I've lived for a long time."

"Fifty years?" he guessed.

"Five hundred-odd."

Nyx's eyes widened.

Daerin leaned over him and pointed at the scars at the edges of his misshapen ears. "I'm an elf."

"W-wha- why?"

"I couldn't make myself human, but I could look the part. I did my best to be there, to be her support." Daerin's eyes began to water. "But in the end, he came along, but by then it was too late. I loved her so much, I let her get away to choose her own happiness, knowing that I wasn't it. I was there waving to her like an idiot." He slammed his fist beside Nyx's head. The young man was transfixed by the agony on his face. "She got on that damn boat, and I thought I'd see her again. Aren't I stupid? She smiled and I wondered why she was looking back so pitifully. Then Elvawein tells me she got married, and I figured out she knew all along. All along! How much I...

"Riverstone"–Daerin breathed deeply–"is full of nothing but bigots and murderers. They conspired against me. You should've seen them after I did this." He pointed to his ears. "Uradden. Ezara. Especially, especially Jerrold! I thought he was my friend, but he steals Kendra away from me. I practically raise him and this is how he repays me!"

Nyx blinked. Raised him? "You were his teacher?"

Daerin scoffed, "I was his mentor, his sparring partner, his liaison, his confidant. I called him friend and now I'd sooner spit on his cold corpse. They used me, you see? They wanted me to talk to Kendra, to tell her about them and the Core, about the Undercity and the Ghostwalkers. They wanted a sacrifice and I gave it to them! My own brother–"

"Silhouette's your niece?"

Daerin wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "My second Kendra, but she's perfect this time." The insanity returned to his features. "I give an order and she obeys it. She can kill the Lydians she loved so much. She can kill her own brother. She can try to leave again, but she'll never be able to escape, because I'm a part of her." He scraped his nails along the veins of his wrist. "I couldn't have Kendra. She belonged to everyone, but like this, even someone like me, even after everything, I can have a tiny piece, can't I?" He stared into the air. "Can't I?"

Nyx was frightened. Not of the man before him, but of the possibility that this was the sort of man he could become. Love wasn't something often spoken about. It was understandable, considering the times. The rare mentions of it, in whispers on the street, or hushed conversations over a table, indicated that it was a beautiful thing that, in its purest form, was on the same scope as a myth.

Daerin had such a pure love, Nyx thought. He loved so much that he allowed Kendra to walk away with someone of her choosing. It took a colossal amount of courage just to profess the damn thing. He couldn't imagine.

No.

He didn't want to imagine Silhouette walking off with someone else. Nyx knew his disdain for Alyon was greater than normal, but this was the first time it registered that this was because he saw the other man as a threat. He was a potential, and very real, replacement.

For Daerin to recognize what was happening as it happened, to just smile and wave affably as his place beside the person he loved was snatched away from him...

Perhaps it was that one final effort that triggered Daerin's descent into madness? It was clear that pieces of him were still intact. The problem was that his idea of love was warped beyond repair. He reenacted his mistakes with Kendra in Silhouette. Rather than giving her freedom, he was controlling her. Rather than bring her health, he crippled it.

Instead of being surrounded by many who loved her, he was trying to give her all the love many could give on his own. It made sense.

Nyx hated how much it made sense to him. He hated himself for being unable to hate Daerin, even while the needle pricked his skin. The world grew darker. They were the same.

True love. It's probably better off left in fairytales and idle dreams.

Daerin was the textbook example of how easy it is to tarnish something that used to be so pure. Tarnished love was not the same as hate. No. It was selfishness. It was possessiveness.

As Nyx's eyes began to close, Daerin looked down at him, this time with an expression of camaraderie.

So this is love, Nyx thought to himself. A pretty word for self-destruction.

18: Massacre of Hangman's Cross

"Having children really changes your view on things. We're born, we live for a brief instant, and we die."

Steve Jobs

"You have to eat something."

Nothing.

"You can yell at me."

Heron tilted his head. Silhouette looked straight through him. It'd been four weeks since Faodrin died, and the only times she ate were when she was too tired to protest having food brought to her mouth.

He arrived an hour after it happened, by which point she screamed herself hoarse. It was impossible to tear her off of his body, so he waited until she passed out from exhaustion. Daerin ordered for the corpse to be burned before it could resurrect, stopping at nothing to ensure Faodrin was completely dead.

Heron did his best to clean her up, and while at first, he was glad she was willing to dress herself, he was distressed when he saw her wearing Faodrin's clothes. She remained cocooned in his bed and left only to the bathroom on occasion. He left her once since then, to find Ballard and tell him the situation.

His friend seemed even more horrified than he was.

"He's gone too far this time," was all he managed to say.

Damian was devastated by the news, or so Ballard reported. Regardless, the sailor refused to intervene any more than he already had.

Well, sympathy and devastation weren't going to cut it this time. For years, they stood by and watched as everything happened, but with Damian out of the game, Heron decided enough was enough.

"Silhouette, I know you can hear me, so listen. I know you know about me and Ballard and what we've been up to. I know about Alyon, too."

There was still no response.

"You probably don't care what I think, but I've always wanted to help you. There's no excuse for why I didn't, and I realize I'm probably past forgiveness by now. But I can take you away to the Shadow Blades. You'll be safe there."

Again, nothing.

He began to get frustrated. "I'm going to get you to safety whether you say anything or not."

Her slight movement was enough to make him jolt. She sneered through strands of limp hair. Her eyes locked on his, but just barely.

"Just like you took me to safety here?" Silhouette raised an eyebrow. "Will you give me a new name too?"

She twisted that dagger in deep. He couldn't say anything.

"I don't hate you, Heron," she said with surprising softness. "You were more bent out of shape over my situation than I was. It helped me realize that all this," she flicked her hand at the building they were in, "wasn't normal. But I have more to worry about than myself."

"You mean Nyx."

"And others," she added. "It's almost been a month. When I don't show up, Yherod is coming to the surface to find me."

He gawked. "How do you know about Yherod?"

"I'm a Ghostwalker, Heron."

"You–"

"I died that day in Riverstone." She would've laughed if she wasn't so tired. "Nyx and I were watching over Alyon since I started out on the streets. I promised to protect him when we were kids, so that's exactly what I've been doing. And right now, Feyt looks like she wants to kill me." She stared at a patch of air.

"Feyt... here... in this room?"

"She's been here."

"So you're waiting for Yherod to rescue you?"

"And in exchange, I have to live in the Undercity. It's a deal we made a long time ago."

No one could simply make up such information, which led him to the conclusion that Silhouette was being truthful. The nonchalance in which she approached the topic served to note how disgusting and tiresome she found their situation.

For nearly a month, she'd been grieving, but a part of her was rational enough to think things through.

There was a secretive and calculating side to her personality that the cheerful and reckless Kendra didn't have. For an instant, Heron felt as though he was speaking with Daerin, his old friend, again.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I have nothing left to lose. This is the worst case scenario, and Nyx demanded I throw him away if the situation ever called for it."

"If you were going to throw him away, you should've done that in the alley."

"It wouldn't have made a difference against that number of people." Her eyes were hollow. "I'm not that stupid."

"I thought he was your friend."

She scowled. "I know Nyx, and I know what we're dealing with. He'll never forgive me if I fail to get out on his account. More importantly, he'd never forgive himself if that happened." Silhouette clenched two fistfuls of blanket. "I owe it to far too many people to stay alive. If you choose to go with me, you'll see why."

"Go with you? To the Undercity?"

"Do you have a reason to refuse?"

"No, I just assumed we'd be going to the Shadow Blades." He scratched the side of his face. "If Damian and Ballard knew we might be able–"

"Sell me off to the people as a second Kendra?" asked Silhouette. "You're not going to use me as some kind of hero for people to get their shit together. Lydia is not my problem."

"Then what is?"

"Alyon is the only one whose safety matters. He's the ruler by all rights, and if you want to turn anyone into your poster child for a bright future, it's him, not me."

The fierce look on her face dared him to suggest otherwise. He was smart enough not to.

"So what would you have me do?"

Silhouette leaned back against the pillows. "I want you to go two blocks southwest when you leave the alley. You'll find a trash chute. At the bottom, you'll find a grate. Take it to the Undercity."

"That entrance has been closed for years."

"I've reopened some in the areas I frequent. Since most people assume they're locked, they don't even bother checking." She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "Careless. But their ignorance is my benefit, so I guess I shouldn't complain."

Heron dipped his head, thinking the route through.

"And after I get down there, how do I get around the place? I've only been there less than a handful of times, Silhouette."

As he said this, she tugged at a chain around her neck, pulling it over her head. It was the same locket she wore when they found her. She kept it out of sight for so long that he forgot she had it.

"Take this. It emanates some light and should show you a strip of copper on one of the walls. It'll take you straight to Yherod. Just be sure to tell him I sent you, and that I need him to come find me."

The trinket felt warm despite being frozen.

"And Heron," she added, "you're going to die."

"What?"

"As soon as you leave the Shroud, you'll die. Do you understand? You can't approach Ballard or the Shadow Blades unless I say so. As far as they know, I killed you." She could see he had questions. "This calmness on the streets you see right now is just the beginning of a very dangerous storm. I need you to stay alive. It's likely you're going to be very important to me someday."

"You're not going to tell me you're a seer now, are you?"

Silhouette laughed. "I don't have to see the future to know the wisdom in planning ahead."

Heron walked to the door. He looked back at the young woman balled in layers of blankets. She looked old for her age, but it was her eyes that made her appear older still. Silhouette was a Ghostwalker. It was a fact he repeated to himself, but couldn't quite come to believe. Hearing all this just made him realize that despite her attitude, she was looking out for all of them, always one step ahead of everyone else.

M

Between the overcast and the orange sun, the sky took on an ugly, mottled brown.

From the Rim, Alyon watched as candles and runes came to life, dotting the stone city. His father stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back.

"Tell me about what happened to Kendra."

Damian searched the face of his son, one final assessment to convince himself that he was ready to know.

"There are books on this in your mother's office, though I have a few in the floorboards of my boat if you'd like to read them. They're called the Ghostwalkers, agents of chaos that have the freedom to make their own path in life." He sat on the grass, continuing to look out at the world in front of them. "Kendra was a Ghostwalker."

Alyon joined him on the ground. "Alright. Why is that important?"

"Being a Ghostwalker, being free from Destiny, made it possible for her to become the hero she was. Everything we see, every light down in the city, every blade of grass around us, is a Thread. These Threads exist because Destiny allows them to. And they move and live and die as Destiny demands."

"Sounds like a God."

"Perhaps it is one, or many." His father shrugged. "What I do know is that the reality is no one has a choice, and things happen because they are fated to happen."

"What happens if I don't want to do what Destiny wants?"

"If the Thread gets knotted off, you die. That is where Feyt comes in."

"Feyt?"

"Feyt has two abilities. Complete reign over Darkness, and the means to see all that has been, is, and will be."

"So she was a seer?"

Damian scratched his chin. "I suppose you could call her that, but Feyt knew everything. She was everything."

"Probably hated it," said Alyon. He hated every second he had to glimpse into time.

"She did, which was why she started meddling with the Threads. But it was taboo. The Threads serve a purpose; to maintain balance in the world, to keep us in check. But its singular flaw is that it can't determine morality, right from wrong. A priest who hasn't looked poorly upon anyone could be stricken with disease, madness, and killed in cold blood. A crook that stole, broke, and murdered his way into fortune could live out his days in sumptuous bliss. Do you see the problem?"

"It's unfair," Alyon muttered, "but what if it makes me want to do something I wouldn't normally?"

"Ah, I'm not good with technicalities," Damian admitted. "Everything I'm telling you now was from Kendra herself. I wanted to ask Feyt some questions, so she was my go-between."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. If this happened that long ago, how could Kendra talk to her?"

"One thing at a time. Unfair as they may be, the Threads can't make you do something that wouldn't come to you naturally. A human Thread can't have the Thread of a rock and just sit around or get kicked down a hill. And even among humans, each Thread is going to be different in some way or another."

"Okay..."

"As for that other thing you mentioned, Magi are immortal, by my understanding."

"So Feyt is still alive?"

"Not in the physical sense."

"So she died, then?"

"Not exactly."

Alyon began to get frustrated. "How can someone not exactly be dead or alive?"

"She lost her body, but her soul remains. That's how she creates Ghostwalkers. You die when you cross the Threads, but she's like a gatekeeper between alive, and really dead. Are you following me?"

"Sort of."

"Since she's sandwiched between the two, anyone who dies has a short chat with her, and she determines whether or not that person becomes a Ghostwalker. If not, they're gone for good. If they do, then she creates a pseudo-Thread where their Thread was knotted off, and the person who was supposed to be dead just wakes up, right as rain."

"She resurrects them?"

"That's right."

"So Kendra died twice?"

"Again, right on the mark." Damian pointed at a monolithic structure against the eastern sky. "The first time she died was when she jumped off the Horizon Span."

"She tried to kill herself?!"

"Kendra was many things, Alyon. Stable wasn't one of them." The massive bridge cast long shadows, like claw marks, over the water. "She was... bored. The woman had everything she could've asked for, but there was this emptiness in her that could never be filled, no matter how hard she tried. Right before she jumped, she told me she was going to find a reason to stay alive. When I found her, she was laughing on the sand like a lunatic, so I guess she succeeded."

"Strange woman."

"Stranger still, but also one of the best friends I ever had." Damian shook his head at the memory, at how panicked he was when she fell beyond his reach. He swore he saw blood on the water, but when he found her, she didn't even have a scratch. "The job of a Ghostwalker is to stay alive and influence as many people and objects as they can. In doing so, they drive other Threads off course, freeing them from their fixed places. Lyssa was the one who first found out Kendra became a Ghostwalker."

"How? Was she there when she fell?"

"Oh, no." Damian waved his hand. "Gods, no. If she was, she would've screamed the both of us deaf in a matter of seconds. She knew because she couldn't See the future anymore."

Alyon blinked. "Is that the only way you can stop Seeing it?"

"It's the only one I know of. You see, the Threads are like ropes of a ladder that seers use to know what's in front of them. It's why they only See one possibility, not many, for what's going to happen. There are no others. If, for some reason, you stop Seeing the future, then you've crossed paths with a Ghostwalker."

Damian, oblivious to his son's pale face, resumed speaking. "But being a Ghostwalker comes with serious consequences. Kendra lived a long time as a Ghostwalker, so we also discovered that with enough experience, Feyt's powers could be used through her host, but at a heavy price. There was one time, only for an instant, where she lost control."

Silhouette's words came back to haunt him.

I've even read accounts where mages were vaporized.

"What happened?"

"It only happens when a Ghostwalker becomes shaken, usually after being dealt a huge emotional shock. One minute, Kendra, Jerrold, Daerin and I were surrounded by bandits. And the next, they were all dead, along with a good chunk of the surrounding countryside. The damage was like nothing I'd ever seen before, and Kendra was also seriously injured by the recoil."

"It almost sounds like Ghostwalkers are walking bombs that don't know when they're about to go off."

"That's exactly what they are."

Alyon stared at his hands, doing his best to absorb the information.

"As for how Kendra truly died..."

He looked back to his father with renewed interest.

"Feyt advised her to find a means to keep the Ghostwalker State from happening a second time. We thought it was a good idea. Ultimately, when she followed Feyt's instructions, she died. After that, we were all made to believe that Feyt lied to us about wanting to undo the Threads. After all, why would she kill her own Ghostwalker?"

"Are you sure that she wanted to kill her?"

"We have no means of knowing for certain."

"Maybe we do."

Damian paused. "What do you mean?"

"I think Silhouette might be a Ghostwalker."

M

"Just breathe, Silhouette." Feyt sat beside her. "I can't help you if you keep resisting me."

Feyt closed her eyes in concentration, doing her best to manage the mess of tangled emotions. Faodrin's loss created a fissure that was sending everything into chaos. She recognized it the second he used the ice to impale himself, making it seem as though Silhouette was the one who killed him.

It was a selfless act of love, but not without consequences.

Feyt flooded the girl's senses to knock her unconscious, preventing more damage. She never used a link like this before.

She couldn't allow Silhouette to grieve properly. Doing so might make the fissure larger. Feyt did her best to keep Silhouette in a daze, but it was an exercise in futility. In time, the loss would overcome Feyt's ability to numb the pain.

Faodrin was her home. Losing him was like being kidnapped all over again. Feyt remembered the terror she felt. In that moment, she knew the mage was no better than a child.

"Feyt," she said, weak. "What's happening to me?"

The woman slid fingers through her hair. Feyt's eyes were a mix of fog and glass, wet with tears that wouldn't fall.

"You're on the verge of Awakening."

Feyt was so inexorably linked with her consciousness that she literally felt words swimming in Silhouette's mind. An image appeared, though faded by time, of a tan woman with deep violet hair.

"Ezara?" Feyt asked. Her voice entered her mind.

The only chance we have is to force an Awakening!

That had to have happened right before Silhouette died. Feyt seldom knew what brought potential Ghostwalkers into her realm, but she understood then.

"Everyone has the innate ability to use magic. It's a well that, for some, is close to the surface, and others, very, very deep. It comes to you naturally."

"Most people can't?"

"Most people can't." Feyt tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You know this already, but magic is not a tool. Because the Awakening exists, I've always believed that it was sentient. It always seems to choose us, to grow in strength only when it thinks we're ready. Would you believe me if I told you that all your life, your powers were dampened?"

"They were?"

Feyt rested Silhouette's head on her lap. "An Awakening pits you against the limits of your current ability. If you live through it, you're permitted to use your magic at full strength. I'd say until now, you've only been allowed to use a small fraction of it. Ten, no, five percent of what you're capable of."

Silhouette whistled.

"Think of it as a rite of passage. When your powers consumed you in Renee's garden, they were accelerated because of how you tampered with the Threads. Ezara forced your Awakening, and if you succeeded, you might've lived without ever meeting me."

"Or maybe," Silhouette added slowly, "I would've died anyway. It was fated to happen."

Feyt nodded. "But as of now, it's not your powers you're Awakening. I'm sure you've noticed the difference in how it feels."

"They're yours."

"Yes, they're mine." Feyt placed a hand over Silhouette's eyes. "It's a consequence of having two souls bound to one body. You'll have to tame my powers if you want to live. A similar incident happened with your mother. Even I'm not entirely sure how she managed it, but she paused the Awakening, and probably saved herself in the process."

"How do I control–"

"I don't know." Feyt watched as Silhouette pulled the blankets tight. "I myself never had the chance to learn, and it's different for everyone."

"Am I going to die, Feyt?"

Silhouette always knew that, given enough time, she was going to die. The thought never weighed on her, because dying young was a veritable guarantee in Lydia.

She expected to be murdered, and in their connected state, Feyt could tell there were moments she entertained the thought, wondering what it was like to be dead and not even know it.

"Feyt, I want to cry," she said. "Can you please let me cry?"

"I'm sorry." She tightened her grip on the new set of emotions. "I can't allow it."

"Please," she said again. "Please," she begged a second time.

Feyt clasped the mage by her shoulders, moving her so she could look at her face. Silhouette saw pain, but there was also affection and the glint of tears sliding down an ebony cheek.

"Don't make this harder for me, Silhouette."

Nyx was thrown into the room. His arms and legs twitched like the limbs of an insect. Silhouette heard rapid, shallow gasps. There were few poisons that could've done this, but at this stage, it was too late for any sort of treatment.

"I guess the angel's trumpet was a little much," Daerin said, staring at the man on the ground. "I only had one dose of wolfsbane, so I didn't think it would be enough."

Feyt was the only thing that kept Silhouette from jumping out of bed and strangling Daerin to the ground. She didn't know if she had the strength to do it, but she'd find it somehow. Silhouette had no idea that she could hate a man this much.

He dropped a sheet of paper at her side. "Elvawein said it was important. Open it after I leave."

Elvawein? What did Elvawein have to do with any of this?

Daerin left in a hurry. Silhouette flipped the paper with a flick, but it was blank.

Her eyes darted between it and Nyx. A few seconds passed. She was about to dismiss it as one of Daerin's sick jokes when Feyt grasped her wrist.

"Wait," she said. "Look."

Hello, Tera.

Letters burned into the thick parchment, a long, elegant scrawl that didn't belong to anyone she knew.

Isn't it tragic? First Old Man dies, then Faodrin, and now Nyx. Such an awful destiny you have.

"Silhouette, throw it away, now!"

You will only hurt everyone you will ever care about.

M

Damian's mouth fell. "What?"

"The same night I met Silhouette, I couldn't See the future anymore."

"Why didn't you tell me?!" he demanded.

"I didn't realize it was important. So what if she's a Ghostwalker?"

Damian seethed. "We need to get her away from Daerin, now."

"Wait–"

"Daerin, or any other stressors," he continued, being chased by his son. "Her brother died. This is the sort of emotional rift I'm talking about, Alyon. If we don't get to her soon, there might not be a Lydia to save."

An ear-splitting screech tore through the air, unlike any sound Alyon heard before. It rang up the tiers of the High City, echoing to the very edges of the Rim. They saw an outline of a building collapse. Dust rose into the air.

"What was that?"

Damian's face was stark white. "Get back to the guild."

"We need to check it out."

"This isn't something we can handle!" Damian shouted. "Trust me for once in your life, Alyon, when I say that any man who goes down there will get killed. All we can do is hope that it dies before it causes more damage."

"It?"

Another building fell. Whatever Damian was talking about was making its way to Hangman's Cross. Screaming was heard from their vantage point. Darkness concentrated near the source of destruction. Alyon squinted, but only made out a black mass, like smoke.

His father grabbed him by the arm. "That is Silhouette, Alyon."

Or at least, it used to be.

# Part Three

# To keeP a ProMISE

#

It didn't occur to me, until then, that living was a chore. Food was forced down my throat, my limbs were made to move, and the pain of the healing process never completely subsided, even in my deepest sleep.

But I swore to protect Alyon. This gave me purpose. And my hatred of Daerin gave me drive.

I made the mistake of pitying a broken man, thinking my obedience would change him. He was too far gone. Only now, I wondered if he was beyond saving because he met me.

Lydia was changed. My only advantage was that few ever saw my face, and fewer remembered it. Even so, the danger was considerable.

How does one go about saving the very people that want her dead?

I don't know.

I just don't know.

Silhouette Spiderlily,

The Last Ghostwalker

19: Vengeance

"It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men."

Frederick Douglass

Two Years Later

Feyt looked at her in the mirror as the mage secured her hair in a leather band.

"You don't have to do this." Her concerned face hovered above Silhouette's shoulder. "Your wounds aren't healed yet. Wait just a little–"

"How much is a little, Feyt?" Her brow knotted in vexation. "How many centuries have you waited for your wounds to heal?"

The woman flinched, dragging her eyes to the floor. "I'm simply saying that what you're intending will not solve anything."

"It won't hurt anything either. The damage has already been done."

Heron waited outside. He changed much in the last two years. His dark brown hair grew to his shoulders, swept to the side, and was held there by a thick layer of grease. His appearance was more unkempt than how she remembered it growing up.

Though the greatest change, and the most disturbing, were the two empty sockets once home to his eyes.

"Ready to go?"

"As ready as I can be."

Most of the Undercity was asleep, so it was unlikely that they'd be spotted leaving. Just to be certain, Silhouette removed an icy sphere from her pocket and flung it at the ground.

"What was that?" asked Heron.

"Our cloak." Silhouette saw the line on the floor where the magic took effect. "It creates a duplicate of our surroundings, with us in it."

"You can do something like that?"

"That's nothing. If I'm perfectly still, I can make myself invisible now."

Heron cackled. "Not to me, you can't." He pointed at his ears. "I'd hear breathing."

"You might." She smiled a little. "Maybe we should try it one day. Play hide and seek. Everyone in the Undercity will try to find me, and if they don't give up after an hour, you'll pitch in to help."

"An hour?" He raised an eyebrow. "You think highly of yourself."

Silhouette strained her eyes in the dark.

"Speaking of magic and the like, a ghoul's greatest flaw," said Heron, "is that if they had any kind of magic before they died, it's gone now."

"Really?"

"It's common knowledge that Elvawein did a piss-poor job of bringing them back to life, especially because their personality fades. When that happens, they're no better than wind-up toys. The first generation already rotted into the earth. The whole surface smells like corpses now. Just a warning for when you go up."

"It can't smell worse than the sewers beneath this level."

"Don't say that until you've been there."

In its golden age, Lydia was estimated to have over one hundred thousand people. The population declined in the next century. People became pessimistic, and guards began to act more like thugs than upholders of the law.

At the start of the Guild War, there were roughly eighty thousand people. If the numbers could be believed, there were less than fifty thousand left. Those were fifty thousand lives that she was honor-bound to look after.

And fifty thousand people that wanted nothing more than to see her dead.

Silhouette paused at the bottom of the ladder. How many of them were around every entrance, waiting in ambush?

Heron moved the lid aside. She hissed at the light. Even a new moon was too bright.

One hand reached over the street. Then another.

Silhouette looked around dumbly.

"I can't seal it if you keep dangling your feet in the hole," said Heron.

She stood. If she wasn't mistaken, this was the same entrance she told Heron to use. The Shroud was close. She felt sick thinking of it.

"When Yherod pulled you down, I never thought you'd climb back out again," Heron mused. "You're lucky Ivane is such a good healer. The woman made a miracle that night."

"She should've let me scar over, at least," Silhouette muttered. "Her lifespan is shorter because of me."

"I don't think you realize that it wouldn't have been possible. Entire organs were missing. You lost a lung, part of your liver, and I'm fairly certain what was left over wasn't where it was supposed to be. It'll be a shame if you ended up looking like some sort of a monster."

"It suffices to just be a monster, I guess."

He slowed his pace, forcing her to turn around and face him. "Struggling to stay alive doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human."

"How can you say that after what happened?" she demanded. "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have become blind, Heron."

His mouth formed an appalled frown. "Is that what you've been thinking? That this is somehow your fault?"

She looked at him, considering a response, but the empty sockets made her forget everything she was going to say.

"Silhouette, this was my choice. I had to lose my eyes if I wanted to pass for a ghoul. It was the only way I could find out more about Elvawein."

"If I hadn't mentioned her to you, then you wouldn't have done it," she insisted.

"There's more to this than you or me. If Elvawein and Daerin were working together, then he is just as culpable for the Guild War as she is. You're a victim in this, not someone to be blamed." He stepped forward and extended an arm. Silhouette looked at his hand, groping the air. She knew what he was up to, but this made her feel worse.

She held up her palm to stop his fingers. He took two steps forward and found his way to the top of her head, patting it harder than he should. She forced a smile, guilty for the fact he couldn't see it.

"You're sure he's still here?" the mage asked, changing the subject. "I thought the building was destroyed."

"The basement stayed intact."

She made a sound of disgust. Her life certainly enjoyed its affair with irony.

"I should warn you that your time will be limited." He felt the walls of the adjacent buildings as they walked. "The Shadow Blades patrol it once every week. Anyone that's caught there will be thrown in a cell."

"Last I heard, they were keeping a lookout on the districts closest to them."

"They've been expanding."

"Isn't it rather quick?"

"Alyon's accomplished more in the past two years than his father did in ten. As of now, the only factions left are his and Elvawein's. Within the first several months of replacing his father, he raided and stole everything he needed. People had the choice of fighting back, leaving the scene, or joining him. Their numbers increased fivefold. Right now, the place is a fortress. Stop." Heron held out his arm. He rested his ear against the stone. "It's the patrol."

M

Silhouette strained her ears. "Ten... no, more."

"Twenty," Heron corrected. "Plus or minus two. This is unusual. They have eight or nine at the most."

"Looks like more than the standard lookout." Silhouette flattened her back against the building and created a sheet of ice in the palm of her hand. Its glossy surface enabled her to see a portion of the ruins. Four shapes moved in the background. Provided none of them were mages, she could handle them.

Some movement beneath the debris caught her eye. She traced the outline. A leather tarp hid the path to the basement.

"Do you need me to stay close?" Heron asked.

"No. When they see me, the others are going to look for accomplices. I can't guarantee I'll be able to protect you."

"You assume I'll be found."

"Better to err on the side of caution. I need you, Heron. Go back to the Undercity." Silhouette lifted her eyes to the stars above them. "Tell Yherod I'm sorry. I promise I'll visit."

"He'll demand to know when."

She stifled a sharp laugh, envisioning the hard time Heron had in front of him. The dwarf's love was displayed in a harsh, totalitarian sort of way.

"When this Guild War shows signs of ending," she answered, "that's when I'll stop by. Now get going. They're coming closer."

Heron dipped into the alley, using the walls to guide him.

M

Elliot shifted through hundreds of reports of what happened two years ago, but this was the first time he saw the destruction. Buildings on either side of the street appeared culled. Through that pass were similar markings, forming a straight path all the way down to Hangman's Cross.

Most people from this part of Lydia packed their belongings and ran to the Shadow Blades, seeking safe haven. Elliot remembered the horror on their faces, spouting how a creature appeared out of nowhere and began wreaking havoc.

Whatever started this mess began going berserk on the second floor. A long, jagged opening perforated the walls from what appeared to be a bedroom. Judging from the cavity on the street, Elliot guessed it jumped into the open, scattering anyone passing through.

"I'm seeing it, and I'm still having trouble believing it."

He looked at Alyon, who stood with a troubled look on his face.

"We don't know for sure if Daerin is alive," he reminded him. "Right now, he has no influence, no forces, no supplies. He's just a madman. What could you possibly gain from capturing someone like that?"

"Answers."

"Stop right there!"

They and the surrounding men ran into the ruins. One was stationed at the foot of some stairs that led down below.

Elliot frowned at them. "What's going on?"

"Someone just ran down. Vale and Crimson chased after them."

Alyon spotted a leather tarp that had been thrown aside. "Did you notice these stairs when you first walked in?"

"No." The man shook his head.

Alyon descended. "Our guest has been here before."

The first thing they noticed was the overwhelming stench. Elliot removed a light rune from his pocket. Upon activation, they found plants crawling on the walls and dangling from the ceiling. Basins of stagnant water sat scattered across the floor.

"What is this place?" asked Elliot.

"Don't move or I'll turn this place to ash!" they heard Vale shout ahead. Elliot waved for the rest of the patrol to stay on the first floor while he and Alyon ducked into the new area.

Crimson shrieked at a millipede crawling on the ground. Tall glass columns of snakes and spiders were all around them. Some were cracked open, and spinning arachnids were in every crevasse. To call it skin-crawling was a gross understatement.

"I have no time for third-rate mages."

This came from the woman looming over their madman. Her face was impossible to discern beneath long strands of gold hair.

The creature beneath her was starved, with emaciated limbs and skin stretched much too far across sharp bone. The sides of its face were lined with scars, dug from long, yellowed nails. His eyes were covered with gray and blurred film, evidence of failing sight following its owner's dying mind.

It became clear to Alyon that questioning this man was meaningless.

"Who are you?" Elliot addressed the woman.

She didn't move, not even as Daerin reached for her face.

"What's the matter, Alyon?" she asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Why aren't you dead?"

She placed a tender palm on Daerin's cheek. He smiled, oblivious to the world.

"He made me here, you know." None of them spoke, as though she'd stolen their ability to communicate. "I lay on that tub at your feet."

They looked at the floor, where chunks of broken clay, stained with blood and other fluids, rested beneath their boots.

"I was impossible to train," she continued. "So one day, he changed his approach and decided to break me instead."

The hand at his face slid to his chest, and left the surface of his skin. Ice formed on her fingertips. The farther she pulled back, the longer they grew, until her hand resembled a menacing claw.

"Don't do it, Silhouette," Alyon ordered. "This isn't you."

She turned her head. "Isn't me?" she asked.

"The Silhouette I know wouldn't murder in cold blood."

"You're right."

Alyon relaxed.

The frozen claw pierced straight through Daerin's chest. The man coughed blood, his eyes wide at his attacker, filled with surprise and mad affection, even as she ripped out his heart.

"But Alyon," she said, inspecting the fleshy organ in her palm. "The Silhouette you know no longer exists."

M

Crimson's hands flew over her mouth.

Silhouette turned the heart into a chunk of solid red ice and hurled it at the floor. The priestess jumped away from the shards, causing the mage to laugh.

"You've lost your mind," Alyon muttered.

Silhouette's head lolled to the side. She smiled, her eyes bright when they held a death threat seconds ago.

"Can't lose what I've never had," she quipped. "I'm a murderer, aren't I? Or did you stop looking for Spiderlily?"

"Spiderlily?" Vale asked aside, "She's Spiderlily?"

"Oh, I know. If you're bored of looking for Spiderlily, I'm pretty sure you're still searching for the Ghostwalker, right?"

All of them, except for Alyon, dropped their jaws.

"Or I could always kill you," she suggested. "It's embarrassing, but I've fallen out of practice."

"Enough!" Alyon barked. He stared into the eyes of the woman before them, alarmed and wary. "What game are you playing at?"

"No games." Her tone mellowed. "I only wanted to see you."

"You could've found me directly. Why all this?"

She looked at Daerin's body, hemorrhaging from the gaping hole in his chest.

"He ruined my life," she said. "From the very start, I promised myself I'd kill him someday." She locked onto his eyes, staring into them as far as they would go. "I always keep my promises."

Alyon couldn't bring himself to believe that she was as mad as she behaved, but he couldn't call her sane either. This left him few options.

"Elliot."

"Yes?"

"Find some rope. We're taking her to the guild."

M

Elvawein gazed upon the map of Lydia, her fingers twined beneath her chin. A red dot appeared on its surface.

"She survived after all." The woman chuckled. "Oh Daerin, I knew you made for some lovely bait. Wouldn't you agree?" Her eyes skimmed to the dark corner of her room.

She unraveled the shadows with her eyes, tracing a face that had become quite familiar in the last two years. The boy had long black hair, secured by a copper broach at the back of his neck. His bangs fell over his eyes, but one lock of hair ran longer, as if slicing his face in half.

"I thought you'd be more talkative if she came up. You were worried that she died back then."

"Of course she's alive."

Elvawein's emerald eye sparkled with delight. "You seem quite certain. Why is that?"

"Death is a luxury she can't afford."

"An interesting way of putting it." The woman dragged her finger across the map. "I know where she's been. Now, I just need to know where she's going. Alyon's been frustratingly cautious. Ghouls are evicted from his territory and discouraged from approaching. He suspects I glean information from them."

She ran her hand down her neck, craning it to the side.

"That's hardly a secret." Her aimless tracing stopped. "Of course. She doesn't want to be found. She'll go to the Shadow Blades' zone."

"That'd put her at risk for a run-in with Alyon," he said in the dark.

"True." Elvawein puckered her lips, tapping a finger on them. "I really can't say what I'd do if I were her. Would I go on a rampage?" she wondered. "No, no... too brash. I believe our Ghostwalker is biding her time, learning about the events in her absence. What do you think?"

He said nothing.

Elvawein extended an arm and curled her hand in a choking motion.

He gagged in the background.

"How is it? Though you can't know if you're breathing, your body still reacts the same way," she explained, releasing him. "You are here because I will it. And for your sake, you'd better hope I continue to."

"The only thing I'd like to do for my sake is to strangle your skinny neck until it snaps!" he wheezed back.

"If you try, I'll order every ghoul in Lydia to hunt Silhouette down and bring her here. And when they do, I'll have them tear out every hair, every eyelash, and every limb until I'm satisfied."

Elvawein crouched before him. "I could go on, but I sense you're smart enough to understand." A charming smile returned to her face. "Now answer: did that sound like something Silhouette would do?"

He glared at the floor with a ghoul's inky eyes. "Yes."

"How difficult was that?" she asked. "One last question, if I may. What was it like?" Her arms coiled around the bodice at her waist. "Dying there, watching the love of your short-lived life turn into something so inhuman?"

Nyx recalled that dark afternoon. He was fighting a losing battle against the poison in his veins. It was only after he resigned to fate that Nyx caught a glimpse of Silhouette losing her own battle. He winced at the memory.

"Guilt," Nyx answered at last. "I claimed to love her, but the only feelings I'd been looking out for were my own."

"I thought you would've said it was an honor to die for her."

He laughed, cynical. "It doesn't take talent to die, especially if it's on your own terms. I felt guilty when I was dying, Elvawein. I'm not sure if I really did love her. I think I might've loved myself more because I thought I did."

20: The Masks We Wear

"If you must hold yourself up to your children as an object lesson, hold yourself up as a warning and not as an example."

George Bernard Shaw

The trek up the Rim was a grueling one. It reminded her of the first time she opened her eyes after what happened two years ago.

Ivane shouted to a handful of other dwarves. Soon, a swarm loomed over her face. She made out the conversation by reading their lips, and grew terrified by what she understood.

They weren't certain if they acted fast enough, or if the damage was as bad as it looked in the beginning. They didn't know if she could think.

Or speak.

Or move.

Silhouette would never forget how much effort it took to twitch her fingers and toes. They wept at those motions, which at any other time would've been insignificant and taken for granted.

Months. That was how long she was on mashed concoctions. It was a humiliation she wouldn't wish upon anyone, having to be washed, dressed, and fed on a daily basis. Moving was taxing. Her muscles, or what was left of them, were massaged regularly, and the slightest bit of pressure inspired a surge of pain.

She attempted walking on her own, groping walls in the dark. She fell face first on the second step. Her pride hurt so much that she burst into tears. Others rushed to help, which made her cry even harder.

Don't look at me, she wanted to say. I don't want you to see me like this. But the words just wouldn't come out.

Compared to that, this was nothing.

She opened her eyes.

Her dank and lonesome cell was nothing.

Silhouette didn't have the chance to see the compound because she was made to wear a blindfold once they reached the wilderness. It wasn't until she was tossed behind bars that her bindings were cut, and she could remove the cloth with her own hands.

The round cell was six by six paces in every direction. Hay littered the moist earth like some animal pen. There were no windows, making the sole exit a row of rusted iron bars.

"To call it a door is a little..." she muttered, inspecting. "I guess it is, but a terribly unconventional one."

"I saw the warden pull a lever down the hall to open it," Feyt offered. The first useful thing she said in weeks.

"Levers you say." Silhouette scratched her chin. "These aren't exactly my specialty."

"You could always freeze them," she suggested.

"Yes, but I really don't want to break any property."

"That's never stopped you before."

Silhouette shot her a dirty look. "Things are different now. I'm not here to murder."

"Then what are you here for?"

The mage jumped from the bars to find Alyon on the other side.

It was difficult to see him in the dark, but the closer she looked, the more tired he appeared. Two years passed since last she'd seen him. Somehow, he aged twenty. Alyon's dark green eyes glittered like hard rocks in her new surroundings.

"Were you talking to Feyt just now?"

The question was an unexpected one, especially from him. More and more, Silhouette began to suspect she was in over her head, but she took care not to let it show.

"Yes, I was."

He scanned the emptiness. "I want to ask her a question."

Silhouette and Feyt exchanged surprised glances.

"Go ahead."

"Why did you murder Kendra?"

Silhouette turned her head and waited. "It was an accident, she says. She never forgave herself for it."

"Second question: is what happened to Kendra the same thing that happened to you two years ago?"

"Yes."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"What would you like to hear?"

He slammed a fist against the bars. "Don't mess with me!" he yelled. "Fourteen buildings, six hundred casualties, and dozens of people still unaccounted for. If you had left Daerin alive and kept your trap shut about the Ghostwalkers, I wouldn't have had to throw you in here, and I wouldn't need to treat you like a criminal."

"I've been a criminal," she reminded him, her voice calm. "I was one long before you met me."

"Spiderlily was considered a hero. What you did back then could've easily been pardoned. But this..." The sentence drifted. "After what happened, there's no one in Lydia who doesn't know the word 'Ghostwalker.' And knowing all that, you still chose to come back, to here of all places."

Alyon paced back and forth. "Well?" he asked. "You said you wanted to see me. You got it. Now tell me why. What in the world is so important that you'd risk your life to find me like this? Or did Daerin's insanity get to you?"

"I wonder." She smiled at the thought, making him frown that much deeper. "Have you ever asked yourself what secrets are? Or rather," she amended, "what is the nature of a secret?"

"To enrage someone who wants a straight answer?"

"An unfortunate side-effect." She grinned. "All secrets benefit their keepers. That's a fact. Some have the dual purpose of protecting others."

He walked as close as possible to the barrier of her tiny space. "Your secrets, unless you tell me what they are, will get you killed. I can either help you or hurt you. For the sake of the Silhouette you used to be, tell me what you know."

She wrapped her fingers around the iron poles, her nose less than an inch from his face.

"How does it feel, Alyon?" She looked to the key at his ear. "To have everything you've been searching for right in front of you and not see it?" Silhouette peered through her eyelashes. "When you spend your life looking too far ahead, you're blind to the things right... under... your... nose."

The look she gave him was a challenging one, daring him to act. Alyon suspected that he'd wind up playing into the palm of her hand.

If it were under other circumstances, he'd be relieved, even happy to see her, but not then. Not like that.

She forced them into a situation where they could only call her crazy, and refused to give them other options. Alyon tore away from her cell.

"My father will be here soon enough. He also likes his damned secrets."

"Alyon."

He stopped at the edge of the stairs.

"I meant what I said earlier." She rested her head against the metal. "I am not here to kill anyone. I can't while I'm here."

The guildmaster looked back. "Do you mean to say that this place has the power to bind you?"

"You do." The words sent a chill down his spine. "You asked me why I returned. The answer is that I wanted Daerin gone, and I also had to take a hard look at what I did while in the Ghostwalker state." Alyon heard her hands run down the iron as she slid to the floor. "Right before I went berserk, I discovered that Elvawein and Daerin kept in touch. She knows everything about me, Alyon. Using that knowledge, she triggered the final straw that led to what happened."

"Are you absolutely certain that she and Daerin were co-conspirators?"

"Yes. I currently have an agent of my own who infiltrated the ranks of her ghouls." She heard his sharp breath in the background. "He has no eyes. It's impossible for them to know he's alive. Ghouls don't have their sense of touch, taste, or smell, but they do breathe in order to speak."

"How many of these 'agents' do you have?"

"I can't tell you."

"Will I know eventually?"

"If things fall into place the way I suspect, yes."

"And what do you suspect?"

"If Elvawein was in touch with Daerin for that long, it makes sense to believe she had a way of keeping an eye on him. Right now, I have to assume she knows he's dead, and more importantly, that I killed him. She'll find me, and in the worst case scenario, she'll try to repeat what happened."

Alyon knelt on his side of the bars, covering her hands with his. Perhaps it was foolish of him to trust her, but Alyon owed his life to listening to his gut in the past. Right then, it was telling him that she had been honest.

"My father told me that the way to trigger the... Ghostwalker state," he said, using her term for it, "was by giving you a deep, emotional wound. I know you lost your brother. My condolences," he added awkwardly. "Do you have anyone who could hurt you like that again?"

"Just one."

"Are they in the guild?"

"Yes." Silhouette rested her head on her shoulder. "Though I knew even before I came here that they wouldn't be happy to see me. I can't tell you who it is."

"I need to know so we can protect them."

"Well, why do you think I'm here?" she asked, unable to keep from smiling.

"You?" The word came out flat. "You came here to watch over them?"

"Yup."

"You assume I'll release you from the prison."

"You assume you can hold me in it." Alyon removed his hands when he felt coldness seeping through them. The metal around her palms grew thick with frost. Silhouette tapped the bars.

They shattered.

"I'll be on my best behavior so long as you don't get in my way," she said, sweet as syrup. "My intention isn't to hurt people, but don't think I haven't allowed for a generous margin of error."

"You aren't the only mage under this roof."

"But apart from Elvawein, I guarantee I'm the strongest. And not all magics are created equal, Alyon," she warned him. "I highly doubt your mages have much experience, especially out in the field." He couldn't argue that point and they both knew it.

"You called me?" Torchlight illuminated the hall. Damian spotted his son facing one of the cells. "Must've had a hell of a night."

"You have no idea." Alyon passed him. "You see if you can make any sense of this."

"Wha- where are you going?"

"Shutting mouths before rumors get out of hand. If she tries anything, scream as loud as you can."

"She?"

"And you had your doubts," a female voice chided. Damian peered around the corner. A hand flew to the top of his head.

"By the Gods!"

The mage fell against the floor and stretched. "Is he gone?" she asked.

"Just got upstairs."

"Good!" She rolled on her side and made a face. "Can you lecture me later?"

"But I–"

"Not you." She waved. "Her." She pointed her thumb to the wall. "You, I have business with."

They stared at each other. It was uncomfortable, yet their setting added an element of humor as well. Damian blinked at the broken gap in the metal poles.

"What happened there?"

"Occupational hazard."

"Was that a joke?"

"It was supposed to be." She sighed. "This is just as awkward for me as it is for you, so let's get to the point." She met his eyes. "Why didn't you save me?"

Damian swallowed a lump in his throat. He twisted his torch into the earth and sat in front of her.

Silhouette was amazed at how similar he and Alyon looked. Damian had the same thick, chestnut-colored hair, though age streaked its sides with gray.

His face was handsome in a hardened way, and it was filled with shame.

"Anything I tell you will just be a piss-poor excuse."

"I asked you believing I deserve that much, at least."

The sailor hunched over. "I was a coward. That's about the only thing I can say."

She searched his features. Silhouette had every right to hurt him, and all the means to do it, but the mage stayed there, lounging on the floor.

"So I didn't do anything to offend you?"

"What? No! Of course not," he reassured her. "You were a child. What could you have possibly done?"

"I became a Ghostwalker."

"I didn't learn about that until seconds before the Massacre," Damian explained. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. You died in Riverstone. I remember it clear as yesterday, clearer even," he amended. "Which means that you crossed the Threads back then, and I can't figure out how a little girl could do that."

"It was an accident," she replied. "That aside, I owe you my thanks."

"For what?"

"Your silence." Silhouette extended her hands towards the fire for warmth. "You knew who I was. Alyon still doesn't. I know him well enough to guess that he gave you a hard time looking for answers."

"He still hasn't forgiven me for that," Damian muttered. "He hasn't forgiven me for a lot of things. I've made it so that you can tell him yourself whenever you're ready."

"I won't be. Ever."

"Why? You've already gone out of your way to tell him you're alive. Why not tell him who you are?"

"Had I known things would pan out the way they did, I would have kept it to myself." Her brow knit together. "I came here hoping to find some answers. Now are you willing to give them to me or not?"

M

"What do you mean 'they're the same?'"

Iago set aside his lists, a stack which contained correspondence from Elvawein.

Elliot set his hands upon the table. "Spiderlily is the Ghostwalker, and she's sitting in our dungeons as we speak."

"Does Alyon intend to have her executed?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I just get this 'off' feeling about the whole thing. By all accounts, she's nuts."

"Considering the Massacre, I hardly find that surprising," Iago scoffed.

"Yes, but there's more." Elliot wrung his hands. "I can't shake the feeling that she's up to something."

"You think she's feigning insanity?"

"I think she's feigning ignorance," Elliot corrected. "Even madmen can scheme. That we can't follow their logic makes their plots all the more dangerous."

"Assuming she is mad, and assuming her hypothetical plot has any hope of success," Iago countered. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and shimmied Elvawein's sheet from his stack, but the door opened before he could write anything.

"I see you know about our guest." Alyon gauged the faces of the other two men. "Now we just have to find out what to do with her."

"You did post guards by her cell, right?" asked Iago. "It's best to assume she can break out any time."

"She demonstrated as much," Alyon said dryly. "According to her, she has no intention of killing anyone, though she did warn us that if we tried to get in her way, she won't hesitate to cut us down."

"What does she want us to do?" Elliot demanded. "Grant her free passage?"

"Well, she's staying in her cell, for now. We could ask Crimson to place her in a time field, but there's no telling how long it'll last, and we can't afford to lose the best healer we have."

"Numbers might work," Elliot suggested, but Iago intervened with a sarcastic laugh.

"The Massacre of Hangman's Cross."

This was the only reminder they needed.

"So basically, we can't do anything."

"That's right," said Alyon. "She's behaving for now, and that's all we can ask for. In fact, she's even been cooperative."

"Oh?" they asked simultaneously.

Alyon recounted everything Silhouette told him. About Elvawein and Daerin working together, about triggering the Massacre, about the agent among the ghouls, and finally, the person she came to protect.

Elliot gave Iago a stern look. "It's well thought out for a lunatic, wouldn't you agree?"

The other man shrugged, turning to Alyon. "She could be working for Elvawein. Where else could she have gotten asylum all this time?"

"Damian is talking with her now. With any luck, he'll be able to get more from her than I did."

"All things considered, she already told us quite a bit," said Iago.

"Torture seems like an option," Elliot muttered, earning startled looks from the other two. "But she'll probably kill whoever we send, or if what she said is true about the Massacre, we might set off another Ghostwalker State."

"Gods, no." Iago groaned into his hands. "That's the last thing we need. No torture. Absolutely out of the question."

"And Alyon, are you sure it's a wise idea to leave your father alone with her?"

The guildmaster stared into space. It wasn't that he didn't think of the danger, but rather, that he didn't find it necessary to worry. The old Silhouette was a girl with masks for many different situations, and he'd seen a fair deal of them in the time he knew her. He couldn't shake the feeling that this circumstance was just a long exercise in the acting she displayed back then.

"We'll leave this conversation for tomorrow," he decided. "It's been an eventful night."

"There's an understatement if I ever heard one." Iago snorted. "You two get going. I'll lock up the room."

He poised his pen on the paper.

She's here!

M

Silhouette knew more about the situation in Lydia than anyone else in the High City. Damian decided to take this chance to barter information.

"Before I tell you anything, I want to know the circumstances of what led you here."

She made a face. "That's hardly fair."

"I'm not the one behind bars."

Silhouette relented much faster than Damian expected, owing to her certainty that he would return the favor. She told him of her life, starting with the kidnapping and up to the present day.

Damian often told himself that there was no way Silhouette could forgive him, but he knew that he'd never forgive himself, even if by some miracle she did.

"I'm–" he tried to apologize, but the words simply would not come out. Somehow, they would have felt insulting if spoken. "What would you like to know?"

"I want you to tell Ballard that Heron's alive. He'll be happy to hear that." She blew warm air into her hands. "And I also want to know any information you have on Elvawein. I need to find out how deeply she was involved with Daerin, and what she's after."

"We know less than you do," he admitted sadly. "She's not anywhere in the city proper, which means she's either underground or holed up somewhere in the Rim."

"Yherod and the other dwarves patrol the aqueducts and sewers regularly. There's no way she's down there."

"Then she must be in one of the Towers."

"Towers?"

"Aye. You've seen them, I'm sure. There're five in total."

"Oh," said Silhouette. "Those Towers."

The Towers were five great obelisks at the apex of the mountains. They were evenly spaced, save for the wide berth between the two on either end of the Horizon Span. Apart from casting long shadows, they had little use.

"I was under the impression that they were impossible to get into."

"And we were under the impression the aqueducts were sealed up tight."

He had a point. One should never mistake hearsay for fact.

"Although," said Damian shortly thereafter, "they aren't exactly what I'd call safe."

"They're in danger of collapsing?"

"There's that, and other things." He was going to let the topic slide, but the mage's stare prompted him to elaborate. "The land beyond Lydia is rife with danger. Bandits are common, and the land west of us has its fair share of trolls and whatever else you can conjure in a nightmare."

"Huh," she said. "I guess I'll crawl out of here tomorrow to start inspecting the Towers."

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Each Tower is connected to a different, and singularly unique, rune. They're warded so that any attempt to breach its walls will send you flying back down the tiers."

She slumped against the hard wall, burying her face in her hands.

"Let me guess. All of that died with Lyssa."

"Not before she imparted it to me." Damian saw the glimmer of hope in her eyes. "I'd be more than happy to go with you."

"To the entrances, and no further," the mage declared. "Leave any creatures in there to me."

"For a girl your age to go in there alone is suicide!"

A corner of her mouth lifted in a roguish smirk. The sailor failed to see what was so funny, but then he spotted that her shadow, previously flickering, had moved an entire pace to her right.

"Whoever said anything about going alone?" Damian watched it coalesce into the solid form of a man. "Right, Faodrin?"

21: Shadow of Doubt

"Let us sacrifice our today so that our children can have a better tomorrow."

Abdul Kalam

Several dwarves flinched at the redness clouding Yherod's face. Though Heron was blind, he could sense his indignation brewing.

"She... did... what!?"

Ivane sighed.

Yherod spun on her.

"You knew of this!"

"Aye." She nodded. "That I did. What of it?"

"Why didn't you do anything to stop her? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because, my stubborn oaf of a cousin," she responded, "she knew what she was getting into, and how you'd react if you ever caught wind of the plan."

"Plan?" the dwarf scoffed. "That's what gets me. Murder, get arrested, then what?" he demanded. "Sheer dumb luck! That is what she put stock in!"

"Yherod, if I may." Heron felt dozens of curious eyes upon the fool who would divert a raging dwarf. "It's not as if Silhouette is alone. She has Faodrin."

"A Shadow." Yherod set a beady black eye upon him. "Put her in a room with no light and she'll have no access to him."

"She's a light mage."

"She could be unconscious, or paralyzed. What then?"

"She's not a child."

"Then she'd be woman enough to tell me of a harebrained scheme like this beforehand."

"She knew you'd be dead set against it," Ivane cut in, annoyed with his circular argument, and well aware that he'd continue spiraling the conversation until they were too tired to reason with him. "And even if she did bring it up, you'd be so paranoid, you wouldn't let the child out of your sight."

"Woman!"

Ivane swatted his meaty finger away from her face, pulled a wooden utensil out from her apron, and held it to his nose.

"Don't you dare 'woman' me again unless you want me to drive this spoon through your skull!" His eyes went crossed at the cooking utensil, having no doubts that if anyone could use it as a weapon, it was her. "Now, listen to me, you bastard son of a goblin, an' ye listen to me well!" Her voice thickened with her native accent. "What ye would've done if she'd gone to ye first would've been no better than what Daerin did. She's a Ghostwalker, for goodness sake! She's the only one outta us that has a choice in her life, and ye take that away from her, then what?"

Yherod gradually met her gaze.

"You know her better than I do," said Ivane, her tone easing back to normal. "When she finds something that is simply that important to her, she'll go after it even if an army stands in her way."

"It's her against an entire High City," Yherod pressed. "One little girl against all of that."

"She's not alone, Yherod."

"It doesn't matter if she thinks she is."

M

The mess hall was a long room off the central green. In it, long planks stretched from one end to the other. They were low off the ground, as there were no chairs, and the guild members sat, crouched, or knelt on the floor for their meals. It was during such a time that Crimson walked into the hall, exhausted from another night of restless sleep.

Her red plait dragged on the floor, and she took care to keep the clumsy feet from stepping on it. It was only when she made it to the table that she noticed Damian.

He leaned to one side, an elbow sprawled over the surface, much to the chagrin of his neighbor. The sailor's mouth hung open and his eyes glazed like clay pots. In his other hand, he held a fire rune, which he sparked on and off with his thumb, singeing the wood it sat on.

"Damian?" she called. "Are you asleep?"

The man had a penchant for dozing off in any place that wasn't his bed. He wrote this particular habit off as a side effect of being on land. They've found him sprawled under shrubs, up trees, on benches, standing with a book in the library, and on four separate occasions, the latrine.

Sleeping in the mess hall was a first, by her count.

A raisin was launched into his mouth, prompting him to start coughing. Crimson whirled on two boys snickering at the well-placed hit.

"Was that a fly?" he asked, dazed.

"No," she muttered. "It was a raisin."

"Ah." He smacked his lips together. "You're right. It's not gamy."

It disturbed Crimson more than a little that he was so familiar with the taste of insects.

"I've noticed your absence these last few weeks," she said, picking at a fruit. "What've you been up to?"

"Up to?" It was clear by the way he asked that he was half-asleep. He noticed the sunlight streaming in from the high windows and recoiled, knocking into the man behind him just as he was about to put a sandwich to his mouth.

Disgruntled, he threw the remains of his lunch on the table and left, muttering a string of curses.

"Damian?" Crimson asked, this time wary. He pointed at the ground, but she couldn't find anything there, save her shadow.

"Some things just aren't natural," he said. "Ah, I'm fine, Crimson. Just been busy."

She placed a gentle hand on his arm. Using her subtle talents, she learned that his body was screaming for rest. "You've been out of the guild," she stated.

Damian leaned forward, pulling her down by her braid to do the same. "A light walk."

"Don't lie to me," she warned. Part of a healer's gift was the ability to assess a patient's condition through a laying of hands. Crimson could sense fatigue from the simplest touch. "You've been all over the High City, at least a few days in a row. This isn't like you."

"I have a reason, lass."

"Tell me."

"I can't do that."

"Tell me or I tell Alyon."

The man blanched. He was in deep enough trouble without his son hounding on him.

"Alright." He sighed. "If you want to know, then come with me to the dungeons. I'd best let the girl explain."

Dungeons? Girl? "Ghostwa–"

The sailor clamped a hand over her mouth just as some faces turned to look. Damian laughed to pass the scene off as a joke. He put a finger to his lips after the others ignored them.

M

Creatures lived in the Towers, just as Damian predicted.

Silhouette looked ruefully upon her bloated shin, recalling the pincers that dug into them. She was quick, but obviously not quick enough.

Feyt placed a hand on Silhouette's forehead. "You're burning up."

The mage offered up a thin-pressed smile. "Is that right?"

"Oy, who're you talking to?" called a voice from another cell.

Feyt sensed the mage's amusement and groaned inwardly at their recent addition to the neighborhood.

"Leave her be, Felix. She's circles of madness, that one."

"She sounded fine."

"Before or after the witch had us thrown in here?"

At this time, Silhouette could do little to stifle a laugh, though tinged with pain.

Two boys, no older than sixteen, came down with a bowl of greens they attempted to pass off for her supper. Damian took it upon himself to bring her food, and since neither mentioned the sailor, she suspected foul play. Silhouette fought to keep herself from laughing after seeing what they gathered.

So she took the dish and popped several deep violet berries into her mouth, watching the boys grin a little too hard, their confidence broken as she remained standing. They exchanged confused and accusing looks.

It was around that time when Silhouette picked up the plodding steps of the warden on patrol. She pulled them in by their collars, the boys too terrified to back away.

The mage proceeded to–loudly–thank them for restocking her–nonexistent–supply of poison, naming the ingredients of her meal: water hemlock, nightshade, and daffodil stems, among the few.

The honorable, though not-too-bright, jailer came running, promptly taking the bowl and throwing the two louts into their very own cell.

Alyon arrived minutes later–impressive, considering the distance–demanding to know what was going on.

Silhouette took a great deal of pleasure in hearing the boys stammer out their plan. The guildmaster grimaced at their stupidity.

"You would think," she remembered him saying, "that an assassin would at least have some small resistance to poison."

It was a long minute before one of them had the sense to respond with a dumbfounded, "Oh."

And then Alyon left them in the dungeon to thank them for their efforts, for while the two couldn't murder a murderer, they would be rewarded with a much-needed lesson in humility.

"Speaking of poor planning," the mage joked, pointing her thumb towards her fellow inmates.

Feyt shook her head. "That was not poor planning. That was a disgrace."

"Damian!" the boys shouted. Silhouette's ear twitched at the name.

"Felix? Simon? What did you do this time?"

"We tried to kill the Ghostwalker."

Silhouette slipped a hand between the bars and sent a friendly wave down the hall.

"She's casting a spell!"

To humor them, she did create a snowball and lightly tossed it forward.

"You are having far too much fun with this." Feyt sighed after their startled gasps.

"Alright, Crimson. You stay here and I'll let the runts out."

"I can help," Silhouette offered.

"No!" The sailor and two boys shouted together.

The priestess approached her cell. Silhouette had her first true look at the petite woman; her freckled nose, her auburn eyes, and ankle-long mane.

Crimson kept at a more than respectful distance, remembering what the Ghostwalker did in the Shroud. The image of a man's heart being ripped from his chest was not easily forgotten.

"You're obviously terrified," Silhouette stated, moving as little as possible to accommodate her injuries. "Why are you here?"

Crimson noticed the stiff posture before the question registered. Her instincts brought her before the bars. The gaping hole Silhouette made earlier helped the woman come in range.

"You're wounded."

Silhouette's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Curiosity, rather than caution, was what kept her from pulling away.

"Can you guess what wounded me?" the mage wondered.

Crimson's eyes were closed, her lashes like fiery fans in concentration.

"The muscles are pinched together, weak, and holding poorly. The body is screaming. Your composition," she murmured after a while. "Your body is different from what I've treated before, but why?"

"Those plants and vermin you saw in the Shroud were all poisonous. I'm immune to them."

The priestess's eyes widened.

I lay on that tub at your feet.

For years, I was a pet that was impossible to train.

"H-how long were you conditioned?"

"Eleven years."

Eleven years, she thought. If he'd started her that young, it couldn't have been willingly.

Damian returned, and judging by his lack of discomfort, Silhouette knew that he brought the cleric there on purpose.

"I don't recall asking for a priest."

As uneasy as Crimson was around the Ghostwalker, she knew Damian didn't deserve an interrogation.

"You've seen that I can gauge the extent of injuries by laying my hands on someone," she explained. "I did the same to Damian less than an hour ago. Unless he told me what caused his condition, I was going to tell Alyon."

"And he told you to come to me," she surmised. "Alright, let's make this quick. I've blackmailed Damian into escorting me to the Towers."

They froze, though one icy look from Silhouette told Damian she needed him to play along.

A chilling laugh grated against the sides of her cell. Her head drooped to one side, eyes dancing with mad light.

"You know that the Ghostwalker State can be triggered by others, but I forgot to mention, I can set it off myself. If he goes to anyone, and I find an executioner at my door, it'll be the Massacre of Hangman's Cross all over again."

"Why the Towers?" she mustered up the courage to ask. "What could you possibly want with them?"

"Elvawein."

"And what do you want with her?"

She shrugged. "She tried to dispose of me. She failed."

"So you're not here to help us, just yourself," the priestess hissed, with an amount of venom that surprised herself more than anyone.

"I don't ever remember saying I'd help you," the mage replied. "Isn't it generous enough that my goals coincide with your own?"

"Then why come here at all? You could've explored your Towers on your own and been done with it."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Silhouette chuckled. "The Towers are warded. Lyssa was the only one who knew how to get inside, and since she's dead, I went for the next best thing." Her eyes snapped to the sailor.

The cleric's face filled with accusation. "You told Alyon that you were here to protect someone!"

"And so I am. If Damian dies, then who can get me what I want? Either we both win, or we both lose, permanently."

M

Silhouette broke into a heavy sweat once Crimson was scared away. She curled into a fetal position, clutching her leg in agony.

"Lass?" Damian dove to his knees. "What's wrong?"

"I'll be fine."

"Wait, I'll call Crimson back."

"You'll do no such thing!" She gasped. "Besides, it's not like she'll be able to heal me now. Ivane taught me that much. Priests can't help people they believe deserve to die."

"Then why?" He saw no sense in what she did. "Wait here. Let me–"

"Didn't you hear me?" she yelled. "Don't. Emotional wounds can only be caused by emotional ties. I need to be avoided, to be hated. It's the only way to prevent another Massacre." Lying there, halfway between sitting and writhing in pain, Damian saw the way her eyes begged him.

"I can get you medicine," he offered.

"I think I've passed the worst of the sting." She tried to smile, but a wince got in the way of her lie. "Look. Really. I don't need help. If anyone needs to go through this, it has to be me and me alone."

"We can take a break this night."

"No. Going out is for more than searching. It's for my sanity."

"Will it be better by nightfall?"

"It will."

"Are you lying to me?"

"I'm going out with or without you."

Damian sighed. "I thought so."

M

Damian waited at the end of the hall later that evening, a long cloak over his arm. He slid the fabric over her shoulders and shut the clasp before she could speak a word of protest. Damian then pulled a vial from his pouch and held it before her.

"What's that?"

"Medicine. It should take away most of the pain."

She made a face.

"Just be thankful to your elder and take it, lass." He tore off the stopper with his teeth and handed the milky liquid to her.

It was too diluted for her to make out the contents, but the color did remind her of numbing agents. Damian must've swiped the whole vial knowing that she was immune to many of the ingredients. For though she imbibed all sorts of poisons, they had medical value in small quantities. As such, most medicines had little effect on the mage.

Having confidence in her constitution, Silhouette downed the contents and entered a coughing fit.

Damian laughed at the face she made. He took the empty bottle and led her up the stairwell. Silhouette pulled her hood down with one hand.

The other shielded the locket that was her heart.

M

Seventeen tapestries hung on the walls of the council room. Damian approached one beside a candelabrum in the westernmost alcove, pulling the fabric aside. A rune was carved in the stone.

"Would you like to try this time?" he asked.

Silhouette, remembering the word from their previous exits, flattened her palm upon the symbol.

"Usiv'os."

It was the first time she'd ever spoken a rune aloud. Once it popped into her mind, there was no stopping.

Her voice sounded different, as if the air resonated around each syllable.

Feyt maintained the faintest of smiles. Silhouette did well for her first try. It was the nature of runes to make it difficult for others to speak them, especially in succession. They attempted to warp the tongues of their speakers, namely those of ambitious novices, and either had no effect, or chaotic–often disastrous–consequences.

Runes were alive, though not living. Usable, though not tools.

They connected the primal forces of the world with the fleeting aspect of mortality. When one speaks a rune, they connect into the folds of existence, to all the times, and all the people, who uttered that word in the past.

Damian took the first step forward. The wall moved like gelatin, waving outwards until he was totally immersed. Just like that, the sailor was gone. Silhouette followed after him. Then they were outside.

"Want to seal it too?" he asked.

"Sure." Again, Silhouette rested her hand upon the surface. "Ios el def," she said.

Damian reached over and knocked. The stones held fast. He gave Silhouette an approving wink. "Not bad."

The two faced the blackness of the forest. Damian led the way.

Silhouette cast her eyes at her shadow. Familiar darkness rose from the ground, shaping her brother with it. He scanned the world, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and directed a smile at her.

"You rang?"

Silhouette rolled her eyes, but that didn't keep her from grinning any wider than usual. There was a strange medley of emotions whenever she summoned her Shadow. Only two she identified with complete certainty. The first was happiness. The second was shame.

Faodrin was the one who plunged an icicle into his own chest, but that didn't alter the fact that it was her icicle, and it was in her hands as it happened.

As far as Silhouette was concerned, she murdered her brother. Her conscience squeezed her heart when he crossed her mind. It was adamant that no amount of suffering would be enough to rinse his blood off her hands.

Both Feyt and Faodrin jerked back a little at her heavy thoughts. The mage turned pink.

"Sorry," she mumbled, walking after the sailor. "I keep forgetting one of you can read my feelings, and the other can read my mind."

"How many times do I have to tell you that it wasn't your fau–"

Silhouette raised a hand to stop him. "It's one thing to know. Another to believe."

"Start believing."

The mage laughed. "If only it were that simple."

Faodrin's face contorted. Silhouette reeled her thoughts back in, careful not to expose them. He didn't know how he'd behave in her position. A complete lack of privacy, where even in perfect silence, she could be raging on the inside. No amount of acting could cover up that fact to those who knew better.

"Some stuff happened today." She glanced at Feyt. "She'll fill you in. Just try not to kill me later."

He ran a hand down his face. "What did you do this time?"

Her pointed stare repeated what she already told him. Faodrin sighed and sought after the ebon elf several paces back.

Feyt nodded to the Shadow as he approached.

"So what's happened while I was out?"

"The priestess discovered the Tower runes. Silhouette said some outrageous things, and now she's a villain in all of this."

"Come again?"

Feyt went into further detail as to what exactly the mage had said. Faodrin felt himself wither at his sister's nerve. Where she found the gall to pull these stunts was beyond him. He never taught her to be such a proficient liar. It worried him more than a little. Not just what complications the latest fiasco would have, but what other things she lied about in the past as well.

"This is getting dangerous."

"It's been dangerous," Feyt reminded him, her silver hair slinking along. "Your sister has all the council she could ask for. I begin to think she humors us just so she can laugh in our faces."

Faodrin had nothing to say to that. He raised Silhouette. He knew exactly what she was like, and he passed the point of worrying long ago. He remembered when he appeared out of nothingness for the first time, in a room filled with the stench of alcohol, bitter medicine, and death. He was shocked to find a black elf, who was even more surprised that he could see her. Feyt proceeded to explain to him that he was dead.

She told him that instead of a ghoul, he returned a Shadow. A soul with an abnormally strong attachment to the world. Though Feyt never heard of one becoming a guardian. He could see, hear, and touch her, which made a compelling argument.

Feyt led him to a corner sectioned off by sheets. He ducked beneath to find a pile of bloody rags, a bucket of stagnant water, a mortar and pestle with some foul smelling resin, and finally, a sad figure on the bed.

He had seen the sick, the wounded, the dying, and their corpses, but never anything like that. The poor soul was bandaged from head to toe, with many sections bleeding through to the surface. Then he saw strands of golden hair, the tip of a delicate ear, and the locket on the table.

For the first time in his life, he felt so much grief and anger that he could do little more than stand there, shaking.

Feyt told him to try and touch her. He moved to brush her cheek.

His hand fell through like the wind.

22: Kendra's Story

"Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you."

Robert Fulghum

They weren't heading to a Tower tonight. They'd been working counter-clockwise around the Rim, and it was a region they'd already explored.

The mage kept her thoughts to herself, curious to learn where Damian was leading them. They passed through a row of hedges and under a curtain of ivy. Finally, they gazed down a long quartz path, with pillars lining either side. It took a moment for it to register that this was the top of the Horizon Span.

They walked a good way onto the structure before finding a stopping point. Silhouette lowered into a crouch, sliding her legs over the Span.

Wind whipped the hair from her face, bringing out the ruby of her cheeks. Beautiful was not a word Damian would use to describe Silhouette. Forlorn, perhaps. She had Kendra's features, that much was true, but also her strength of will. Most would not have survived what she had to endure. Fewer would've retained their sense of self. Yet there she was, young in years, but ancient in experience. Loyal to her heart, however broken it was by cruel reality.

"My mother and father had five children," Damian began. "Of those five, two died of fever, then two ran off, and I was too lazy to do either. Our home was fifteen miles east of a small town called Rundlewell, which, in turn, was about forty miles southwest of Lydia.

"Four times a year, we sheared the sheep, cleaned the wool, and spun a small amount into thread. We'd sell it in Rundlewell for what we needed, fill up on local gossip, and go home to repeat the cycle. It was expected that I'd find a girl from that town someday, marry her, have my own litter of children, and continue the family business."

"But you didn't," Silhouette pointed out.

A wondering smirk spread across his lips. "I would have."

"So what happened?"

"One day, when I was nine years old, I dozed off while the sheep went about their business. The next thing you know, this filthy urchin starts running after some of the flock. I figured she'd gone mad from hunger, since the reason the sheep had gotten so frightened was because she took a bite out of one." Damian shook his head. "It took a week for her to get all the wool out from between her teeth.

"To make a long story short, she was the daughter of some adventuring couple who met a... grizzly end at the hands of a bear. She got away, got lost, wasn't entirely right in the head by our estimations, and in return for food and shelter, she'd be my wife when she came of age."

"An arranged marriage? I thought that practice died out a long time ago."

"It's still extremely common out in the country. In fact," said Damian, "the notion of marrying for love would send someone from out there into a frenzy. Their philosophy is that love isn't something to be chanced upon. It's something to be built, and if you learn to live with someone long enough, you'll come to respect them, learn to trust them, and eventually love them."

"Did your parents love each other?"

"Aye, they sure did." He fell back, stretching out on the ground. "If one were to scratch an itching ass, the other would be more than happy to throw a knife at it."

They snickered.

"Put another way, the country philosophy is solid in practicality, but not in practice. Putting two people together makes sweet times sweeter, and bitter ones that much harder to swallow." Damian ran his fingers through his hair. "But to get back to the tale, this girl had clearly gone through a tough time. So tough, in fact, that she couldn't even remember her own name, so we ended up giving her a new one." He set an eye on the mage. "Not so different from you."

"Who was she?"

"Your mother."

Her eyes grew wide.

"Kendra, we soon found out, had a knack for magic. The first secret she told me was that her father was a wizard, and he taught her a thing or two that a country runt like me found absolutely incredible."

"Like what?"

"Making an ant glow in the dark."

"Seriously?"

"I was nine!" He reddened. "Kendra had a view of the world that was vastly different from mine–from anyone, really. She saw herself as a speck floating in this huge space, and our house was just a temporary stop along her way. To me"–he pressed a hand to his chest–"that house, that life, was my world. She made me open my eyes and think long and hard about this thing called life.

"I was fourteen when I found her sneaking out of the house. I tried to stop her at first, but she blinded me with a flash of light, knocked me out, strapped three sheep together, and lay me across the top of them like a board. By the time I woke up, we were halfway to Lydia, and I knew that even if I'd gone back home, I'd be murdered."

"Why'd she run away?"

"Because she's always been a bit loose in the head, but mostly because when it came to Kendra, boredom and wanderlust were two very real diseases. And when she caught them, there was no telling what hell she'd drag me into. When we finally arrived in Lydia, we sold two sheep–"

"I thought there were three."

"One got stolen, and a merchant ripped us off for the other two, giving us just enough for about three days in a washed-out inn and two loaves of bread. We should've run out of money, but we didn't."

"How?"

"A skill your mother learned while she was 'bored', acquiring things that didn't belong to her. It started during the trips she made with me and my father to Rundlewell, and the only reason she didn't get caught was because she had enough sense to return the things she took. Or at least, back then she did. Soon enough, she was so good that three, well, businesses offered her membership, and she joined."

"Which one?"

"All of them, at the same time." He grinned into the palms of his hands. "She made up three different aliases and climbed their ranks, learning everything she could. But she ran into serious trouble after about two years."

"Two years?" she asked. "That's impressive!"

Damian wagged a chastising finger.

"Each of the guilds–because then, they were large enough to be called such–heard that the other two had a master thief with a highly exaggerated skill set, something Kendra just so happened to spread around. It came to the point where the leaders wanted these other thieves captured. So she set up a plan by telling each guild to open its vaults and set their contents on an empty trading vessel in the docks, a tempting prize no expert could resist.

"On the same day, at three different times, the guilds placed their treasures onto that boat, making new arrivals think that it was empty when they came. But there was a catch."

"There's always a catch."

"That was my boat. I'd just come in from a trip that took me to Riverstone and back, learning the ways of sailing from a crew that took me in, and I had two weeks of break before the next scheduled takeoff. In those days, when Kendra dropped in, I actually dreaded her company because I was terrified her past was going to catch up with her and drag me along for the ride.

"Sometime during my break, she bought me a drink, chatted, then carried me off to bed, and I was convinced she'd seen the light and decided to become an honest woman. What I didn't know was that the drink was spiked enough to take down an ox, and that she made me write a letter saying I wanted to buy out my captain's boat. She attached a sack of coins full enough to buy five of those boats to that letter, and left it on my captain's bedside table. By the time I came to, I was on the ship, and she was waiting for me to sail."

"But how did she get you from the inn to the ship?"

"She borrowed a cart and a donkey from the general trader."

Silhouette snorted at the image. Damian seemed more than a little pained while he retold these stories, his pride bruised with each word that came out of his mouth.

"She and I went to Isoviel, sold most of the trove, and came back. We met Lyssa the day we returned."

Here he paused. A boyish smile came to his lips.

"What was that like?" she asked him. "And I'll guess that the thieves' guilds wanted Kendra to answer for her crimes."

"Not in the way you'd expect," he replied. "Lyssa was on the beach when we returned, although we had no idea it was her. She had a knack for escaping the palace. She got so good at it that she always kept some spare clothes and change around wherever she went."

"She was disguised when you met her?"

"As a street urchin," he affirmed. "You should've seen her. Dirt-streaked face, ruddy cheeks, a fresh scrape on her shin–a professional getup. Your mother noticed her hands, however. They were soft and smooth. Her eyes also tipped her off."

"Why did it matter to her?"

"I wondered the same thing," said Damian, his face clouding over. "But then I heard this infernal growling, and as far as Kendra was concerned, in return for bringing back an errant princess, she'd just found her meal ticket."

The mage burst out laughing, struggling to picture her mother, a hero by all accounts, as that sort of person. Her statue depicted a noble, upright woman, filled with love and understanding. From Damian's account, that was probably just another one of her masks. Everyone spoke as if they knew Kendra personally, but how many, the mage wondered, truly did?

"We returned Lyssa. Then we learned that the three guilds consolidated into one. And as Lydia and corruption go hand in hand, there was a representative where we were staying who offered your mother to work for them again."

"She refused them this time, right?"

"Wrong. She'd always been stealing off the streets, as the guilds warned her that taking from the nobility was too dangerous. When I saw the gleam in her eyes while walking through the palace, I knew she saw a ripe opportunity."

"I have a question," she interrupted.

"Go on."

"I'm guessing she already had plenty of money. Why would she bother to continue robbing people? Was she that greedy?"

Damian shook his head. "She didn't do it for the wealth as much as she did it for the challenge. It was obvious to us the minute we came to Lydia that this place had something very wrong with it. Aristocrats are particularly fond of their trinkets, often confusing their value for their own. Kendra saw the chance to cut them down to size and redistribute the funds where they needed to go."

"Take from the rich and give to the poor," she reasoned.

"Not quite, but close enough. After striking the deal with the emissary, she went to Lyssa, who was still furious with us for spoiling her freedom, and just about demanded employment. She was shocked, as you might imagine, and Kendra told her all about her conniving past, ending with an offer. She'd keep Lyssa's watchdogs preoccupied, and in return, Lyssa would teach her all there was to know about the people in court.

"With her common background, the nobles looked at her as a novelty. Soon she was being called a friend by the same people she was going to take everything from."

"She got attached?"

"Gods, no," Damian scoffed, breaking into a laugh. "To her, that only sweetened the pot. And before I go on, I want to make one thing very clear. Not all highborn are bad. Just like everyone else, the good ones were drowned out by the stupid. Ballard is proof of that."

"Kendra met him during one of the heists?"

"She did. He was getting a glass of water from the kitchens when he spotted her running through his estate after robbing the one next door to it."

"How'd he react?"

"He asked who the mark was, laughed when she told him, and threw her a bottle of wine in appreciation. He wasn't overly fond of his neighbors."

Silhouette leaned forward. Like the rest of Damian's story, she couldn't imagine Ballard being so carefree. She wanted to, though.

"Later on, he'd introduce us to Heron, who'd introduce us to Daerin, and from Daerin to Jerrold. It makes one long chain," said Damian, twirling his finger in a circle. "The guild soon had plenty of funds, and Kendra, with the same influence as a guildmaster, ordered them to exchange the items for coin. They were more than happy to comply. And when that was done, she told them to give it away to those who genuinely needed it, not as money, but in the form of food, clothes, and blankets.

"She ran into a hard spot," Damian admitted, "but she pointed out how nonsensical it was to keep a horde of treasure they'd never use. She already made a statement by stealing only from those nobles who were corrupt, using what she'd learned from Lyssa. The only argument that got her anywhere was that if they managed to stabilize the economy and wait for it to mature a few years at a time, they could reap what they sowed and repeat the process."

"Thankfully"–he sighed–"those old enough saw the wisdom of the long term. It goes against what the average thief is, though. The entire purpose of stealing is for instant reward and gratification." He waved that aside. "What it came down to was this: Kendra never got caught, ended up becoming Lyssa's closest friend, Lydia healed, and somewhere in between all that, someone called her a hero and it stuck."

It took hours for him to get through everything. How Lyssa, Heron, Ballard, and Daerin came to become friends. How Jerrold ended up marrying Kendra. How Yherod and the dwarves of the Undercity played a role in keeping Lydia together.

By the time he finished, Silhouette knew that half the night was gone. She didn't notice that Faodrin and Feyt were sitting beside them, laughing and smiling at the tales of a brighter time.

"How's the leg holding up?"

At first, Silhouette wasn't sure what Damian meant, but then she realized he was talking about the spider bite. She'd forgotten all about it.

"It's fine."

"That's good." He cracked his back, folding his arms together. "Before we get down, I want you to look at Vaisya Isle for a second."

Silhouette did.

"That girl from earlier today," he said. "She's the sole survivor."

The mage remembered how the Isle burned at Elvawein's hands.

"Someone survived that?"

"Abbot Ekarius sent her on a boat to Lydia. It crashed, but I was there in time to save her from drowning. She's been with us ever since." Damian let down his hands. "I understand why you lied to her today, but I'd ask you to not antagonize her too much. She has her own troubles, much like Kendra had hers, and you yours."

Silhouette stared at the husk of the High City in the distance, unable to bring herself to believe that someone came out from that disaster.

And she had been left to die.

Feyt and Faodrin stiffened at the thought. Both came closer, as if their presence could ward off the bitterness she felt.

Silhouette knew why Damian had taken the trouble to tell her everything. He trusted her. He wanted her to know that. He also understood that she had her reasons for doing what she did. Silhouette wanted to be mad at him, but couldn't find it in her to feel a shred of anger.

"I want to hate you," she admitted, sullen. "I've wanted to hate you for years now."

"You have every right. I won't try to deny that."

Faodrin watched Silhouette carefully. She continued facing forward, looking out into the night sky.

"I'm tired," she breathed, so soft that the words were almost carried off by the wind. "I'm so tired of this War, of myself. It feels like every time I lie to someone or push them away, a piece of me gets chipped off, like old paint," she said. "I feel empty."

She looked up at Damian, his expression locked somewhere between worry and reassurance.

"There's a good thing in that," he said. "That feeling of losing yourself."

"What might that be?"

"You still have something left to lose."

23: Silhouette's Mistake

"The most sophisticated people I know–inside they are all children."

Jim Henson

Lydia looked almost normal at night. Vendors hawked basic necessities and con artists sold their snake oil. The black market was their sole market, and the system of 'finders, keepers' was a business motto as much as a way of life.

The Cross was treated as sacred ground. Red tarps hung between the spans of buildings as a gauzy roof. Wisps and gas lamps burned throughout the night while dancers entertained people to forget the tragedy that was their day-to-day lives.

The story was that one day, a girl unleashed horrific powers upon the unsuspecting populace, only to be carried away after she consecrated the ground in their blood. To that day, a metallic reek emanated from the cracks in the stone.

If anyone knew that Silhouette, then leaning against the side of a building, was the Ghostwalker, Damian wondered how quickly it would take before a hoard of people descended like a pack of rabid wolves.

Her gaze fluttered over the multitudes of young orphans in the street, working tirelessly for their food. The older residents seemed to take pleasure from jeering them, making them scramble for a scrap of meat. Silhouette frowned.

Her stare went to the statue of Kendra in front of the abandoned palace. Silhouette came forward, inspecting closer. Aside from the hair, she and her mother were identical. One was a hero. The other, a horror.

"Least you're out of the guild." Damian's voice was a welcome distraction. He motioned to the people dancing in the streets. Many hollered at him. In addition to being an unwitting pirate in his past, he was the lover of the late queen, and father to the half-prince that had, in many ways, become a ray of hope to the remains of a proud people. The seadog held a remarkable measure of respect as a result.

"Indeed I am." She stared at him with the hint of dimples on her cheeks, not quite a smile, but the closest she'd come to one since they arrived in the city proper.

"Would you mind answering a question, lass?"

"Depends," she considered. "What do you want to know?"

"What was it like? Killing Daerin, I mean."

The festivities went mute in their ears. Silhouette focused on an alley that led to the Shroud. The windows came alive with smoke in her memories. Pitch black embers raining on the ignorant passerby.

Silhouette shook her head, dispelling the images.

"Insufficient," she answered. "He brought me to Lydia and turned me into this." A lump of resentment rose in her throat.

"Because you look like your mother," Damian commented. What he hoped would make her happy turned the girl green. She looked ready to wretch in the middle of the streets. "I suppose he took you as compensation."

She still looked ill. "That's sick."

"That's what love did to him." He watched Silhouette regain her composure. "Did he die... painlessly?"

It was an odd inquiry in her eyes. No one in Lydia liked Daerin, or at least, no one in their right mind.

"I don't know," she replied. "I didn't look at his face, so I can't be sure." After some thought, she added, "I hope not."

The wisps, fragments of souls of the deceased, hovered closer to the mage. Silhouette gritted her teeth at the tufts of light. She turned into an alley, away from the bustling of the Cross. Damian followed after her.

He found himself wondering how often it happened in the last two years. Or better yet, why did the souls seem so riled at that moment?

She stuck out an arm to pause, sniffing the air. "Fire," she murmured.

"Vale!"

A bolt of flame combusted down the street. A boy staggered back from a group of five other people. Silhouette recognized them as Shadow Blades.

"Vale?" Damian asked.

Silhouette turned. "You know him?"

He frowned at the fighting. "He's a wild pyromancer."

"So why–" More flame sparked the air. Silhouette made a face. Upon closer inspection, the attackers had no pupils. Their eyes were black. "They were turned into ghouls!" she exclaimed.

Silhouette summoned ice in her palm, forming a makeshift blade. She called Faodrin and tossed it at him.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen rogue ghouls. Normally, they weren't harder to dispatch than an average living person, but then again, if they were formidable alive, the same proved true in death.

Silhouette ran in with one arm coated in ice to protect her from the magefire, the other reverted to the claw she used against Daerin. At best, an icicle could be used to pierce something, not slash at a target. She knew the structure of the crystals by heart, and she had less than ten seconds to reconstruct them into something sharper that wouldn't break on contact.

Vale took out the one closest to him, and Faodrin was going after a second who had been scorched by the previous blast. Another fireball blasted its way into the side of a building, not taking out any ghouls, but setting them on fire. Silhouette swore and lined the street with a thin layer of ice. Magefire wasn't something that could easily disappear by conventional means, but conjured ice or water could. She understood why Damian called Vale a wild pyromancer. He couldn't control his own power.

Please hold, she pleaded silently, sending her claw through the ghoul closest to her. Two of her 'fingers' snapped off, but the other three held, slicing through the body. Unable to feel pain, the ghoul was mildly confused by the icicles sawing through it like a dull carving knife.

"Look out!" came Faodrin's warning. Silhouette brought up her other arm and felt the ice melt in another blast. The careless shot angered her greatly. She whirled and froze the mage to the ground. His confused scream tore through the smoke. She bid the ice to rise, binding his flailing hands in his attempt to break it.

She walked towards the pyromancer and slapped him across the face. His expression was one of horror, renewed as he recognized who hit him. A silent conversation passed between the two, finishing when Vale dropped his gaze at the ice falling away from his body.

"Burn the bodies," she ordered.

"But they're–"

"Friends?" Silhouette guessed. "They're bodies! Corpses! By letting them become ghouls, you've shown exactly how much that friendship meant to you."

"Silhouette!" Damian shouted. "He's just a child."

"Oh?" she challenged. "What am I?" The mocking fled her voice. "I'm telling him to do this to save him in the long run."

Damian couldn't help but bite the inside of his cheek. "But can't you show more sympathy?"

"I don't have the time, the patience, or the want to wipe the nose of a sniveling, incompetent brat who is not only incapable of using his magic correctly, but also of using his head."

M

She's been spotted in the Cross.

Iago stared at the sheet on his lap, wondering who Elvawein was talking about. Then it came to him.

"You!" he shouted, pointing at one of the men at the gate. "Go feed the prisoner."

He yawned and left to do as told.

Iago returned to his letters.

She made quick work of my ghouls. Quite the temper!

It was the dawn-breaker shift. Already, he saw the color gradient shift across the sky.

How soon? he wrote, using a piece of charcoal.

They'll arrive shortly. Our little Ghostwalker is up to something. You need to find out what.

Me?

You didn't honestly expect me to allow you to watch, did you? Earn your privilege.

He suspected there'd come a time when a catch presented itself. He groaned at the idea. Iago wasn't fond of dabbling directly with events, preferring to watch them unfold. Things had better become interesting.

The expected figures approached the guild. Iago called for the gate to open.

He greeted Damian, feigning surprise when Silhouette came up beside him, Vale in tow. He looked back over their shoulders.

"Where is the rest of the patrol I sent?" he asked, guiding his gaze to Silhouette.

She raised a hand. "I killed them the second time."

Damian cut in before the guild members behind Iago could charge. In some ways, he thought Silhouette was worse than his son when it came to instigating fights.

"They were turned into ghouls. Silhouette killed them to save Vale."

Both mages grumbled something under their breath. Iago looked between them, turned around, and began to walk.

"Alyon will want to hear this."

As will Elvawein.

M

Crimson watched Alyon sip his tonic. He looked queasy. She wondered if it was because she told him his father was spending a lot of time with Silhouette–as close as she dared to revealing what she knew. His loathing of the Ghostwalker was something to marvel.

Iago frowned when he saw the state he was in. "What'd you do to him, cleric?"

He and Crimson scowled at one another. It was only for Alyon that she tolerated the quartermaster.

Alyon groaned, looking up when Vale entered, followed by the Ghostwalker and his father. He shot to his feet and regretted it. The world spun around him. He noticed that Silhouette seemed to be in the worst condition. She stank of blood, grime, and ash.

"You really enjoy pulling on the end of your leash."

"I have to when handling a dog."

"Children," Damian coaxed. He put his arms between them. "Let it go, and let's move on to what matters." The sailor motioned to the young man in the room. "Vale, would you mind telling us what happened?"

"We were attacked near the docks," he began. "Shot with arrows from the southern cliff. I was told to run into the city so I could run into another patrol for help."

"Then what happened?"

"I got close to the Cross when I realized I was being followed. They attacked me, and I fought back." He rested his gaze on Silhouette. "That's when she came and, well..."

Alyon and Iago exchanged glances. "Go on," the quartermaster encouraged.

"I honestly don't know what she did. She disappeared in the smoke of my blast, and then all of them were dead." The amazement was obvious in his voice. He shook his head, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but that's really what I saw."

"So you're telling us that Silhouette saved you, Vale?" Crimson wondered.

He nodded. "And she made me burn the bodies."

Alyon stared at Silhouette in a state of disbelief. He leaned off his desk and faced the pyromancer.

"Vale."

"Sir?" he mumbled.

The guildmaster offered a grim smile. "I'm sorry you had to see what you did. Thankfully, someone capable was around to make sure you didn't meet the same fate." The compliment strangled past his lips. "And I think I finally found good use of your... talents, Ghostwalker."

Vale's head shot up in alarm, looking to Silhouette, the floor, and the other faces in the room with a silent panic.

"I rescind my judgment of holding you prisoner," Alyon relented, "but from now on, Vale is your student. I expect you to teach him on his patrols."

Silhouette's jaw dropped. "Teach?"

Alyon couldn't help being pleased by her reaction. "I expect it shouldn't be too difficult to handle one boy. Also," he continued, looking at Vale again, "you don't have to follow orders from anyone other than her or me from now on. If they're given, however, I expect they'll be seen through to the letter. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get your belongings and meet your new teacher outside this room. You're going to be staying with her from now on."

Too stunned to conceive of an objection, Vale headed outside. Alyon surveyed the remaining faces.

"Iago, I'll need a report on possible suspects of who slaughtered the patrol. Crimson, I believe this calls for a funeral service." They bowed their heads before filing out the door, leaving Silhouette and Damian to watch him in silence.

Alyon steadied himself on the nearest table. "You." He pointed at Silhouette. "You're staying in the storeroom from now on. Make use of what's in there, but the first report I get of any trouble is going to land you back in a cell."

An empty threat, thought the mage, but she was wise enough to keep it to herself.

"You look like hell," she said bluntly.

"I can't sleep."

"Didn't your clairvoyance disappear years ago?"

He rested an eye on her. "Now, how would you know that?"

Feyt sagged against the nearest wall. Now she'd done it.

"I know almost everything about you. That you don't like eggs or milk, that you're thinking all the time. That you have trouble sleeping," she said. "I know that you're forgetful, and that no matter how hard you try to hide it, you can't help but care for the people around you."

The hard edge in Alyon's countenance dulled. She hadn't answered his question, but for once, he felt that he didn't need to know.

"You said you were here to protect someone."

"I did."

"Protect them from what, exactly?"

"Elvawein."

"So I can count on you when the time comes to move against her?"

Silhouette pretended to think. "I'm at your disposal. The only place where she could be hiding is in the Towers. That's where I've been each night."

"Each night?" Alyon wasn't aware she escaped before. He looked at his father. "That's why you went with her. You know how to get inside." He turned to Silhouette. "Find anything?"

"Bugs. Huge bugs, but nothing else." Silhouette rubbed an eye and yawned. "The westernmost and northwestern ones are cleared. I'll get started on the northeast tomorrow."

"No. Tomorrow you'll go to the funeral. I want you to go with Crimson. Elliot and Iago will be there to escort you."

"Anything else?"

"Tell Vale where you'll be staying. He knows where it is." Alyon turned his back on them. "That's all."

The key on his ear glinted as he faced away. Her heart beat a little louder when she looked at it. It was her identity. It was her past. He held it and never guessed that the little girl he'd been looking for was only a couple steps away.

Her hand clutched the amulet beneath her shirt.

There was a knock on the door. Vale peeked into the room.

Silhouette paused in the doorway. "For what it's worth, I hope you find the locket." And with that, she was gone.

Damian didn't miss the troubled look on his son's face. "I don't think she'll give you any more grief," Damian said hopefully. His son's expression didn't change. "Alyon, what's wrong?"

"Did you tell her?" he asked. "About Tera?"

"No. Why?"

If Damian didn't tell her, then was it Elliot? No. He was too mistrustful of her to say anything so personal. Iago was in the building, but never in the dungeon. Crimson was flat-out afraid of her.

"So how did she know it was a locket?"

24: Secrets Revealed

"Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them."

James Baldwin

Elvawein glanced at her stationary with a grin. She sunk her spoon into a poached egg, oblivious to the yoke spilling on the table.

"You're awfully happy," said her cook, wiping the mess. Strands of white blonde hair fell from her scalp as she worked. She wiped those off as well.

"I received some excellent news." Elvawein motioned to a chair. "Sit, Isabelle. I feel like sharing."

Isabelle hesitated. She heard rumors of others in Elvawein's service who came by sensitive information. Ghoul-dom was life as experienced through dense fog. Elvawein determined how they experienced the world, and going from dull to excruciating was well within her abilities.

Elvawein pulled out a chair as a sign of understanding. "This is perfectly harmless," she reassured her.

"What is the good news?"

"The Ghostwalker is on the right track."

"I beg your pardon?"

It was no secret that Elvawein had something of an obsession with the Ghostwalker. Hers was a power many thought rivaled Elvawein's, but they lamented that she may be more deranged than their master.

"She's started looking into the Towers," Elvawein chirped.

"If she's getting close, then doesn't that mean she intends to... to..." Isabelle couldn't finish the sentence.

"To kill me?" Elvawein guessed. "She'd be hard-pressed to get close, but enough of that." She waved. "She's going to the shore tomorrow, accompanying a certain priestess with a beleaguered past."

"I-I'm afraid I don't follow?"

Elvawein pressed her fingertips together, giggling like a young girl. "Don't you see? Today is a rare day when I get to gamble! Let's see how well I know Silhouette, hmm?"

Isabelle said nothing, not knowing what to add.

"There's blood on her hands, that much is certain, but I can't determine if she's pragmatic or has a strong conscience," she mused. "A little bit of both, I would guess, since she doesn't kill unless there's an absolute need for her to do so."

"But the Massacre–"

"Ah, that," Elvawein remembered. "That was just a little experiment. It's not like she could've resisted. More importantly, I know what she's up to now, and a chance has presented itself to"–she paused, tapping her napkin along her mouth–"guide the poor girl. I won't be needing any more meals today," she said, "and forget breakfast tomorrow."

"W-where will you be going?"

"You see, that, Isabelle, is the sort of knowledge that will get you killed."

M

To call it awkward was an understatement.

Vale and Silhouette spent the first hour in the storage rifling through crates, and the hour after that stacking a wall between them.

"What are you doing?" Vale asked, as his appointed teacher coated his side of the room in ice.

"Insulating," she replied, just as curt. "This way, if you start combusting in the middle of the night, I won't get roasted."

His tan complexion took on a solid shade of red. He flopped on the furs he found, determined to get some sleep.

Silhouette was hit by a pang of guilt. She leaned against the frozen wall, scrambling for something that would make her living situation a little more bearable.

"I have something to say, so if you want to yell at me, could you please save it for when I'm done?"

Vale said nothing.

Silhouette figured that was as good as it was going to get. "Your friends told you to find help when I'm sure you didn't want to leave them, and the help you found was the last person you wanted to see," she stated. "You probably don't even know what's going on in your head right now, do you?"

Vale tossed uncomfortably. "No, I don't."

Silhouette stared at the ceiling. "Well, I suppose that's a good thing. You'd be out of your mind if you did. But," she started off, "from now on, people will know that you're the Ghostwalker's student. At the worst, they'll confront you. Around me, they'll avoid you. For that, I'm... sorry."

She was used to feeling sorry, or thinking it in her head, but Silhouette seldom spoke it. It was the apology that brought Vale to look at her.

"Are you lying to me right now?" he asked.

"I gain nothing from lying to you."

"Then what about when we found you in the Shroud?" he demanded. "You were nuts. How do I know you're not fooling me?"

Silhouette sank to a crouch. "If I was truly insane, then I wouldn't be able to control my actions."

"You slapped me."

"I did," she admitted.

"You called me a third-rate mage."

"Has anyone told you that keeping grudges is bad for your health?"

"You're one to talk!"

They exchanged amused glances.

"Think you can teach me how to control my magic?" he asked.

"I'll try."

"I got one more question."

"Go ahead."

Vale's expression turned serious. "Why the Massacre?"

"It was an accident," she answered. "I was... weakened, and then Elvawein set me off."

"Elvawein was involved?"

"Yes, and if I'm right, she was responsible for many other things as well," she muttered. "That's why I came here. I need to take responsibility for what I've done. You've heard of Spiderlily, right?" she asked. Vale nodded. "That was me. That's the only proof I have that I'm not some insane mass murderer. Yes, I killed, and yes, killing is wrong, but what I did helped people. It gave them some peace and quiet that they didn't have for a long, long time. The Massacre just..." She stared at her hands, laughably clean for all the blood she spilt on them. "It was exactly that. A massacre."

M

Alyon found Iago and Damian waiting as soon as he was up that morning. He nodded at them as he shut the door.

"Did you find out who was behind the attack?"

"All evidence points to Elvawein," Iago reported.

"I thought as much." He sighed. "I want to know what her motive is."

Damian raised a hand. "She sends a couple ghouls every time I get near the port. The woman doesn't want anyone going in or out of the city."

Alyon cast him a disconcerted look. "Just be careful how you go about dispatching them."

"I'm the last man in Lydia you need to worry about."

Iago left them to talk in peace. Alyon traced the key in his fingers again. Damian twiddled his thumbs behind his desk.

"Are you sure you didn't tell her anything?" asked Alyon, referring to the locket from the night before.

"I can't tell her things she already knows."

M

Iago saw Crimson, Elliot, and Silhouette gathered by the gates. The priestess slung a bag over her shoulder, filled with candles and incense. Elliot was there for her protection. Iago's presence was mandatory due to the fact that the fallen were under his command, and Silhouette held an odd station of honor, as she guaranteed their peace in death.

Clouds billowed across the sky. They seemed almost close enough to brush against, so high in the mountains.

"We'd better hurry if we want to miss the storm. Damian told me it'll be a nasty one today," said Elliot.

Crimson nodded. Iago didn't miss the glare she shot in his direction. Elliot ignored them, focusing on Silhouette.

She was well behaved for someone who could break out whenever they pleased. Elliot was inclined to see her in a favorable light until she proved unworthy of it.

Silhouette didn't trust herself to speak since yesterday. She might as well have told Alyon who she was. Then she poured her heart out to comfort a boy she barely knew. She felt unnerved by her sudden openness. Her vulnerability.

She hid beneath the mask Daerin gave her, that of a murderer. The persona was her security blanket. It made killing easy; retained her inner sanity by plunging into madness. Daerin was her tormentor, but he was also her salvation.

He had given her the shadows and all they had to offer. He had given her the ability to hide from herself.

Daerin turned her into a silhouette, and so Silhouette she would be.

M

Ring, ring, ring...

Crimson rubbed her forehead, lighting the last candle in the sand. She felt dizzy.

"I'm going back to the guild now that we're done," Iago announced.

Ring, ring, ring...

"Crimson?" She saw the outline of Elliot's hand waving back and forth. She wanted to tell him to take her away, as far away from the shore as possible.

"Ringing. The bells are ringing again."

"Bells?" Silhouette wondered.

Cold sweat trickled down the sides of her face.

Ring, ring, ring...

"Elliot, what's going on?"

"Ever since she washed up on our shore, she's heard bells ringing from the temple."

Silhouette squinted at the waves, moving her eyes over the long strip of land not five miles off the coast of Lydia.

Ring, ring, ring...

Try as she did, Silhouette heard no bells. Crimson drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Can't we get Damian to take her?" Silhouette asked.

"Alyon doesn't want her going there."

"He doesn't want her going back home?"

"You know what happened there!" The last thing he wanted was to blame his friend. "He did it for safety reasons."

The mage took hold of the cleric, hoisting her up.

"Where are you going?"

"Taking her to the Isle."

"You plan to sail through a storm that size? Not even Damian would risk it!"

Silhouette gave him a cool look. "We're going through the aqueducts."

"That goes against Alyon's orders."

"Well, Alyon isn't here."

M

Lightning speared through the clouds.

Alyon frowned at his paperwork. What plagued his thoughts at that moment, watching the storm roll in, was why it was taking so long for Crimson and Elliot to return. Iago was back. Alyon heard him barking at the sentries lazing in his absence. He also reported that the three were still at the shore.

Alyon snagged his cloak off his chair.

"This is taking way too long."

M

Silhouette said they were going underground, but Elliot only saw fishing boats moored to the pier. She crouched beneath the boards and scraped wet sand out of the way. Elliot spotted metal latticework.

It was a grate. One she wrenched open with a deafening screech!

"There's a patrol at this hour," she answered Elliot's questioning look. "Someone will catch you. I'll jump in afterwards."

She threw him into the darkness faster than he had time to respond. There was no way he could worry about Crimson when he was flung into rushing water.

"Don't fight the current!" he heard Silhouette's voice echo. He took the advice, floating until a wooden rod poked him. Elliot opened his eyes to see the outline of an older man. A hook was in one arm, a lantern in the other.

"Take it!" he shouted.

You don't have to tell me twice, thought Elliot, pulling himself in. Silhouette followed with Crimson. Her hair and clothing stuck to her body like a squid. The man beamed in her direction, and proceeded to carry the priestess into the snaking depths.

Elliot wanted to ask about him, about the tunnels, about how she came to know about them, and whether or not it was a trap, but one look at the mage told him that it wasn't the time for questions.

Their guide turned the corner, but a new figure interrupted their trek with a start.

A man, just shy of four feet, stepped out from the shadows. He peered at them with beady black eyes, a hammer in hand.

"You have a lot of explaining to do!"

M

Silhouette groaned. She knew she was going to run into Yherod down there, but she didn't expect it so soon.

"First of all, who're they?" asked Yherod.

"Elliot Coil and Crimson, a councilman and priestess from the Shadow Blades," announced their guide.

Elliot's eyes widened at him. "How do you know that?"

"I'm also a councilman," he said proudly. "Or, at least I used to be."

"Pleasantries can wait!" the dwarf barked. "You!" He pointed at Silhouette. "You're coming with me!"

"But they–"

"They'll be fine, now get going!"

Elliot rushed after the man carrying Crimson, determined to get some answers. "Who are you?"

The man smiled, a terrifying expression when Elliot saw that he had no eyes. "The name's Heron."

M

There's a city. There is an entire city beneath Lydia. It was run by dwarves and filled with kids.

Elliot saw it. He just couldn't believe it.

"What's going to happen to Silhouette?"

"She's going to get a slap on the wrist. She'll be back soon enough."

"What's going to happen to us?"

Heron walked into a door, cursed loudly, then kicked it open. Elliot listened to him click his tongue, realizing he used the sound to gauge his surroundings.

"Yherod, is that you?" called a high voice.

"It's me, Ivane. I have some guests. Silhouette's back."

Heavy footsteps bounded downstairs. Elliot found himself staring at a female dwarf covered in floral patterns that looked better suited to curtains than a dress.

"Tera came home?"

If Heron had eyes, they'd be locked in a sunken glare. "We have guests," he repeated. "Guests who don't know Tera."

"Oh." She looked as though she was seeing them for the first time. "Oh!" Her hands flew over her mouth. "Tera is Silhouette's real name."

"Ivane."

The dwarf shrugged. "It's not like she could keep that a secret forever. Now if you all would excuse me, I'm going to make sure Yherod doesn't deafen the poor girl. Help yourselves to anything in the house."

Heron sighed. He threw Elliot a bag of ice. "Put it on Crimson."

"How do you have ice down here?"

"Silhouette keeps certain places chilled permanently. It keeps us from wasting food." He plopped down on an ottoman, shaking his head at the wall. "Ivane talks too much."

"Why would Silhouette want to hide her real name?"

Heron set his empty sockets on him. "Could you keep a secret, Elliot? Even from Alyon?" He paused. "Rather, especially from Alyon?"

"That depends on the secret."

"Fair enough, but before I say anything, I'd like you to tell me what you think of her." He leaned on his elbows. "I heard Daerin's dead and that she's been in Shadow Blade custody for quite some time. That's one hell of a situation."

Elliot knew it was the mage's territory, and that there was no chance of escaping or fighting his way out, especially while Crimson was incapacitated. He heard of Heron. He had seen him on rare occasions back when he was a boy. He was supposed to be dead. Then again, so was Silhouette.

"I always felt she was up to something," he answered. "It didn't feel right. If she wanted to contact us, why did she go through all the trouble to come off as a lunatic?"

"She didn't want anyone to know her on a personal level."

"But why? Why can't she even tell us her name?"

"Are you a very close friend of Alyon's?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever talk about his time in Riverstone?"

"Barely."

Heron tapped his chin. "Did he mention a girl who died?"

"Yeah, and?"

"What was her name, Elliot?"

"Ter–" He went blank. "But he told me–"

The man snorted. "Does anything really stay dead in Lydia?"

He had a point.

"Are you telling me that Silhouette used to be Tera?"

"I'm telling you that she still is."

Elliot collapsed in the nearest seat, trying to wrap his mind around the information. Silhouette is Tera. Tera is Spiderlily. Spiderlily is the Ghostwalker. The Ghostwalker and Alyon were friends. If Silhouette came to them to protect someone whose loss could trigger another Massacre, then...

"That's her goal, isn't it?" He put a hand on his forehead. "She wants to put as much negative attention on herself to draw the fire and make Alyon look like the ruler Lydia needs. That's how she's going to protect him."

Heron rummaged through the kitchen, searching for something they could eat.

"And that would make you her agent, wouldn't it?" He heard Elliot ask behind him. "The one among the ghouls."

"You got it." Heron popped a fig in his mouth.

"But what's with this place? And the children. They're everywhere," he wondered.

"This is the Undercity. Yherod and the other dwarves have lived here since Lydia was built," he explained. "As for the little ones, you could call it Silhouette's pet project. She smuggles children to keep them out of the fighting. She used to have a friend help her, but Daerin killed him."

"That's why she wanted revenge."

He laughed darkly. "It was the least of the reasons."

The thought made Elliot's blood run cold.

"So the Massacre was really an accident?"

"Yes." The blind man lowered his voice. "Silhouette never forgave herself for that. I don't think she'll forgive herself for a lot of things."

"I still don't understand why she'd go this far. Why protect Alyon?"

"That's something you'll have to ask her yourself."

"Why doesn't she just tell him who she is?"

"Again, I'm not the one you should be asking," he said, "but if I had to take a guess, then it has something to do with her mother."

"Her mother?"

At that time, the door slammed open. Silhouette leaned against the frame, gasping for air. Elliot took note of how her legs trembled. He saw the tips of her ears through her hair, followed by the desperate way she looked at them.

"Oh no," she moaned, slumping to the ground. "Heron, you told him. Why, why did you tell him?

"Ivane slipped it first."

The mage knocked her head against the floor. "I should've known."

Three children grabbed at her ankles and began to slide her away. Silhouette froze herself into place.

"I'll play with you later. I need to take care of some guests first, alright?"

A resounding chorus of awws came from outside. The mage tousled the hair of the nearest child.

Silhouette cast an orb of light and tossed it over their heads. One of the children clapped their hands around it, but it slipped through her fingers and split in two. The more the others grabbed it, the more it divided, and soon the crowd dispersed, chasing after a dozen different lights.

She watched until the last of them rounded a corner. It was one of the most complicated expressions Elliot had ever seen.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go before Yherod changes his mind."

M

"You're being awfully quiet."

Her words echoed down the passage, unlit save for the ball of light skipping through the air before them. Elliot was almost indiscernible from the shadows, his dark skin blending into the backdrop.

He held one end of the wheelbarrow, and Silhouette the other. Crimson tossed restlessly behind them.

"It's all true," Elliot said, just coming to terms with what he learned. "But I don't understand. Alyon would be thrilled to know you're alive. Why pretend to be a stranger?"

She made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but close to it. "Because it's shameful."

"But you can just take Alyon down here. Show him all the good you've done."

Silhouette stopped. The cart came to a screeching halt. "Elliot," she asked, "how much is a life worth?"

She waited for an answer that she knew he couldn't give.

"No one calls the headsman a murderer. No one accuses the torturer of high treason. It doesn't matter how many people I've saved. All the good intentions in the world can't bring back someone once they're gone." She paused, thinking about how many lives she'd taken. "Silhouette. Spiderlily. Ghostwalker. Each name is bloodier than the one before. To Alyon, Tera was a good memory. I'd rather not taint it by showing him how ugly I've become."

"I don't think he'll see it that way."

Everything he knew about the woman was turned upside down in less than an hour. Elliot scrambled for understanding. She smiled when he looked her way, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she was on the verge of falling apart.

"The problem is me, Elliot. I hate myself. As much as I might like to tell Alyon, to be accepted and forgiven, a voice in my head keeps telling me I don't deserve it." She resumed walking. "So I'm asking you for your silence."

He wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault, but his mouth wouldn't open. Silhouette made no excuses for her mistakes, and took no credit for her accomplishments. She could differentiate between right and wrong without sugar-coating the hideous gray in between.

"I won't tell him on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Heron mentioned your mother."

Silhouette grimaced. "Did he now?"

"What does she have to do with this?"

"Irony, and that's about it." She slipped something from beneath her shirt, holding it in a closed fist. "Have you ever paid close attention to that statue in Hangman's Cross?" she asked.

"Yes."

A pendant dropped from her grip. "Look familiar?"

"You must be joking."

Elliot looked from the amulet, to her face, and back again. He thought the resemblance was a coincidence, nothing more.

"So, do I have your word that you'll keep quiet about all this?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Just so you know," Silhouette added, "if I find out you let it slip, Alyon is going to have an empty seat on the council."

"Are you serious?"

"Trust me on this much." She smirked. "Promises are things I take very seriously."

25: The Abbot's Confession

"I have... seen children successfully surmounting the effects of an evil inheritance. That is due to purity being an inherent attribute of the soul."

Mahatma Gandhi

Alyon's cloak had two layers, one lined with fur for warmth, and the second coated in fat to keep off rain. Droplets cascaded down its surface as he pulled it tighter at the sides.

The normal Alyon would not get into a rowboat while the tides were crashing in. This was Silhouette's fault.

That last night they spoke in the Frozen Mirage replayed in his head over a hundred times. She learned she was a sacrifice, yet she never said a word. That bothered him.

She trusted him. She believed in him.

It was with those words in mind that he told the guild about her being a Ghostwalker, knowing it would start a hunt. That was also why he'd gone after Daerin, to see if he knew where she was, or at least get a glimpse of her life. What he saw made him sick.

She never gave any indication that she was being tortured. Their nights were filled with conversations about anything, and everything, and nothing. They seldom touched upon the Guild War, except for those moments when they laughed at how sad it was.

She said one thing. Her actions said a dozen others.

Alyon ducked as a wave barreled over him, splashing water into the cavity of the boat.

He trusted Silhouette. What bothered him was that he didn't know why.

M

Crimson stirred.

"Perfect timing."

She opened one eye to spot a shape above her.

"Crimson? Are you awake?" asked Elliot.

She nodded, feeling stiff. He helped her out from the wheelbarrow. She spotted a ladder. Silhouette's head dangled from the opening above them.

"Where... are we?"

"Vaisya Isle." He took her by the arm and pulled her upright. "Let's see if we can get rid of those bells."

They made their way up the ladder, first Crimson, then Elliot. Silhouette slid the grate back into place.

There was a new addition to their group, a man who stepped from thin air. He surveyed them with a set of analytical eyes.

"Uh, who're you?" Elliot wondered.

"That's Faodrin," Silhouette cut in quickly. "He's my older brother. He also happens to be my Shadow."

"It sounds bad no matter how you put it," Faodrin grumbled, "but that's the gist of it."

They found themselves in a room of pale stone, a stark contrast to Lydia's dark slate. Light flashed from arrow-slits in time with the thunder outside. Black streaks marred the walls, alongside something foul in the air.

"We shouldn't be here." The cleric clamped her head between her hands, beginning to tremble. Terror made strangers out of the people around her. She flinched when Elliot tried to take her hand.

"This place is desecrated," she whimpered. "I feel the taint... clawing its way into the earth."

"See, Elliot?" Silhouette pointed. "That is what good intentions get you." She kicked the wall, knocking over a rickety table, and froze.

"Hair." She spun on her heel. "Elliot, when was the last time Crimson cut her hair?"

"Never."

But before any of them could ask, Silhouette took the end and coiled it into a fist.

Crimson jolted, but was unable to turn on her. "Let go!" she screamed.

"Back to your senses, midget?"

The priestess glared, so Silhouette tugged her hair in return. She yelped.

"What is your problem?!"

She shortened the leash so that Crimson had no choice but to tilt her head to look at her. "I've been wondering how you managed to get over your past, but you haven't," Silhouette noted with disappointment. "Terribly sneaky of you."

"Let me go or I swear you'll regret it," Crimson growled.

"You really know how to make a girl shake in her boots." Silhouette gave the hair another tug for good measure. "I knew this was too long for vanity's sake. This hair of yours is a chain, isn't it? This is how you punish yourself."

Blood rushed to Crimson's cheeks. "Don't make up things as you please."

"Don't deny things at your convenience," Silhouette retorted. "You believe you were meant to stay here, don't you? You truly believe you deserve to die."

"What are y–"

Silhouette tore a part of her sleeve. Her forearm was littered with scars. Some were still healing.

Elliot swallowed hard when he saw them. How long had this been going on?

"You would've healed them," Silhouette continued relentlessly, "but that's just the thing, isn't it, Crimson? You think you died the night the Guild War started, and there's just no point in healing a corps–"

Slap!

A handprint appeared on Silhouette's cheek. Crimson's expression was caught somewhere between rage and horror. Her hands shook almost as violently as her breathing.

"Go on."

Those two words hit Crimson back with all the force of her strike.

"Go on and hit me as many times as it takes." Silhouette pulled her head back farther. They could feel the other's breath. "I won't stop you."

For the first time in her life, Crimson didn't know what to say.

"You're alive for a reason," she said quietly. "That Abbot entrusted everything to you when he sent you off. Scared, you tried to run away, but when that didn't work, you turned it into this rope." She released her hold on the braid. "Now that you're here, take a good look around. You owe him that much."

M

"You went too far," Faodrin scolded, walking after Silhouette as she stepped in the rain. "You shouldn't interfere in other people's affairs. You especially don't provoke them."

"It ended well, didn't it?"

She surveyed their immediate area. It seemed that the tunnels started within a granary. Much of the other structures were on the small side, suggesting that they were either farmsteads or studios at some point. There was hardly any overgrowth, which struck Silhouette as odd.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Don't provoke people?"

"You completely missed what I've been saying since then!" He rubbed his forehead. "It's not as if I know what you're doing when I'm not around. It's like the world moves on, but I'm only getting snippets of the events."

"You want me to keep you out all the time?" she asked. "I can't keep up a mental barrier like that indefinitely."

"So don't block me out!"

Silhouette hunched. "Faodrin, as much as I love you, I can't. It took me years to figure out how to block Feyt from dissecting my feelings. I'd at least like to keep my thoughts private. We've been through this a dozen times already."

"How would you feel if you were in my place?" he asked. "I discover that you've been leading this double life, no one knows whether you're on their side or going to stab them in the back, and you just expect me to follow you blindly?"

"When did I ever ask you to follow me?" she snapped. "That double life exists because I wanted to keep you out of harm's way. But fine, you want to stay out and have a look around? Be my guest. And just to make things clear, don't follow me this time."

A bitter taste spread through his mouth. Faodrin stared at Silhouette's back as she plodded through the torrent, the wind and rain freezing as it came close.

"Where is she headed?" Elliot asked, using a musty tarp for a hood. "Do we follow her?"

We're splitting up and searching, came the instruction, clear as if she was standing right in front of him. I want us to regroup at that large spire at dusk.

Faodrin relayed the message. Elliot craned his neck to look past him. A pale structure rose high above the settlements in the area.

"That's the monastery," came Crimson's voice. "Did she say what we're searching for?"

"She didn't."

But it seemed that someone did.

Silhouette wasn't simply running off. She was running after Feyt.

M

Where was it coming from?

She whirled around, the rain falling straight through her spectral form. Her skin tingled as they'd approached the Isle, but she didn't think much of it until Crimson started murmuring to herself. Something was wrong. Something was there.

Silhouette caught up to her a quarter of a mile away. Her breath came out in puffs of frost. "What's gotten into you?"

Before she could ask further, the woman started off again, towards what looked to be a chapel. It was an austere place, held together by mud and mortar. Well over a decade passed since the Guild War began, yet the building showed no evident signs of decay.

Silhouette was assaulted by a foul stench. She coughed, pulling the collar of her shirt over her nose. The air reeked of metal and embers, as though the fire never went out. There were six low benches, three on either side, creating an aisle large enough for one person to snake through. The ones closest to the front were broken.

A skeleton littered the floor near the shrine.

A man sat there, regarding the bones ruefully. His skin radiated all the warmth and sheen of sunlight. Cream-colored hair trailed below his shoulders, framing a face so beautiful it made one question if he truly was a man.

"Feyt," he said. He smiled, first at her, and then at the mage at her side, an expression so beautiful that Silhouette went pink. "This must be your Ghostwalker. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Kendra Illuminias?"

"She's... my mother."

"Is that so?" He approached her, taking closer inspection of her face. "Yes, I see it. I've only met her on two occasions, so you'll have to forgive me for not recognizing her kin. And you." He turned, looking at Feyt. "You haven't aged a day."

"How is it that you can see me, Ekarius?" Feyt wondered. "I was under the impression you died."

"You want me dead?"

"Not at all!" she exclaimed.

Ekarius laughed. "I jest! But I'm afraid your impression was correct. I am dead. Dead in the same sense you are. I arrived here in time for one of my own priests to run me through."

"She had agents on the Isle?" asked Silhouette.

"Unwilling ones."

"Ghouls."

"Yes." He frowned. "The wound itself wasn't fatal, but it rendered me incapable of moving my legs. I spent what time I had scrawling the runes before the fire closed in."

They looked at the shrine. Silhouette traced faint impressions of the characters Ekarius spoke of.

"They're the same kind as the ones in the Core," she noticed.

"Oh no." Feyt whispered. "Ekarius, no. You didn't."

"He didn't what?"

She looked at Silhouette. "He is now what I am to you."

"Not quite," he interjected. "You'll notice the second ring within the first. I contacted Heldarien, and he brought Vysriel and Korosuth into this. The concept is similar, but the purpose is different."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait." Silhouette waved her hand quickly. "Are you telling me you got the Gods in on this?"

"Gods?" His expression was one of genuine puzzlement. He moaned in understanding. "How long do you intend to have the girl walk blind? You're supposed to tell her these things."

"Tell me what?"

"How long have you been a Ghostwalker? One month? One year?"

"Thirteen years."

He took a step back, his eyes bulging from their sockets. "How old were you?"

"Six."

"Hundred?"

"No, just six."

"That means you're nineteen."

"Yes, it does."

He took another step back, knocking into the wall behind him. Ekarius said something in a language Silhouette only heard from Feyt on rare occasions.

"So, you're a half-elf," he surmised. "I'm curious, who is your father?"

"Jerrold."

He swore again, slapping his palm onto his forehead in shock. "She deserves to know more than any Ghostwalker before her, and yet you say nothing!" he yelled at Feyt, more in surprise than anger.

"Know what?" Silhouette asked again.

"Do you at least know about the Magi?" he asked.

"The first race."

His face contorted. Feyt looked away, prompt as ever.

"Do you know what happened to them?"

"A plague wiped most of them out."

"And after?"

"I don't know."

Ekarius sighed. "I'll gloss over it straight to what you need to know. There were seven, including Feyt, acting as an oligarchy, and together decided to unravel the Threads. They devised a ritual to do this, believing their combined powers would be enough. What happened was that the rest of their race, save for them, was destroyed in the attempt. From that destruction came the seeds of the races and creatures you know today, fragments of the people who were lost."

"What does this have to do with the Gods?"

"You already know that Feyt was sealed within a blade. After this, there was a schism. Half believed they did enough damage and needed to remove themselves from the affairs of the new races. The others believed that in order to atone, they needed to stay and guide them. Those who left served as idols the young people needed to believe in. You know them as the Gods. They took Feyt's sword to Kharlaryyv, and you know the story of how it came to return to the earth."

"What about the three Magi that stayed?" she asked. "Are they still alive?"

"If you count my current state of being as 'alive,' then I make one of them." He grinned. "The other two are Uradden and Ezara."

"My..." Silhouette pointed to herself. "So what does that make me?"

"Whatever you decide to make of yourself," he replied. "While I'm on that topic, I'd like you to remember something. It's the most important name you'll ever hear."

"Ekarius. Don't, please," Feyt pleaded.

His look was so sharp, it was a wonder it didn't bore into the wall. "I will not see you do this so half-heartedly," he chastised. "Where has your conviction gone? How dare you put her life at risk for the sake of your ego?"

Feyt hung her head. Ekarius returned his attention to the mage.

"Living is not enough to undo the Threads of Fate," he stated. "There is no way, without conflict, that significant strides can be made. Our initial attempt was a catastrophic failure, true, but it was enough to herald the Weaver."

"The who?"

"She called herself Neith," he went on. "The Threads are not things that occur in nature. Neith is the one who weaves them together."

"So Neith is... a true God?"

"True God," he huffed, shaking his head in disdain. "She sighed at our extinction, as though we caused a minor annoyance. Yes, Neith called herself a God," he admitted, "but she's not the sort of God I'd ever serve willingly. The reason I tell you this, Silhouette, is because your duty as a Ghostwalker is not over until Neith is dealt with."

The mage blinked. "You do realize you're asking me to kill a God."

"Hardship and suffering are your closest companions on this road, but just as Feyt has her duty to see this madness through, you have yours, which is to follow her guidance."

"So tell me how I'm supposed to find this Weaver. Everyone likes to tell me what to do, but no one mentions how I'm supposed to do it!"

"That is why I'm here," he concluded. "When Elvawein was here, she gave some indication that she was meddling with the Threads. She's under the impression that because she hasn't died, I''s her destiny to carry this through. The others in Kharlaryyv kept me informed on what was transpiring in Lydia since my death," he furthered, locking eyes on Silhouette. "I was told that Elvawein made use of a girl's powers to cause a slaughter. I can only guess this girl was you."

"It was."

"Which leads me to my point: Elvawein will find ways to use you in order to recreate the same disaster that started all this. Lydia will drown in blood before Neith thinks to look in its direction."

"Elvawein thinks she's helping me?"

"Perhaps, but it's far more likely that she's using you. Before making her move, she took a gamble that there was a Ghostwalker currently active. Your existence is what allowed the Guild War to happen."

M

"Crimson, she's calling you."

That was what Faodrin said several minutes ago. The priestess knew where to find the chapel in question. Elliot offered to go with her, but she refused. She needed time to think.

From the moment she set eyes on her, Crimson was not fond of Silhouette. In that nest of nightmares Daerin called his basement, she saw his sins in the shape of a woman. He spent his life pouring his agony, his remorse, and his crimes into her, twisting what might've been a beautiful person into the semblance of a monster.

When Crimson looked at Silhouette, she saw a reflection of the life she believed she deserved, one that had left her to die.

Silhouette represented everything that she had wanted to face, and everything she'd been running from. The mage took her to the Isle because it was her arena, and once there, Crimson would have no choice but to look her past in the eyes.

And it was just beyond the chapel door.

She opened it to find the mage sitting in a pew. She didn't raise her head or give any greeting. She simply pointed.

"Pick it up."

Her eyes trailed across the ground to a faded circle, written in a language she didn't know. What she did recognize was the athame at its heart.

"Pick it up," Silhouette repeated. "You'll understand after you do."

Knowing she wasn't going to get a better explanation, Crimson did as she was told. A set of arms embraced her.

The corner of Silhouette's mouth lifted into a wry smirk. She flicked her eyes upwards. Crimson followed their motion, staring at a face fading from memory.

Words escaped in squeaks and incomprehensible mutterings. Her eyes welled with tears.

"Abbot."

He pulled away, his face as radiant as she remembered. "You've hardly grown."

Her face shriveled. She was sensitive about her height, or lack of it.

Ekarius laughed. "That part of you hasn't changed either, I see. Forgive me."

"N-no, I–"

"As much as it pains me to cut off the reunion, I'm afraid we have more pressing concerns."

The priestess let out a shriek at the woman behind her, her skin black with a trail of white hair even longer than her own.

She frowned at the Abbot. "You woke something, Ekarius. You knew this would happen."

"I admit it was a possibility, yes." He shrugged. "Nothing we can't handle."

"I feel it too," said Crimson. "It's a restless sensation."

Silhouette looked between all of them. "Will someone tell me what's going on?"

"Heldarien took the privilege of locking some"–Ekarius cleared his throat–"unsavory elements of Elvawein's work within my dagger. Korosuth ensured my sacrifice wouldn't go to waste and sealed the better part of my essence as well."

"In plain speech," Silhouette growled.

He pointed at the pile of bones knitting themselves together. "The blade came to a new owner, and the seal has been broken."

"Okay, ghouls I understand, but how do we fight skeletons?"

"Their bones are held together by something called ether," he explained. "Just dispatch them like you would a normal opponent."

The mage brought forth a shard of ice and hurled it at the rising figure, hitting it between its ribs. A second flew shortly after, landing in an empty eye socket. The skeleton jerked twice before collapsing onto the ground.

"There's something else," Crimson murmured. "Someone just arrived."

Silhouette did everything she could to withhold a biting comment about their situation, but stopped when she saw the cleric's face. Amber markings spread beneath her right eye, over her cheek, and across the bridge of her nose. They shimmered, faintly glowing in the dark.

Ekarius chuckled. "They're proof that my power transferred unto you. I hope you have the wisdom to use it."

Silhouette's stomach tightened into a knot, more at what the priestess said earlier than the new revelation. If someone came to the Isle, could it be Elvawein?

But the real answer was far worse.

"Alyon."

26: Anathema

"If help and salvation are to come, they can only come from the children, for the children are the makers of men."

Maria Montessori

Everyone ran to the edge of the cliff, craning their heads to get a better view. Wooden planks were devoured by the ocean foam, whipping against the shore. More amazing than nature's wrath was the figure trudging through it all.

Silhouette jumped. The ground froze as her feet touched bottom, incoming tides turning her ice into slush. She held a hand to the ocean and a wall took shape. It wouldn't hold long, but it was enough to get Alyon through without being beaten down by the sea.

The guildmaster took her outstretched hand. Elliot watched as Silhouette's tunnel collapsed behind them.

Blood streaked Alyon's face, stemming from a cut on his forehead. Apart from that and a few bruises, he was unharmed.

Faodrin and Elliot worked together to pull them back on solid ground.

Crimson rested a hand on Alyon's head. The blood receded into the wound. Faodrin searched for a suitable shelter. He waved them to a dilapidated farmhouse.

Elliot lit a fire. Crimson found moth-eaten blankets beneath the floorboards. Faodrin acquired two jars of pickled vegetables from the cellar.

Silhouette sealed the windows with thick layers of ice and froze a tarp against the door. She opened the first can of food, sniffed, and grimaced.

"This is bad."

"Here," offered Crimson. "Let me." She closed her eyes. Nothing seemed to change. Crimson then handed the jar back to the mage. "It should be fine now."

Alyon rubbed his forehead, dazed, aching, and irritated. "Would someone please tell me what happened since this morning?"

Crimson looked to the side. Her brow knotted. "What do you mean by 'no one can see you?'"

Silhouette put a hand to her mouth, hiding a smirk.

"Frustrating, isn't it?" She took two steps forward, taking the hands of people who weren't there. "This is Feyt, and that is Abbot Ekarius. And since you arrived a bit late, that is my brother, Faodrin."

Faodrin waved. Alyon blinked.

"Why are ghosts following you?"

"Ghostwalker," she stressed, taking a pot from Elliot. The vegetables went in with a series of wet plops. "Go ahead, ask your questions."

Everyone grew eager to prepare their meal. Faodrin took the pot from Silhouette, taking her role in the process.

She and Alyon were left by the fire.

"I suppose Crimson had one of her episodes by the shore," he started. "Is that why you came here?"

"Yes."

"How?"

She smiled, mysterious. "Who knows?"

"I thought you were going to answer my questions."

"I never said my answers would satisfy you."

He couldn't find it in him to be annoyed after what he'd been through. Alyon resigned himself to listening to whatever Silhouette was willing to explain.

He learned about her Shadow, Ekarius, and that the Isles' dead were shambling back to life as they spoke. Dinner was finished shortly thereafter, though Alyon lost much of his appetite.

"Don't think about it too much," said Silhouette, as if reading his mind. "It's not worth the headache."

Silhouette shifted closer to her brother, resting her head against him. He, in turn, leaned his head against hers, but fell through.

"You should finish eating."

"I'm not hungry," Silhouette replied.

Faodrin picked up a spoonful of rice. "Come on, at least this. It'll get your strength back."

"My strength is fine."

"The food's getting cold."

She sighed. Faodrin saw it as an opening and shoveled the spoon into her mouth so quickly that she coughed it down. Before the mage could glare, he put in another. She snatched the spoon from his hand.

Crimson giggled. "How about this?" the priestess suggested. "Why don't we take shifts? Silhouette and Feyt, me and Ekarius, Elliot and Alyon, and Faodrin can, well..." She hesitated.

"It's alright," he said. "I'll disappear for a while. I drain her when I'm out for too long. If there's a need for me, she'll call." He gave them a mock salute, fading to gray, and then nothing.

Feyt elbowed Ekarius sharply in the ribs, darting her eyes at the door. He nodded.

"The skeletons are oblivious to our presence. I believe it'll be a better idea for Feyt and I to patrol the area around the house. This way, if something happens, we can contact you and Silhouette immediately," he told Crimson. His former apprentice took a second to consider it, and then relayed it to the others.

"Silhouette and I are the only mages. We should go with one of you."

"Silhouette is with me," Alyon announced.

Everyone fell quiet.

Elliot cleared his throat, waving Crimson over.

"We'll take first watch. We'll be back in, let's say, four hours?"

"Sounds good," Silhouette answered.

They couldn't help but notice that Alyon kept his sights fixed on the mage, and she didn't move her eyes from the fire. Whatever conversation they were about to have wasn't going to be a pleasant one.

M

"What was that?" Crimson asked him as soon as they were away from the house. "Did Alyon pair up with her or was I hearing things?"

Elliot was just as troubled as she was. His breath came out in a gray puff, evidence of the winter season closing in on them. He was so stiff that the notion to shiver seemed to have slipped his mind.

"Elliot." She rested a hand on his arm. "Elliot, what's the matter?"

"Silhouette isn't the person everyone makes her out to be. She's actually..." He shut his eyes, straining for a better way to put it. "There's no safer place for Alyon to be than by her side."

"Is she our ally?"

"She's Alyon's ally," he clarified, "and any ally of his by extension."

"But she only came here a month ago!"

"Her influence didn't start there."

"So they used to be friends a few years–"

He held up a hand. "Crimson, I know this appears like a recent development, but it's not. Think about her actions. What do they tell you?"

She tucked her hands under her arms to ward off the cold. "She doesn't make sense. You saw how she killed Daerin." Her eyes met his in askance. "Tell me if that's something a good person would do."

"Did you see that room they were in?" he asked back. "It was a torture chamber."

"It's still no reason to kill a man like that."

"So, you're not angry that she killed him, only that she killed him the way she did?"

She grew quiet, not liking the way their conversation was going.

"You should understand more than anyone what it's like to be at the mercy of people you barely know."

"It's because I understand that I hate it!"

Elliot seldom saw Crimson angry, and never at him. The markings on her face glowed fierce, venting her frustration.

"Every time I look at her, I see what I'm supposed to be, Elliot. Everything she said as soon as we came here was the truth. These bells are always, always in my head. They've been calling me because they know I should've burned the night the Guild War started!" She clenched her fists at her sides, trembling in the rain. "I'm not supposed to be alive." She brought her arm up for him to see, with every self-inflicted scar. "I can't heal myself because I believe that. I don't deserve to live." Her hands flew up to cover her face. She began to sob.

Elliot wrapped his arms around her, shocked and ashamed by his audacity at being able to call himself her friend, yet never knowing she'd been suffering like that on her own.

"I know she's not a bad person," she cried. "I just hate that she saw right through me after I tried so hard." Her voice drifted into a series of hiccups. "I hate myself. I hate myself so much."

M

"Why did you bring Crimson here?"

"Because I know what it's like to have a past that haunts you. I also know it'll keep haunting you until you face it."

He threw in another log, sending embers flying. "So your reasons were purely altruistic."

"That's right."

"I don't recall giving you permission."

Her eyes flicked up, laughing at him. "A lesson in leadership, if I may. You rule for the betterment of your people. You lose that right the minute you need permission for them to heal themselves."

"This is about more than leadership." He scowled. "This is about a friend you were leading into danger."

"If you cared so much about this friend, you would've done something sooner."

"I had my priorities."

"You have your excuses," she responded, stinging him. She watched the fire through her lashes. "But you came now," she admitted. "I'll give you credit for that."

He ran a hand down the side of his face. "I can't believe this. You, of all people, are lecturing me."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Name one."

"There could be a High City under lockdown by a lunatic necromancer." She covered her mouth with her hand. "Oops. I forgot how common that is these days. Silly me."

Alyon snorted. "You've been playing us for fools all this time, haven't you?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she trilled, prodding a log with her spoon. "You were a fool long before I started playing you."

"You've made better jokes than that."

"I'm a bit rusty." She smirked. "Besides, I can't allow rumors to spread that I'm actually a decent person."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not. Spiderlily, the Ghostwalker, they're both me. Whether I willingly killed those people or not is a moot point. My reputation is wholly deserved, and I won't allow myself to believe otherwise."

"That sense of justice is the same as ever, I see," he muttered. "I just can't believe it. You never deserved this."

"Maybe I've done something that warranted this in a past life?"

He made a disgusted sound. "Don't tell me you believe in that garbage."

She laughed under her breath. "I did have to die once to become a Ghostwalker, Alyon. There could be some truth to it."

"You remember what happened in the events leading up to that?"

He watched her expression fall blank. She licked her lips and shuffled. He'd hit a sore spot.

"The past needs to stay in the past." Silhouette squeezed her fist against her chest. "What about you, Alyon?"

"What? My past?"

"Mhmm."

"I fought a lot, I slept around a lot; I drank a lot." He shook his head. "There's not much to say. I'm a disappointment through and through. Life must have a great sense of humor because there are actually people out there who want to put a crown on my head."

She regarded him with a bemused smile. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

"Oh all right. I'm the biggest disappointment."

He was rewarded with a snowball to the face.

Silhouette arched her back, cracking as loud as the logs. "Don't sell yourself short. You're one of the most intelligent men I know."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Silhouette gave him a sharp look. He cackled.

"You have a good head on your shoulders and your heart is in the right place, which is more than I can say for most. You'll make a wonderful king. Trust me when I say you'll make an even better man."

He felt his face get warm at the compliments. They lifted his spirits, though he felt he didn't deserve them. "I don't want to be king."

"Because you're afraid?"

"Not just that. It's one thing to end the Guild War. It's the after that bothers me. I can't heal. Every houseplant I've ever been asked to take care of has died. If I can't help a flower survive, then how can I help a human being? Yet they want me to lead a High City."

Still smiling from the bit about the plant, Silhouette bit down on her lip to keep a straight face.

"You give them hope, Alyon. For now, it's all they need. Ruling isn't so different from parenting. You're the example, and you have to trust your people to be strong enough to find their own ways to follow it. You might be surprised."

"It's going to be a bloody transition. The worst war criminals are going to be charged." He eyed her ruefully. "I know what you've done, Silhouette, and I know this is selfish, but please run away."

She circled the fire on her hands and knees. The mage plopped beside him, and after a second's thought, rested her forehead against his, praying he wouldn't hear her heart. "When your position is secured, I'll submit myself for whatever judgment you see fit."

"Did you hear anything I just said?"

"If it's of any comfort, I promise I'll survive until that day comes."

"How can you make that kind of promise?"

"Because," she whispered, "only you have the right to kill me. Only you can give me permission to die."

M

Isabelle met the eyes of the ghouls in the room.

Elvawein "strongly encouraged" that they get to know one another, meaning that they had little choice. They sat in a circle, a strained silence in the cavern they called a room.

The door flew open and in rushed a hoard of children, causing the faces of the adults to light up at once. Isabelle craned her head over her shoulder to see Nyx, smiling at the little reunion.

He, out of everyone in the Tower, was the one to avoid. No one knew what he did that caused Elvawein to take him in as her pet. He, like the rest of them, was there for two years, and had been the only one to consistently fight Elvawein, though he lost every time. He was considered a fool, but he was the only fool who had yet to lose his courage.

Several ghouls offered appreciative smiles, while others embraced the children they so rarely had permission to see.

Ian, her son, clung to Nyx's hand. She saw Nyx whisper something to him, but he shook his head. He walked the boy to his mother, and only then did he jump to her side.

"Mom, make him tell me where Sam is."

She smoothed his hair and wrapped a protective arm around his shoulder before daring to look at Nyx. What she saw was not encouraging. He faintly shook his head.

It was something that could get them killed, but with an eager eight-year-old pulling on her sleeve, she had to say something.

"Did Sam... move?" she asked.

"Yes. He moved, Ian. I'm sorry."

The young boy looked crushed. "He said he'd stop and play yesterday."

"He must've forgotten."

Ian stomped, marching into a corner.

"Nyx, will we ever see Sam again?" Isabelle asked.

"That's a dangerous question."

"To hell with danger," she snapped back at him. "I've been taught that if you live once, you die once, not twice. Elvawein can't come up with a punishment that'd make me put this life," she spat, "before my boy's."

He smiled unexpectedly. It was the first genuine expression she'd ever seen him make.

"I've been forbidden from talking about this," he lamented, "but what I can say is that you're not here on a whim. There's a reason Elvawein wants you to be familiar with each other... to know that everyone here has children." The way he said those last words told her that they carried a greater meaning. "In fact, it's a requirement. Everyone who has ever worked in the Tower had to be a parent."

Everyone. Tower. Had. Those three words were stressed that time.

"Had? Not has?" She maintained as serene a presence as possible, careful not to draw attention.

"Had," he confirmed, leaning against the wall. "Two years seems to be the limit for working directly under her."

For the first time since becoming a ghoul, Isabelle was thankful for her black irises. Or else, others would see how wide her pupils had grown. Two years. Come to think of it, the last time Elvawein had the group meeting was roughly two years before, when she introduced everyone. She never gave any indication that there were others working for her.

"Did they learn anything... unfortunate?"

"Only the truth."

"Truth?"

He started walking into the hallway. "I can't tell you," she heard him saying, "but I can show you."

Isabelle checked to see that none of the ghouls were paying attention. She scurried after Nyx before anyone could realize she was gone.

"How much time do we have?" she asked, almost chasing after him. "Will whatever happened then repeat itself?"

"Your group is different. She'll use you to capture Silhouette."

"She wants us to take on the Ghostwalker?! Against that monster?"

Nyx turned on her with a glare so cold she froze stiff. "She is not a monster. Out of anyone in Lydia, she is the biggest victim in all of this."

"So it's true then. You knew her."

"I was... something of a partner, yes."

They said nothing more after that, using all their focus to climb the stairwell. Once there, they went through a set of doors, with a second more ornate pair beyond.

"I have to tell you," said Nyx, resting his palm on its surface. "There is a room, very, very similar to this one somewhere else in Lydia. It's called the Core. That, and," he added, "Elvawein's power is not omnipotent. There is a limit to how many ghouls she can create, and a limit to how long they can last, with both factors getting smaller and smaller with every generation."

When he opened those doors, Isabelle saw a cavern filled with runes–the floor, the walls, even the ceiling–carved into the stone. Nyx swiped a roll of parchment and a stick of charcoal off a shelf, transferring a marking onto the paper. He scribbled a note into the margin as she wandered into a chamber off the side.

Memories pieced together that she didn't realize had been taken. She was killed there. She was created there. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, suppressing a stunned squeak.

When Elvawein created the ghouls that would serve in the Tower, she locked away their first memories of the place.

Nyx watched her already pale face turn stark white. She slumped to her knees, shaking.

"This... is the truth?"

"Give this to Silhouette." He held out the folded sheet of paper. When she didn't take it, he opened her palm, placed it there, and closed her fingers around it. "When Elvawein sends you to her, she'll already know about this. I give you my word that she'll do everything she can to save you."

"I can't be saved," she croaked. "None of us can. Not after this."

"She will save Ian."

Isabelle's eyes snapped on him, drawn to the confidence in that sentence. The weight of that slip felt like a chunk of lead.

"And Elvawein?"

"Will die."

"That isn't good enough," she seethed. "That isn't nearly good enough."

27: Bell's Toll

"I prefer peace. But if trouble must come, let it come in my time, so that my children can live in peace."

Thomas Paine

Elliot tossed Alyon a staff. He used it to knock the skull off the skeleton bearing down on him.

True to their words, Feyt and Ekarius shouted across the fields to alert the group that the dead were massing. Everyone exited the farmstead, knowing it was unwise to get trapped in such an indefensible location. Luck smiled on them by seeing an end to the storm.

Elliot was already armed with a short blade, a knife, and a sling. Silhouette took his blade from him without warning, moved her hand over its edge, and tossed it back. He almost dropped the weapon from its chill.

"I don't know if that'll help," she told him, "but it's worth a shot."

As he sliced through the ribcage of the one closest to him, Elliot saw a faint mist following the motion of the sword. Its enchantment would fade soon, she warned him, but it would serve its purpose. Silhouette had no weapon other than her right hand, which she used to form a claw. Her other arm was encased in ice, blocking those strikes she couldn't evade. Crimson was protected between the three of them, healing what wounds she saw, and slowing attacks that would otherwise prove fatal.

The skeletons were not difficult opponents, but their weapons complicated things. They moved as well as their living counterparts, but their strength was greater. A single blow from the larger ones sent them staggering back. The first wave held a dozen of them. In the time it took to cut them down, there were two score gaining on their heels.

"The bell tower!" shouted Crimson. "We can't stay out in the open like this!"

"Now would be an awfully good time to bring Faodrin!" Elliot puffed, racing across the field.

Silhouette lagged behind to make certain that Alyon was where she could see him. She tried to call Faodrin, but she'd overextended herself, especially over the past two days. Summoning him took a lot out of her. For a mage, she had incredible endurance, and she swore at how it managed to run out.

"Forget it!" Alyon cut in. "Keep running!"

The bell tower was the largest structure on the Isle, in the middle of the monastery's grounds. All around it were pillars supporting a shale awning, and farther out were the other buildings. Everywhere else, the land appeared frozen in time. The monastery was the sole area that showed signs of age. Grass brushed up against their thighs, forcing them to slow down.

Silhouette stopped abruptly. "I have an idea," she said. "Crimson, think you can slow them down for a bit?"

"How much," the priestess breathed, "is... a bit?"

"Twenty seconds."

The cleric looked dubiously at the undead.

"It should be possible," Ekarius answered for her. "Trust her, Crimson," he pleaded.

"Alright." She dropped on one knee, folding her hands as though to pray. "I can give you fifteen. More than that, I don't know."

Silhouette was already at work. She rested her palms on the pillar closest to them. Alyon and Elliot watched ice sliver between the bricks. The branches stretched across half of the outdoor canopy.

The first wave slammed into Crimson's temporal field with such force that she let out a startled yelp. The second and third row of skeletons ran into the initial one, destroying some of their numbers from the chaos alone. Meanwhile, the branches of ice slowed their growth just short of three quarters across the patio.

Elliot believed Silhouette would do something, but his nerves were being wracked to their limits.

Twelve seconds had passed.

"I... can't... much longer..."

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

"Let go!"

The skeletons were wedged so tight that they appeared to be a running wall of bones. Crimson took a hasty set of steps backwards, bumping into the two men.

The undead were well within charging distance, but there was a rumble so loud that even they gave pause, and watched as the entire roof collapsed on them.

The ice across the bricks was wedged in every space it could find, expanding so fast that it weakened the structure to the point of collapse, much like the mage did soon after.

Feyt rushed to Silhouette as the ceiling went down. Both of them were thrown onto their sides. Blood dripped from her nose. She could taste its coppery flavor at the back of her throat.

"You overdid it." Alyon scowled.

"Only you would think to complain after she saves your ass." Elliot elbowed him. "Crimson, do you have enough energy to look at her?"

"It's not like I've been knocked out," Silhouette muttered. She coughed and the blood on her tongue splattered on the ground. "It's been a while since I've felt this bad. I can't say I've missed it."

The cleric waved the men over. "Help me get her on her back."

"I can do that by my–"

"Stay silent."

Silhouette almost swallowed her tongue at the razor in her voice. Alyon and Elliot carefully rolled her to the side. Crimson and Ekarius sat above, staring so intently that she began to turn red.

The cleric sensed earlier that something was off about Silhouette's body, but with Ekarius amplifying her abilities, she knew that her initial assessment barely scratched the surface.

"How is it that you're still alive?" she asked. With her newfound skill, she could practically see through the mage, catching a glimpse of the blood flowing in her veins, and the scars on her organs, and deeper still, not to the what, but the when. "It took a miracle for you to survive the Massacre. A priest tended to you. A powerful one. And you really died once. Heldarien's mercy! You shouldn't be alive. Such extensive frost–"

"Crimson," Elliot interrupted. "You can get a closer look later. For now, we just need to know if she can move."

"Oh." She blinked, embarrassed. "Right." Crimson's hands hovered over her body. She made a sound, finding what she was looking for. She grasped Silhouette by the throat and thrust the heel of a palm to her side. The mage let out a strangled scream.

"What the hell?!"

Crimson clapped her hands together, more pleased than a cat in a cream vat. "If you're yelling like that, it means it worked."

Feyt helped Silhouette off the ground, which looked odd to the men, since it appeared she was grasping at thin air.

"It looks like we'll have to find another way out. I'm in no mood to go climbing over all this," Alyon announced. Silhouette had the decency to wince at her handiwork. Typically effective, but always destructive. "Crimson, do you remember the layout of this place?"

"Somewhat, but the monastery was a labyrinth to even the older priests."

"I thought the entire point of a monastery was to lead a simple lifestyle?"

"The lifestyle is," she assured him, "but you forget that Vaisya Isle is also a High City. In addition to ruling it, the Abbot is also the High Priest of Heldarien. All the faithful on the continent are under his guidance, and this is where he lived."

"Sounds like a mixed message to me," Alyon grumbled. "He preaches about simplicity and lives in a palace."

"He's right," Ekarius said lightly, diffusing the agitated cleric. "This place was little more than a few wooden shacks when it was founded. The artisans that moved here thought it was an eyesore and rebuilt it while I was visiting Isoviel. Just look at it." He pointed at a gargoyle water spout. "Gaudy beyond belief."

"They did get a little ahead of themselves." Crimson grinned sheepishly.

"Religion and poor taste seem to go hand in hand," Silhouette remarked.

"Oh, this is nothing." Ekarius chuckled. "You should've seen the temples dedicated to Feyt and the rest of us back in the day. It's one thing to depict a deity you can't see. It's another to build for a living god, as it were. I swear to you, the ground was made up of gems the size of my fist."

"If memory serves, you once tried to pry one out and pawn it off," said Feyt. "You never did tell us why you were in such a desperate need of money."

"I never will."

"I feel I should tell you," she directed at Crimson, "that Ekarius was always terrible with finances. Have you ever wondered how the concept of tithes came about?"

"Now that is a flat out lie!"

"Ezara almost murdered you when she found out," she continued. "What use does a god have for wealth if he isn't around to spend it? What's more, what does a god have use for purchasing anything?"

"I had expenses," he insisted.

"The Isle never had taxes and your supplies were gifts from the faithful." Feyt smirked, clearly having fun. "Whatever did you spend it on?"

"Hold on," Elliot called.

The door had been blown in to a new room.

"That's just the main part of the bell tow–" Crimson paused, realizing why they stopped. The massive instruments hung overhead, but the bead lines were on the ground. Alyon approached the parts, running his fingers over the thick metal clasps that once held them.

"Someone cut these." He pulled his hand away, staring into the largest of the bells above them.

"But then..." The words couldn't come out.

The bells had tormented her for nearly thirteen years, but if they were destroyed, what had she been hearing?

Ring...

The priestess yelped, covering her ears with her hands. She shook her head frantically. "Not again."

The others watched her, not knowing what to think. They could see the question on her face, as though written in ink.

Am I insane?

Silhouette's ear twitched up. It wasn't ringing she heard, but something like a heavy creak. A moment later, there it was again.

Realization flashed across her face. "Alyon, move!"

He didn't have the time to look before she threw him aside.

A second later, the bells came crashing down.

M

They coughed at rising plumes of dust, shielding their ears, rather than noses, at the echoes thundering across the monastery. It soon became apparent that if Alyon had stayed where he was, he would've been nailed into the floor. He gawked, rubbing the spot on his chest where Silhouette shoved him, her handprints scorching his skin.

She was the Ghostwalker. And she had saved his life.

"Silhouette?" He banged on one of the instruments with his fist. "Silhouette! Are you hurt?"

A pathetic groan came from the other side. "My ankle's broken. More importantly, are you alright?"

"Yeah." He looked at the others. "Don't move. We'll get you."

"Don't. You find us a boat. I'll meet you outside."

"There's no other exit from this room," Crimson cut in.

"Well, I'm looking at a staircase. That last bell knocked out the floor. There's wind coming from it, so it'll probably lead out."

Ekarius appeared very uncomfortable.

Feyt quirked up an eyebrow. "Does it lead out?" she asked.

"Eventually." He cast his reddish eyes at the blocked path. "Walk straight, and only straight."

If the mage heard him, she gave no indication of it. She was already limping into the dark.

M

All things considered, she was lucky her foot wasn't severed. Her powers were such that they acted on instinct. She used ice to shield herself. Reinforcing it to withstand the weight of that damned bell drained her strength as nothing had before.

She couldn't feel the pain beyond a dull ache. Silhouette hopped on her one good leg, longing for her bed at the guild.

Silhouette hoped the passage wasn't home to anything that posed a threat. One mistake and Feyt would have to find herself another Ghostwalker.

"Wow."

She whipped her head at the voice, her little light fizzling into oblivion.

A little girl stood in the dark, surrounded by a violet, ghostly glow. Then she disappeared.

Silhouette turned again. That time, the child appeared in front of her. It was familiar, the way the girl tilted her head, her tipped ears. The locket hanging from a chain too big for her.

"Come on! I have to show you something good!"

"Wa–"

But her child-self already darted around a corner. Silhouette hopped after her, wondering why, and how, it was possible.

Silhouette cursed her foul luck. She could only last so long on one leg. By the fourth turn, she slammed into the floor, cushioning her fall with a bruised arm. The illusion emerged around the bend, wincing.

"You're awfully clumsy."

"That makes me feel so much better," she groaned.

"I'm not sure how, but okay!" Clearly, she had an expert grasp of sarcasm at that age. How Faodrin was able to put up with her remained a mystery. "It's just ahead."

Silhouette crawled to the wall, using it to shuffle to a crouch. She cast a ball of light and hurled it into the adjoining room. It exploded like a firework, its streams suspended in the air like a hundred frozen tears.

She knew the place. It was another Core.

A slow, rhythmic clapping sounded from a shadowy corner. From it stepped a woman. Her skirt brushed against the floor, rising up to her waist to meet a corset and cloak. The fabric was old, but fine enough to suggest she acquired it from a noble's closet.

"Judging by the look on your face, you've seen this before."

"Who are you?" Silhouette asked.

She watched as her child-self ran up to the woman, clinging to her skirt. Silhouette didn't survive the last years on luck alone. She sensed the wrongness of the person. She was dangerous. More dangerous than Daerin. Maybe even more dangerous than herself.

"Magic falls into three categories: Elemental, Abstract, and Primordial, in order from most to least common." The mage listened to the click of heels on the floor as she moved to the central dais. "The first is self-explanatory. Earth, wind, water, ice," she listed, flashing a look at Silhouette. "Abstraction can affect the senses, our memories, feelings, and perceptions. It requires subtlety to learn and finesse to master. And then there is Primordial magic, the ancient necessities that construct the world as it has been and will ever be. To create life where there is none, but also to destroy. Put plainly, Primordial magic is all things Darkness. All things Light."

"You didn't answer my question."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Because, Tera, you should know who I am."

She could guess. "Elvawein." The woman's smile grew. "It was you who sent those bells crashing. I knew it wasn't right."

"I do admit, it was a bit excessive." She nodded. "One bell would've sufficed, but I wasn't sure where you'd be standing."

"You almost killed–" Silhouette stopped abruptly.

She couldn't risk Elvawein finding out that Alyon was on the Isle.

She was in no position to fight, and the mage knew that the others could do nothing against the woman.

"Killed?" Elvawein repeated in a bored tone. "Last I recall, your body count is far higher than mine."

"You started the Guild War."

"By all rights, some sort of riot should have started years before. All I did was provide the necessary catalyst."

"For what?" the mage asked, full of spite. "Because you were bored?"

Elvawein covered her mouth, laughing. "I can't deny that had something to do with it."

As much as Silhouette would've loved to end this, she wasn't stupid enough to do it, not in her present condition.

"I am your ally."

"Don't mess with me."

"But it's true," she insisted. "I also want to undo the Threads."

"Ekarius told me everything. You're a deranged lunatic, nothing more."

"Ekarius?" Her pitch shot up. "Stubborn old elf. But if he survived, you ought to know exactly what it is you're up against. Do you think it's possible to succeed as a Ghostwalker just by staying alive?"

"I'll figure it out."

"You'll grow old and die before then."

"I'm a half-elf. I have the time."

The woman burst out laughing. "Half-elves remain as such until they reach full maturity," she explained, walking towards her. "At best, you have a year before you get struck by Fey Fever, and you'll either become a human or elf. The odds of getting the shorter life are five to one."

"You have to be making that up."

"I'm not." She raised her hands. "Few elves lived in Lydia before the Guild War, and fewer in the years that followed, so I can't fault you for your ignorance. Haven't you thought it strange that with their long lives, elves are a minority? Shouldn't they have more offspring by that reasoning alone?"

Silhouette maintained an iron façade, unwilling to admit that her lack of curiosity about her heritage was embarrassing. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Nyx nagging about being content with ignorance.

"Children between two elves are exceedingly rare. In their lives, at least a thousand years long, your grandparents conceived twice. It's far more common for an elf to take a human mate to increase the chance of conception. The lifespan you assumed you'd have was one of a stemling's, the child of a half-elven parent before they reach maturity."

Silhouette looked at the sorry state she was in, filled with unexpected melancholy. She had wished for humanity as a child after experiencing how her kind was treated in Lydia, which was far worse than the average elf because of her half-breed status. She'd been kicked, shoved, punched, thrown, ignored, sworn at, for no other reason than she was different.

Her elven heritage saved her on several occasions due to her heightened senses, and it tied her to the one parent she had left. It was the part of her that had a home and a family. It was all things magical and mystical of a culture few witnessed, and fewer still could understand. She was a child of two worlds. Somehow, it seemed incredibly unfair that, in the end, she could only belong to one or the other.

"You don't have the time," Elvawein concluded. "You're nearly twenty years old. At best, you have two thirds of your life left, provided you live that long." She was close, enough to place a hand on the mage's shoulder. The only thing more startling about her touch was the gentleness of it. "You will only hurt everyone you will ever care about."

"No!" She slapped her hand away, falling on the floor again. Silhouette was filled with self-loathing. There was Elvawein, close enough for her to kill, and she was too weak to stand.

That gentle hand found its way to her head, smoothing her hair with motherly affection.

"You're something that shouldn't exist. Every breath you take is a violation of the natural order."

"Get away from me."

"From the start, you've been used by others. As a Ghostwalker, you have the freedom to walk your own path. Yet you've been led around in circles by forces greater than yourself."

"Shut up."

"Look at you. You have nothing. No parents, no home, no family. Not even a name."

"I said shut up!"

"To Lydia, you're a target for fear and hatred. To Daerin, you were a replacement. The world denied your existence from the very start. You can only be a sad imitation, but never an individual of your own making."

Silhouette's knuckles dug into the floor. Why was it always like this? Why was she always so weak when it mattered? Was she really so pathetic that Elvawein, of all people, would pity her?

"As long as you die, you're free from the Threads." She ran her fingers under Silhouette's chin, lifting it until their eyes met. "You have freedom, but the price is far too high for one person to pay. It must be... redistributed."

"It was my choice. The people of Lydia have nothing to do with it."

"They have everything to do with it," Elvawein argued. "That's the entire point of being a Ghostwalker. The final result is to see everyone free. What are a few lives in the face of future generations?"

"Few?" Silhouette asked in disbelief. "At the rate you're going, there won't be future generations! No one has the right to murder!"

Elvawein sighed. Silhouette was too wounded to pose a real threat, so she had to wonder where the young woman's bravado was coming from. It was beginning to lose its appeal.

"How simple it seems at first, this thing we call choice." She ran her thumb across the mage's lip, knowing the girl was too proud to turn away. "How easily we take it for granted, but when we see that we never had true choice, or that our choices do not matter, my how we rattle our cages!" She pulled her hand away. "Do you know what they call one who has the ability to choose?" The mage watched, mystified, as the woman placed her hands on the ground and lowered her head to the floor. "God."

It felt as though her heart had stopped beating. Desperation was what caused her to peel Elvawein up from her bow. Terror was what filled her when she saw the reverence on her face. No. The word echoed in her mind, but that was all it ever amounted to. A static sound that soon faded away, leaving her alone in the fear of the single worst comparison someone could make. "I'm a monster."

"Then woe for us all."

"You can't call me a God."

"Who creates Gods?" she asked. "Why are those called Gods not trees, or rivers, or animals? Why do they possess the most beautiful and most terrible aspects of the people who worship them?"

"I don't know."

"Because men are the makers of the divine. We want to see the best of ourselves. We want to see power capable of laying waste to any threat. You have the ability to choose. If you will it, you can drown Lydia in blood and justify it all."

"Murder is murder. It's wrong!"

"Petty sophistry," Elvawein scoffed. "Why is it that we say someone passed of old age, rather than they were murdered by time? Why do we say a rival was killed in battle, over being murdered by someone on our side? Why is it we use the word murder only when it suits our own ends? Your naiveté will cost you dearly. More than it already has," she warned. "Nyx died once for your sake. Will his blood fall on your hands a second time?"

Elvawein stood. She grew tired of the conversation. "My purpose in coming here was to assess your character. I admit I'm disappointed." She looked with a disapproving frown. "You think like a child. With that, I give you this message: there will come a time when I request that you leave Shadow Blade territory. In return, I'll see that you are reunited with Nyx, and that both of you remain in one piece."

"If you want me to leave, then I'll do it now."

"You don't seem to understand. You leave when I say. I will not give you notice. I will not give you time to say farewells."

"What do you stand to gain from that?"

"What I do is none of your concern," she responded. "And in the event you disobey me, I'll have Nyx wish he died only twice. There you have it. Will you turn your back on Lydia to save the friend you left for dead, or will you take the noble path and save many at the cost of one life?"

"That's not fair!"

Elvawein laughed, stepping on a rune. It was amusing, but at the same time painful, to watch Silhouette shambling towards her.

"Before I forget," Elvawein mentioned as she pulled something from her pocket, flinging it towards the mage. "Take that as a token of goodwill. When you've made your decision, be sure to inform Iago."

Iago?

"I'll be looking forward to your reply."

"Elvawein!"

As the mage cried out, the woman disappeared, her body wearing away in a cascade of pale green glass. In time, all that was left of her was a shower of sparks, glittering into nonexistence.

Silhouette looked at what was thrown earlier, sensing a subtle enchantment upon the trinket.

It was a tin bell, and carefully engraved on its bead line was a name: Crimson.

28: Pains of Omission

"Children don't think about yesterday, and they don't think about tomorrow."

Jessalyn Gilsig

Vale cupped his hands and breathed. He hated winter. The season made him feel heavy and lethargic, as though his instincts rebelled against the change in the air.

He eyed the glint of a wire and smirked. Silhouette used that trick on him the first week. Did she think he couldn't get past it? Vale jumped over the line.

Too bad he neglected to spot the one right behind it.

A rune, embedded in a fountain, shot a snowball with such force that he staggered to the side.

He wiped the frost from his face, rubbing his stinging cheek. That was when he noticed a least a dozen other such wires on the way through that alley, and that he made a grave mistake in thinking today's lesson was going to be an easy one.

M

Crimson wiped crusts of blood from her patient's nose. Silhouette groaned into consciousness, staring at the cloth like an uninvited guest.

"Heron and the others couldn't get to you in time?" asked the priestess.

"It's not their place to come running when I get in trouble. And I never asked for their help."

"So I've noticed," Crimson responded dryly. "Sometimes I wonder if you know how to ask at all."

"It tends to slip my mind."

"Go lie back down. You need to get your bearings before I let you go."

Silhouette knew it proved foolhardy to argue. She settled against the pillow, figuring she might as well enjoy it.

Ekarius loomed over a desk in an adjoining area, skimming the contents of a book, when Crimson ducked beneath the curtain.

"She's become quite obedient," the elf noted.

"But her pride is unchanged." Crimson surveyed the shelves. "I get the feeling she'd sooner drop dead than ask for any kind of assistance."

"What's this?" he asked. "Finally taking a shine to her?"

The priestess hid the rising color of her cheeks. "Everyone has their good points."

After Silhouette met up with the others on the Isle, she showed them the bell she stumbled upon. It seemed strange that she would find such a thing, but no one questioned it after what they'd gone through.

Damian gave them all a good scolding. The guild was in an uproar over how Alyon left without notice. Things changed. Silhouette was given free run of the grounds. Ballard, an often-absent councilman, returned with Heron. There were reasons to trust the woman everyone initially dismissed.

But that didn't mean her skeptics vanished. Silhouette often went out at night to set up practical lessons for Vale, and the few times they trained indoors, it was either in the infirmary or their storeroom. She didn't want him to see what happened when he wasn't around.

There were a number of people in the Shadow Blades, with connections, still living in the city. Fewer, though still a fair number, had family that was killed during the Massacre of Hangman's Cross. It all began when some of these individuals found Silhouette and demanded retribution. Others joined in for the convenience of the excuse. It came as a surprise to everyone when she just stood there to accept the beating.

It was a common occurrence. Her behavior was reckless at best and suicidal at worst, worrying the few who cared.

"She's not our enemy."

"She's your friend." Ekarius smiled.

"I don't know if I'd go that far. I don't think she tries to push us away, but she's... unreachable, somehow."

"Here, the Guild War is only as real as the most recent gossip, but for her, it's different," he reasoned. "She's still in a battlefield. I doubt it will end with the fighting."

Crimson thought it over. There were people with legitimate reasons to hate Silhouette, but most who despised her did so because of what she represented. She stood for everything the Shadow Blades strived to put out of sight and out of mind. They grew comfortable in ignorance under Damian's policies as guildmaster, and it didn't help that the change in leadership coincided with the Massacre. It was as if it were her fault that they couldn't afford to remain blind. She was the War, the fighting, the death and destruction, and she was the blaring light in their darkened halls that many were keen on snuffing out.

The door in the other room flew open.

"You damned sadist!"

That accusation was met with laughter. Crimson was caught somewhere between a gasp and a giggle. Vale was a sight to behold.

The youth was covered in bruises, his skin taking on a bluish tint. The rims of his ears and the tip of his nose were a bright, rosy red as he stood, shivering.

"What the hell kind of lesson was that?" He stomped to the fire. "How to beat a man from fifty different angles?"

"Weren't you telling me the other day that it's gotten too easy for you?"

"Yeah." He glowered over the smoke. "I didn't ask you to make me run the bloody gauntlet."

"But you survived, and you're stronger for it."

"Barely," he grumbled, taking the blanket Crimson offered him. "If stronger means too sore to move for a week, then I'm bloody invincible."

The priestess pulled his hands towards herself, inspecting them.

"Well?" asked the mage.

"Well what?" Vale wondered, puzzled.

"No burns this time, and since your sleeves are soaked, I'd imagine you incinerated some of the snow before it actually hit you."

Some color returned to his cheeks. His shoulders bunched beneath the quilt. "Sorry," he apologized, turning to Silhouette. "You told me not to use magic."

She laughed at him, confusing the boy more. "If you feel that threatened, an order is the least of your concerns," she told him. "I'm glad you used magic. After all, this time it shows that you can control it in an unexpectedly dangerous situation."

"But I disobeyed you."

"Vale." She sighed, swinging her legs onto the floor. "What would you rather do? Die while following an order, or disobey it, take a punishment, and live tomorrow to fulfill another?"

When put that way, it really didn't seem like much of a choice.

"Ten laps around the guild."

"What?"

"You disobey, you get punished." She grinned over her shoulder. "It's part of the lesson."

Her student released a frustrated scream.

"Working him hard, eh?" Ballard leaned off a pillar in the hallway. He offered her a friendly bow of the head. "I heard there was another scuffle with some of the guild members. I'm sorry I wasn't there in time," he apologized.

"I'm in one piece," shrugged the mage. "No harm done."

"That's not what I heard. Broke your nose and dislocated both shoulders this time."

"It's still better than day one."

"They would've killed you if Damian got there any later," he protested. "Value your life a little more." He noticed the fact that her Shadow was missing. "Where's Faodrin?"

"With Damian," she replied, starting to walk. "Making modifications to his boat. Something about rudders. I couldn't follow that conversation for long before they lost me."

"Faodrin has been quite busy," he agreed.

"When he got a better look at the plumbing and gas lamps around here, do you know what he called it?" she asked. "A travesty. Right in front of the council. Should've seen their faces. You sure do take a lot of pride in this place."

"Long ago, we were some of the finest warriors from all corners of Dalani. This was a home for champions, and those who survived long enough to rise to the position of councilmen know that better than most."

"Look where it's gotten them."

"I don't expect you to understand."

"I do!" she insisted. "Really, Ballard. But look at it now. It's a home for refugees."

"One could argue that the Undercity has become the same since you came around."

She stopped to give him a wry look. "At least it has potential."

"And so it is the same here," he said. "Each person under our roof has the potential to be just as great, if not greater, than the old Shadow Blades."

Silhouette found that she couldn't argue, trapped by her own logic. Potential was nothing without time, and time moved much too quickly. She expected to see a firestorm of leaves when she looked out the window, but was surprised to find naked boughs limned with frost.

It was the dawn of winter in Lydia, a time accompanied by the struggle to hoard food, fortify shelter, and for general stress and misery. That was the first time she was able to sleep easy at night, without the fear of a raid or a dagger in the dark. The first time she could think in terms of tomorrows.

"How's Heron doing?"

"Well," he answered, "I can hardly believe he's back."

"If you honestly believed he was gone, you wouldn't have been searching for him all this time."

Ballard coughed. He had changed the most, by far, of all those she knew. He allowed his fiery hair to grow thick and full. There was also the matter of a beard, a puffy one that gave balance to his shallow face.

"I've known Heron all my life. I owed it to him to keep looking."

"I wonder if anyone looked for me."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Silhouette regretted them. She saw guilt flash across his face like lightning. Her mouth opened, but Ballard lifted a hand, showing such a sad smile that her heart constricted.

M

Silhouette poured the contents of a wine bottle into a pot. She set it on the tripod over the logs and dipped her fingers into a leather satchel, rummaging through a collection of spices.

Vale returned minutes later, beet red and breathing hard. He shut the door and fell flat on his face.

"I. Hate. You. So. Much."

"Don't be like that," she coaxed, pulling him in front of the fire. "Here, warm up," she said, pouring him a glass.

Vale sipped. Seconds later, it felt as though the numbness was melting off of him.

Silhouette threw him an additional blanket before taking a cup for herself. Their exhaustion turned to lethargy. By the time Vale finished his glass, he felt ready to fall asleep.

"Hey, Teacher?"

"Hmm?"

"I know about the beatings."

"I assumed as much," she replied, refilling her cup.

Vale stared, unable to see her reasoning. Silhouette was one of the most experienced mages in Lydia. Being a mage himself, he recognized just how much control went into her simplest spells.

"You can fight back, easy."

"It's not my place to do so."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. So scare them off a little. They'll stay off your back."

"I can say this," she said slowly. "Those that come at me once don't do it a second time. The dead can't be brought back, and a new victim, however guilty, changes nothing."

"So, what?" he wondered. "Are you going to let everyone in Lydia beat you to a bloody pulp?"

"If that's what it takes."

"If you're not going to defend yourself, why don't you let someone else do it for you?"

"Because," she answered with her continued calm, "once violence meets violence, it creates a cycle. Why?" She paused, giving him a wry look. "You offering?"

He turned his head away, part of him wondering what the hell he was thinking, and the other laughing at his own embarrassment. "Of course not, but what if I was?"

"The world doesn't operate on what ifs," she said. He could practically see the corners of her eyes crinkle at him.

"Yeah, but I do," he insisted.

Silhouette crossed her legs and tapped her foot in the air, pretending to be deep in thought.

"I'd be flattered, but I'd have to refuse. You're my student. My responsibility. And I care about you, Vale."

They heard the dinner bell. He stood up and moved towards the door. With his hand still on the knob, he looked back at his teacher. "Will you go this time?"

"Go on." She waved. "I'll be a little busy tonight. Are you old enough to put yourself to sleep?"

His face scrunched into a knot. Vale excused himself and headed to the mess hall.

Once again, Silhouette skipped out on a meal. He could guess why she never joined, though. The mage didn't want to ruin the atmosphere, and being surrounded by that many people would only invite trouble. Everyone was afraid of her, not knowing that she was more terrified of herself than they could ever be.

M

Shortly after Vale left, she pulled out the shirt she'd been working on. She just needed to finish the rim of the hood, and then it would be complete.

She looped a thread of light through the eye of a needle, weaving it in and out of the fabric. The clothes she'd worn under Daerin's and Yherod's care had become so thin that they were fraying everywhere. Fabric was not an easy thing to come by in Lydia, whose crops dealt more with edible harvests than luxury goods. Before the Guild War, the High City depended heavily upon trade to sate its taste for raw material.

Silhouette found the particular set of clothing in her room, courtesy of its long dead owner. They were made for a man, but some pins and scissors made for quick tailoring. Since then, Silhouette had been weaving a layer of light into the folds. It reflected the glow of the fire like a mirror when she turned it over.

A single thread demanded concentration in order to retain its shape, dimensions, and color. Multiplying it by the thousands rendered her unconscious. So if she couldn't call up such a spell on a whim, Silhouette decided to imbue it into what she wore. With some luck and effort, she'd be able to control the effects.

"Maybe someday, I'll be able to do it without you," she said, eyeing the shirt. Silhouette changed, taking a moment to relish the feel. She almost felt guilty at the comfort. The shirt had gloves, a hood, and a scarf sewn into it. Old Lydians were nothing if not practical, it seemed.

The mage glanced over the gloves, shimmering with threads. They turned invisible.

She smirked, taking one last sip of her drink, and stepped into the hallway.

A few guild members yawned against posts and columns, not one noticing her speed by. Previously, the slightest movement would dispel everything, but she could run, hop, slide past, and no one would be the wiser.

She was familiar with the space, the well-furnished atrium, and the bedroom behind it. She knew how the hinges squeaked when opened beyond a forty-degree angle, and how harsh the draft could get when the windows were left ajar.

Most importantly, she could see Alyon, though he couldn't see her.

He was scribbling at his work, which had been piling up since there was some stability in the city. She watched him flinch at the tip of the broken quill, reaching to grab a new one. He had horrendous penmanship, almost to the point where she wondered how he didn't get embarrassed just looking at it.

Silhouette couldn't count the nights she walked in his shadow, though she was often on a rooftop when he was on the ground, or navigating a railing as he strolled along a bridge. He walked for hours and she walked with him, entertaining the daydream of someday being able to reach out and hold his hand. The mage knelt, her arms on the edge of his desk.

He had a habit of holding his head in his palms. She wanted to slap them away. There was also the way his eyebrows knit together, like they were right then, that made her want to space her thumb between them. His lips, when focused on something, drew into a thin, slightly puckered line. Altogether, it was a funny expression. It brought a smile to her face.

Alyon was her heart. It hurt to be separated from him, but if she stayed, he could be lost forever. Elvawein didn't give her a choice on the Isle. She had given her an ultimatum.

"You know," she whispered, so quiet that the scratching of his pen drowned out the sound of her voice. "I'm right here."

He continued working.

"You, you have no idea how much I want to tell you." She sneaked behind him, reaching for the key on his ear. "I am Tera."

Alyon whipped around so fast that she barely got away. Silhouette held her breath.

"Is someone there?"

Something about his question struck her like a knife. She was standing right in front of him, and he was literally looking through her like she didn't exist.

She bolted from the room so fast that the door swung with a loud creak, causing Alyon to go to it.

Silhouette ran to the nearest bend. She threw her back against the wall, dispelling her invisibility. Her chest ached. She dropped her head into her arms and sank down to the floor.

M

Faodrin heard a noise, a buzzing in his ears the last several minutes. When he stopped to listen, he realized it sounded like the muffled cries of a little girl.

Sure enough, he heard it from the other side of the door.

He pushed it open to find Silhouette in a ball on her bed, looking more sad and pathetic than ever. She swaddled herself in blankets, bringing back memories of her childhood sulking.

Faodrin placed a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Leave me alone," she mumbled.

Please don't go, he heard in his mind. The Shadow plopped on the ground beside her.

"If you don't want to tell me what's the matter, then just think it."

Okay.

And Silhouette did tell him. When she was through, the Shadow was of a mind to march towards the clueless guildmaster and knock him over the head.

Her brother pulled down the edge of the blanket, revealing her red and puffy eyes. She covered them. They repeated the motions a few more times before she had the nerve to freeze the blanket over her head. He looked on for a minute.

Then, inevitably, she created an opening so she could breathe.

"If you're looking after him, that means you're an even bigger idiot," he couldn't resist pointing out.

"I know."

"So stop if it's hurting you. It isn't like he asked for your help."

I can't, came the thought. If I don't, I...

A series of images, more like sensations, flitted through. Faodrin gained an understanding from the weight of them. The fact that guarding Alyon was a need bordering addiction. A necessity she couldn't live without.

He knew she didn't say anything because she doubted he could help. It was an insult to his capability, but what angered him more was that her assessment was right. It wasn't a wound he could heal.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"You're dead because of me."

"Hey, hey..." Faodrin wrapped his arm around the blanketed bundle. "I told you already. It's not your fault."

"It is."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not!" He gave her a tight squeeze. "Listen up. I'm still here. No harm done. Nothing's changed."

"I killed you."

"Only as much as I killed myself." He tried to smile. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

She peeked through the air pocket she made earlier, reaching for his hand. It went through him. I did this to you. You're my Shadow now.

"You know, being a Shadow isn't bad." Faodrin took the opportunity to scoop her up. She wriggled furiously. They struggled until he finally managed to sit her on his lap. "If you're going to act like a child, you're going to be treated like one," he announced just as she opened her mouth to complain. "Now listen, you. Shadow-dom isn't terrible. I get to keep my eyes on you and I also get to know exactly what you're thinking. That way, when you start acting ass-backwards, I can fix you."

I'm sorry.

"Stop apologizing."

Sorry.

29: Beggar's Cairn

"Children are our most valuable natural resource."

Herbert Hoover

"Elliot, do me a favor and shut the windows, please."

He looked at the windows in question with a puzzled frown. "They're already closed."

"Really?"

"Why?" he wondered.

"No draft?"

"Of course there's a draft. This building is Gods only know how old."

Alyon scratched his bed-ridden hair, tired and a bit disturbed. "I could've sworn the door flew open last night."

The dark Shadow Blade raised a concerned eyebrow. Knowing the talents of various individuals under their roof, he wasn't ready to dismiss the possibility that Alyon wasn't alone.

"I could ask Crimson to scribe some wards on your door," he offered.

"No way!" Alyon shook his head. "The last thing I need is people starting to think I'm a paranoid lunatic. You've already increased my guard count when I'm on patrols. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"I would never presume such a thing." His voice dripped with mocking. "Though if I had my way, you'd stop going out on patrols entirely."

"You'd rather have me in a cage, is that it?"

"Only in an ideal world."

"You have no faith in your guildmaster."

"It's because I have faith that I want this guildmaster to live as long as he can," he disagreed. "There's one Tower left–Elvawein's. Our protection zone is expanding by the hour, and only a child would be stupid enough to face a lion backed into a corner."

"Oh, so now you're calling me stupid."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"So say what you do mean."

"We made progress. For the first time since this mess started, people actually think it might end. And that's because of you."

He snorted. "What is this 'progress' you speak of?"

"Like it or not, Alyon, you're a symbol. You want me to be blunt, so I'll go ahead and say it. You're proof that even a bastard like you can be someone. Prejudice is what got Lydia into this, and ironically, it's getting us out."

The truth stung.

Everyone's excuse for the War was the class discrepancy. Getting rid of the nobility only solved the problem in the short term. People found other reasons for resentment, be it the faction they belonged to or the manner they dressed. At best, it was petty. At worst, it reaffirmed a lack of faith in mankind. One would think Alyon would be happy knowing that their efforts were finally bearing fruit. Yet it was the bitterness of the harvest that bothered him. In his mind, they were only replacing one problem with another. Ending a war was one thing. Recovering was a different story.

People were too eager to spot faults and reluctant to give credit unless it was sorely overdue. One mistake and everyone would question his abilities, regardless of what Alyon had done for them in the past. It was a cruel game, politics. One where everyone wanted rights without responsibilities, and where he was damned in every direction.

"Here," said Elliot, tapping his finger on the document. "Today's work is pretty light."

"What is it?"

"A report from Beggar's Cairn. Something about hearing crying from the orphanage."

"The slums?" he asked. "Isn't that sector abandoned?"

"Therein lies the mystery. Do you want me to send a group to check it out?"

"No, I'll handle this one myself."

"After everything I just said?"

"Especially after everything you said." Alyon pulled on his boots. "I'll take Crimson and Silhouette with me."

"Silhouette?" Elliot sounded surprised. "Finally trust her?"

"It isn't as though she's done anything undeserving of it," he remarked, not seeing why his friend was so startled, or pleased, for that matter.

"She is the Ghostwalker. You were stuck on that detail the longest."

"Who wouldn't be?"

"You're dodging the point."

The two young men engaged in a staring competition. Alyon with his exhausted demeanor against Elliot's mild amusement.

"Names are things forced on us whether we like them or not," he said. "That was one of the first things Silhouette told me. I can't say I disagree."

"I've noticed." Elliot invited himself to Alyon's vacated seat, earning an annoyed glance. "The only time you don't agree is when she doesn't give you straight answers."

"I don't like it when secrets are kept from me. It's like waving a slab of meat above a starving dog."

"You're just angry she's better at avoiding questions than you are," Elliot snipped. Indeed, there was a measure of truth in it. "I have to say, she's doing better than you are in the verbal arena."

"That's only because I let her get away with it."

"Oh?"

"I... just have this feeling that she can be trusted." He hesitated. "She keeps to herself, but she doesn't go back on her word. I don't know. I get the impression that when I start delving in too deep, she draws a line I shouldn't cross."

"You don't have to respect that boundary."

"I typically don't," he agreed. Alyon slumped. "To be honest, the conversations we used to have are some of my best memories. She reminded me that there's a whole world outside Lydia. For a few hours each night, she gave me a place to escape to. Never called me a failure. Never had any expectations or demands. She treated me better than anyone did my whole life." Alyon looked at his lap with a tiny smile. "It's not like she told me to become guildmaster in exchange for her kindness. She had no reason to believe in me, but she did anyway. I wanted to repay her somehow, and this was the only way I could think of."

"Because nothing says thank you like declaring war on a homicidal necromancer."

Alyon laughed at that. "More like, as long as Lydia has one person like her in it, I think it's worth protecting."

Protecting. There was that word again, thought Elliot. It was strange how two very different people could be so much alike.

In some ways, Silhouette's existence was as important to Alyon as his was to her. Elliot took a moment to marvel at their bond. After years of separation in a war-torn place, beaten by scorn and hardship, their resonance survived. Alyon was terrible at remembering things, but it seemed the memories were in his heart all along.

M

"What are you doing tonight?" Vale asked, bursting with excitement. "Alyon hasn't been out since forever. Does it have to do with Elvawein?"

She squinted at him. "And I thought I had an overactive imagination."

"Hey, at least I don't go talking to things that aren't there."

Silhouette looked at Feyt. "Heard that? You aren't here."

The woman made a fist and planted a solid hit on the head of her host. Silhouette yelped and Vale took a step back, not sure about what just happened.

"So, where are you headed?"

"Beggar's Cairn."

"But it's abandoned."

Silhouette rolled her eyes. That's what everyone said since the Guild War started.

She knew someone was skulking around there. After all, there's no better place to hide from prying eyes than where there aren't any.

"If it was abandoned, then why would we go there?"

"Patrolling?"

"Is a patrol important enough for Alyon to tag along?"

The question stumped her pupil, who was much too nosy for his own good. "So why're you going?"

"To protect him, and serve as a guide."

"You've been there before?"

"I can think of maybe two other people that know Lydia better than I do," she answered, rolling up the rune scrolls and fastening them to her belt. "Yes, Vale, I've been there. You could say it's like a home to me."

"Isn't it dangerous?"

"I never said it was a pleasant home."

Her student regarded her with unabashed curiosity. "You never told me how you grew up."

"You never asked."

"I'm asking now."

"My mother died when I was young, and I lost my father shortly thereafter. Some things happened and I ended up under Daerin's roof, and then the Guild War started."

"Had any family, besides Faodrin, I mean?"

Her hand coiled around the locket beneath her shirt.

"A sister. Faodrin and I aren't related by blood, by the way. Daerin just threw me on his lap and we've been together ever since."

"I wouldn't have guessed that." Silhouette was untouchable, and it seemed strange to him that no one ever bothered to ask how she got that way. "What was it like growing up? Did you have any friends?"

"More like... guides. Heron. Ballard... Nyx." There was something resigned in the way she spoke the last name. "I rescued him from guild conscription years ago. Later, when Daerin's sanity was completely gone, he killed him."

"I'm so sorry."

Silhouette set a hand on his head. "I owe it to Nyx to get stronger. This way, I can protect others when it counts." She sat next to him. "And back in my days as Spiderlily, I met Alyon."

"Really?"

She put a finger to her lips, indicating it was a secret for the two of them. "He tracked me down while I was finishing a job. He went through all that trouble just to talk."

"Seriously? Who does that?"

Silhouette laughed. "He does! And we did. Afterwards, he decided he wouldn't tell anyone about meeting me."

"So he protected you?"

"Sure did." She looked at him. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"Yeah. He threw you in a cell. Everyone was afraid of him back then. He almost bit someone's head off for bumping into him."

"Let's just say I was pressing his buttons." She grinned. "Imagine my surprise when he told me where I could find him. Somehow or other, we ended up meeting almost every other night just to talk in a pub."

"Okay, now you're lying."

"I'm not," she insisted. "We were friends."

"Were?"

Feyt felt a little sting close to her heart. The mage lowered her eyes. "I don't have the right to call myself that anymore."

"I disagree."

She kissed him on the head. "Disagree all you want. I have to get going. Remember to lock the door after I leave."

He rubbed the place where her lips touched him, embarrassed. "I'm not a kid, you know!"

"Don't forget to brush your teeth!" she yelled as she left.

M

It was strange to see Crimson in something other than her robes. The short priestess fidgeted in the quilted gear, unused to it.

"I thought I ought to try something a bit more practical," she explained before Silhouette could ask. "It's difficult to walk the Rim in a dress, you know. Awfully drafty too."

"Got a weapon?"

"No. Will I need one?"

"Here," said the mage, summoning an ice shaft. It took the form of a short blade. "With some luck, you won't have to use it, but it never hurts to be prepared."

The cleric took the weapon. She held staves before, even the occasional crutch, but she never touched something created with the express intention to cause harm.

Crimson understood how out of place she looked, with her flaming red hair, bizarre markings glowing on her face, and foppish clothing. Silhouette just looked right with a weapon at her side by comparison.

"Umm, will this melt?" she wondered, weighing the sword in her hand.

"Would you like to keep it from now on?"

"Well, it'd be useful... I think."

"Hold it out for me then." The priestess watched Silhouette place her hands over the pommel. The weapon changed shape, growing thinner and longer, resulting in a staff.

"Why'd you change it?"

"I believe that people grow into their weapons," Silhouette replied. "I think your hands were made to heal people, not harm them."

"That's quite a gift," Ekarius cut in. "How about you imbue it? It doesn't need much power–don't want it shattering–but it's good practice to follow a flow of magic that isn't your own."

"What should we enchant it with?" Crimson asked.

Feyt curled her fingers under her chin. "Your strength rests within your supportive qualities. You could enable it to slow oncoming attacks, or store a reserve of power to heal in times of emergency."

"Or speed your movement," Ekarius added. "As for you, Silhouette, the only thing I think you could do is strengthen the staff."

The women faced each other.

"Place it on the ground," Feyt began. "Next, create a circuit with your hands. Bring your palms close without touching."

"Let your power surface. You should be able to feel a current running through you," Ekarius continued. "Test it. Send its raw state into one another. Eventually, it will reach a point of equilibrium."

Crimson shivered at the cool sensation that filled her. Her fingers grew numb from cold. Silhouette, likewise, became hyper-aware of her body. Time seemed to pass as a stream of molasses.

"When you feel a balance, concentrate on pouring it into the staff. Don't force it, and you should be fine."

They soon learned why Ekarius called it pouring, rather than directing. Hasty, ill-timed pulses were like splashing water from a pitcher, sending it flying everywhere except for the cup it was meant to enter.

"Open your eyes now."

The staff was unrecognizable. A strip of red and gold spiraled up its shaft, meeting at a cross on the top.

"It's beautiful!" Crimson squeaked.

"Well done," Ekarius praised them. "Especially for your first attempt."

"What should we call it?"

"Call it?" Silhouette balked.

"Aren't all magical weapons named?" she asked. "It says so in books."

What kind of books are those was the question Silhouette wanted to ask, but she wisely kept it to herself.

"How about... Yarrow?" the mage suggested.

"The plant?" Crimson looked down.

"It symbolizes healing."

"Healing," she repeated to herself. "Yarrow. Yarrow it is, then."

"Where did you get that from?" Alyon appeared behind a row of shrubbery. He eyed Crimson, taken aback at how childish she appeared out of her usual attire.

She puffed out her cheeks as if daring him to say something. To her detriment, it made her appear even more juvenile.

"We made it just now," Silhouette replied for the both of them. "I figured she should have a weapon, just in case."

"You didn't bring one?" Alyon asked Crimson.

"It's not every day that I go on patrol!"

"All the more reason to be prepared."

"Oh get off it."

The mage and guildmaster turned their amused looks to the ground. Why Crimson had such a complex about her appearance, they didn't know.

"So, might I ask where we're headed?" Silhouette changed the topic.

"It's a building on the east side. We got a report from there. Something about crying in the orphanage."

The color fell from Silhouette's face. "Do you know who filed it?"

He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, skimming the contents. "All it says is 'Nyx.'" He caught her tortured expression. "You know him?"

It wasn't so much a question as a demand for answers.

"He was my childhood friend."

"Was?"

"Do you remember the last time we spoke two years ago?"

"Yes."

"I said that I had an assignment the next day. It was Faodrin."

His eyes widened.

"Nyx was held hostage. I was placed under house arrest for a month. I watched Daerin kill him. Then the Massacre happened."

"He wound up a ghoul?"

"More," she murmured. "Elvawein took him in as a pet."

"Do you think this might be a trap?"

Truthfully, she didn't know. Nyx was familiar to her, but the extent of Elvawein's control over him was not. If a part of the boy she knew was still alive, he'd be kicking and screaming every step of the way, and yet...

She witnessed the woman's twisted nature firsthand. Elvawein played with lives like flameless matches, as though the idea that she could get burned was a joke.

"I think he's trying to give us a message."

"Or an ambush."

The way she didn't disagree with him worried Alyon greatly. She really didn't know.

The Silhouette who had always been three steps ahead of everyone else was walking blind, and the prince was startled by the revelation that he was relying on her more than anyone.

"The orphanage was special to us," she explained as they navigated their way down. "He was raised there. Right before the Guild War started, I told him to take the other children and go to the aqueducts."

"But the entrances–" Crimson started.

"Are sealed? I broke the locks on more than a few of them. Somewhere far beneath the surface is a place called the Undercity. It's home to the dwarves who helped build Lydia. Over the last twelve years, we've been smuggling children to keep them away from the fighting. The orphanage was a meeting point for those next in line to be taken."

Alyon's mouth formed a hard line. "My mother used to tell me stories about dwarves living underneath Lydia, but I never thought they were true."

"I've heard of it as well," Crimson interjected. "From Vale. He said that a man dropped by offering to take him and his friends while he still lived in the city proper."

"That... was Nyx."

M

Dozens of wisps chimed around the remains of the orphanage. Silhouette felt a knot rise in her throat. The orphanage had fallen to tragedy.

Alyon looked in through broken windows, waving her over after he deemed it safe. She opened the main door, cringing at the sound of breaking glass. Old toys lay strewn across the ground. Cots and rotting food were stockpiled in the corners. Broken beams and cobwebs leaned against the dusty remnants of children's books. A baby's shoe was in the middle of the space. Silhouette prodded the thin fabric, picturing a faceless child.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

The wisps followed them inside, illuminating the space with their chiming. The more the specks rang, the more they harmonized. Listening in, Alyon and Silhouette shared a glance and murmured, "They're crying."

The ringing solidified to form the sound of a wailing child. Wisps drifted back and forth over some rugs on the ground. Silhouette threw one aside. Both she and Alyon coughed at the dirt. An iron handle was left in plain sight.

"You'll stay up here, Crimson," Alyon instructed. "Keep a lookout and yell if you hear anyone coming."

She nodded.

The mage and the guildmaster shared an apprehensive look before he pulled it open.

If the dust, crying, and wisps weren't sufficient, the stench of iron was nearly enough to knock them off their feet. Silhouette gagged, bringing the collar of her shirt over her nose. Alyon followed her example and cast a quick look at the pitch-blackness.

"Ladies first?"

Silhouette frowned, listening for sounds of life. When she was convinced there was nothing below, the mage descended. Sticky wetness clung to the soles of her boots. Alyon followed after her, shuddering in disgust.

"What is this place?" he breathed.

"I had no idea it was here."

Silhouette pulled a thread of light from the air, expanding it until it formed a perfect ball in her hand. They stood frozen in horror.

The stickiness and the scent had all come from blood.

Remains were scattered, with innards smeared against walls. Nothing was recognizable, not even the fact that they were once human.

Most chilling was the message scrawled across the floor, using the insides as ink.

Choose.

That was when he felt the chill.

The light took a cyan tint. Cold air rolled off her skin in waves until fissures of ice ran through the blood splatter.

Alyon's eyes widened as he caught onto what was happening. "Silhouette! Stay in control!" he yelled.

To her, everything sounded like a far-off echo in the midst of wailing wisps. Their screams tore through her mind.

One eye turned white. Black veins stretched across her face like vines of living darkness. He swallowed hard before trying again. When calling her name didn't work, Alyon reached out to her shoulder. Pain seared through his arm like lightning.

The mage stilled all at once. She vomited before she could stop herself, and then caught sight of Alyon. His shirt was soaked through with blood.

Her hands trembled furiously. It was her duty to look after the children, to escort them, to save them. Even the stubborn ones she could've dragged to the aqueducts. Her softness was the end of them all. Silhouette didn't care if they hated her for the rest of their lives, but at least they would've been alive to hate her.

Children! Elvawein was killing the children!

Silhouette pushed him up the stairs and slammed the door to the hidden room shut.

"Crimson!" she cried out. The priestess came running. When she saw the wound, she set to work. Before she could ask what happened, Silhouette was already gone.

M

Silhouette stalked up to Iago. He caught her looking at the letters on his desk for a moment, and then at him. They were from Elvawein.

"I assume you've come to your decision?"

"Why did she slaughter the children?" she demanded, grabbing him by the collar. "Tell me!"

"Children aren't strong," he answered, unfazed. "Elvawein has no use for weak bodies in her numbers. Haven't you ever wondered why the guilds attempted to gather so many of them at the start of the War? Why you've hardly seen them, and why there are so few wisps in the city? They were used to create ghouls."

Silhouette spat in his face. The saliva ran down his cheek.

"They didn't do anything!"

"So?" That one word acted like a slap across the mage's face. "She needed the fragments of their souls to reanimate the dead, but their bodies were expendable. What you saw in the basement happened dozens, if not hundreds of times to children since the Guild War began."

Her knuckles went white, shaking against his neck. "She did this before?"

"It's not like you could've saved all of them, Ghostwalker," he said. "What Elvawein did was mercy compared to struggling their way through life."

"That's not the point!" she shrieked. "They should've been able to choose! They have the right to their own destiny, like anyone else!"

Iago chuckled. "You're such a bloody hypocrite, it makes me sick. You're the one who played into the hands of Feyt, and since then, you're forcing life on other brats. You're not doing it for them. You're doing it for yourself."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Yet what Iago said was factually correct. She released him, muttering under her breath.

"Pardon me?"

"Go to hell." The mage scraped her eyes from the floor. "You can tell Elvawein to go to hell with her offer, take you with her, and bring along anyone else who wants to believe her sick, twisted lies!"

Iago folded his hands on his lap as she stormed off. Elvawein had a nasty penchant for taking the truth and flinging it in people's faces.

In her attempt to save the city, she unwittingly signed the death warrant of Lydia and everyone in it. He just wished he could be there to see the look on her face as it burned.

30: By A Thread

"For me, I don't like it when there is too much interference in our lives. We're not children. It is our own life in our hands."

Eric Cantona

He couldn't feel, smell, or taste, but he could hear, and with his eyes, pools of pitch, he could see. It was what he heard and what he saw that haunted him.

Nyx hated himself more than he ever thought possible.

"Go to the orphanage," she said. "Silhouette is taking too long," she said. "How dull," she said.

He made the stupid mistake of asking exactly what it was she wanted him to do. Elvawein pretended to think, curling on the couch like a cat before flashing him a diminutive, evil little smile.

"Butcher them," she purred.

It was by infernal compulsion, a product of reanimation, that Nyx obeyed. He took a dozen Ravens with him and headed towards the gruesome task.

Ravens.

It was what a certain type of ghoul was called. Those who lost their sense of self and were nothing more than husks of rotting flesh, following orders with desperate, and devastating, efficiency.

Their namesake was a shortened form of the word "ravenous." The fact that it coincided with a bird of bad omen only added to the sad truth of their lives, existing to fill an insatiable emptiness. The Ravens reminded him of Daerin, and little by little, of himself as well.

Since they began spiriting children off the streets, many grew into fine men and women. Some decided to stay beneath the earth and help raise the little ones who took their places, but most chose to follow in Silhouette's footsteps, finding others to bring to safety.

Two of them were at the orphanage that night. It distressed Nyx that he couldn't remember their names. They were shocked by his approach, recognizing him faster than he did them. They didn't have time to think or speak before the Ravens set upon them.

He did his best to stay outside of the building, unable to stray far because of Elvawein's influence on his task. He covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, finding momentary relief at the discovery of a Shadow Blade patrol. Nyx filed a report, hoping, praying that Silhouette would find him.

And that she would kill him before he could do something like that again.

M

Yherod stared long and hard at the lights in the Undercity.

Heron, Faodrin, and Elliot sat at the table behind him. What's more, they came with an order from Silhouette.

"Move everyone to the Shadow Blades," she said.

It could only mean one thing: they'd been compromised.

Yherod swung around, at a loss. "Does Alyon know who she is?"

"It's only a matter of time before he finds out," said Elliot. "He knows about the Undercity, at least. He'll admit you into the guild without question."

"Why would he go so far on the word of a girl who tore up the High City he's meant to rule?"

"Because he trusts her," he answered again. "He just doesn't know why."

"An excuse, not a reason." The dwarf snorted. "Least his heart seems to have more sense than his fossil of a brain." He pointed at Faodrin. "You." Then Heron. "And you, come with me." Elliot rose to stand, but Yherod stared him back in his seat. "You stay. Continue to freeload until I say otherwise."

The dwarf spun around as soon as they were in the other room. "How serious are we talking here?"

Heron began, "You should leave immediately–"

"Not the kids, the girl! How serious of a condition is she in?"

"Any day now," the Shadow replied. "Ekarius put wards on her, but there's no way of telling how long they'll hold."

"Heldarien's ass," he swore. "Can you tell me what's going through her head?"

"She planned on giving Elvawein what she wanted, heading to her territory and turning Ghostwalker in her face."

Yherod was caught between a laugh and a growl. "And you yelled at her for it, right?"

"Lectured."

"Bah! You're too gentle."

"In her current state, I don't know how far I can go before finding her trigger. It's better to err on the side of caution."

"Bottom line," Heron cut in, "her priorities shifted. Protecting Alyon and the Undercity is secondary. Elvawein's termination is at the top of her list."

"She's planning on ending the Guild War," Yherod surmised.

"Using a power play," Heron added. "She's been making it loud and clear that Alyon has her under control, acting like he's the only one capable of it."

"A lot of people have thrown their full support behind him," Faodrin continued. "The worse she looks, the better he appears, and that unity is what she's betting on."

Yherod huffed. "She turned herself into his foil. Made him look too good to resist, but with something like this..." He thought it out. "It's risky. If they strike too soon, Elvawein will tear them apart. If they wait too long, people will lose faith."

They exchanged quiet looks. A plan like hers could only be accomplished with years of effort. It was miraculous that she managed to get the ball rolling, but since it came this far, they had no choice but to jump at the first chance they had. Everyone was waiting for Elvawein to snap that last nerve holding them back.

Faodrin began to lose the distinction between her thoughts and feelings, like colors of paint bleeding into the other's territory.

He looked back on all the times he wished she'd let him in, to know what was going through her head so he could make sense of it. But what he saw, he didn't like.

"What's wrong?" The question came as a whisper from the dwarf standing right next to him. It didn't register that he was supposed to answer until he saw his lips moving. "Is it her?"

Faodrin blinked through his daze. Silhouette's emotions were beginning to affect him.

"She's not going to stop until Elvawein's dead." He squeezed his eyes shut, looking for that little bit of familiarity, just a scrap of the girl he called 'little sister' within all the hatred. "She's scaring me. She's really scaring me, Yherod."

The dwarf's lips puckered. "Where is she now?" he asked Heron.

"In the city proper. She and Alyon are making rounds at every outpost to get people for the assault."

"Why isn't she sitting quietly where it's safe?"

"He stabilizes her," Faodrin cut in. "He suggested she come along because he knows she's not going to sit still, and it's better to have her where he can keep an eye on her."

"Boy isn't as useless as I thought," Yherod muttered. "Alright, it's settled. I'll uproot everyone. We'll be at Alyon's doorstep by nightfall. Just be sure to keep a close eye on Silhouette. We don't need another Massacre on our hands. Even if her body can take it, her conscience won't be able to handle it a second time."

M

"We need you to round up everyone you can and bring them straight to the guild."

The captain of the tier's outpost gawked at him. "You want us to abandon the city?"

"Momentarily," said Damian, joining the conversation. "We can't go after a mage surrounded by ghouls with just the students in our walls. If possible, we don't want anyone less than fifteen years fighting out there."

"Isn't that still a bit young?"

"Lydia is their home," said Alyon. "If they want to defend it, we have no place to deny them."

Their words had some effect, but he still wasn't persuaded. "Why don't you just throw the Ghostwalker in with her and let them take each other out?"

"Because we need her to take out the front lines," the sailor interjected, catching his son's uneasy expression. "As far as we know, Elvawein's only power is in the dead she surrounds herself with. Take them out first and we'll mitigate our losses."

The captain's face cleared of doubt. Through it all, Alyon resisted tucking his hands into his pockets, doing his best to seem capable and upright in the bitter wind, especially after that conversation.

He trusted Silhouette, whether he liked it or not. Everyone who had a face to tag to the name of Ghostwalker treated her like a beast. It irritated him, angered him, and confused him.

Alyon cast his eyes on the woman standing in the middle of the street, seeming both menacing and lonely.

"Are you alright?" Alyon asked.

"No." She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to contain something. "It's like hanging onto a ledge by your nails. I don't know how much longer I can hold on."

"Isn't that a little melodramatic?"

She pulled her hair away from her face, revealing one glowing eye with blackened vines stretching out from the white. They radiated darkness, keeping her expression in constant shadow. "It's not very pretty, is it?"

"Is that what the Ghostwalker State looks like up close?" Alyon wondered.

"If my whole body turns into this, yes. I'll do my best to ensure it doesn't come to that."

He wanted to assure her that it wouldn't, not as long as she was next to him, but Alyon found that he couldn't make that promise. Before the Massacre, he would've made such a vow gladly, but remembering the dread in his father's eyes made him realize that things was far beyond anything he could handle.

"Alyon," she said, "I want to go to the Shroud."

"Why?"

"It's familiar. I think I'll feel a little more stable if I see it."

"After everything that's happened there?"

"It's the closest thing I have to a home." She smiled ruefully.

"Alright, but my father's coming with you."

She didn't issue a complaint, which worried him. Everything worried him. Alyon watched until they were out of sight.

"Alyon?"

He spun around, expecting to see someone from the guild, but instead, he saw a face he didn't recognize. The man in front of him had his head down, enough to see his blue and cracked lips, but little else.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who has Silhouette's best interests at heart."

The would-be ruler rolled his eyes. "Seems to me, anyone involved with her doesn't know what it means to give a straight answer."

Though there was a hint of a threat in those words, Nyx couldn't help but smirk at them.

"What do you want?"

"Have you figured it out yet?" Nyx asked.

"What?"

"Who she is?"

"The Ghostwalker."

"Beyond that."

"Who are you that you'd care?" He started to get angry. "She's none of your concern."

The man flinched. "Fine. We'll play this your way. I'm Nyx."

"You." Alyon backed him against the nearest building. Nyx lifted his head, bringing his inky black eyes up with it. "Have her best interests at heart?" he repeated. "Do you know what the hell you've done?"

"I don't want to hear that from someone who doesn't know who she is!" he yelled back, taking Alyon by surprise. "You think I wanted to become a ghoul? You think I had a choice? What I did was nothing, nothing compared to what you've done through your ignorance."

"What are you going on about?"

"Ghostwalker, Ghostwalker!" Nyx exclaimed, shaking his head. "You all say the word like you know what it means. Someone that's free from the Threads, that has the power to influence destiny. How does a Ghostwalker get created, O' mighty guildmaster?"

"By crossing the Threads."

"Ahh..." Nyx was leading him on, angry, and hurt, and unable to keep the secret from boiling under the surface. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to defy a fate you don't know? One you're inclined to follow? For whose sake did she cross those Threads, Alyon? Have you ever bothered to ask? Whose fate is she so desperately trying to change?"

"Hers."

"Yours."

Alyon blinked at him, not following. Silhouette was a Ghostwalker for years. What Nyx was suggesting was impossible, yet there was something in the cruel and injured way he looked at him that made Alyon inclined to listen.

"No matter how many times someone kicked her down for being a mage, being a half-elf, being useless, it was your name she would cry out the loudest. Why do you think she began saving those children? Why do you think she walked these streets at night?" he demanded, grabbing onto the guildmaster's collar. "Long before she was Spiderlily, she fended off muggers stalking your back, misled anyone that would find a target in your neck, sent me to watch you and monitor your schedule when Daerin had her locked away. You, Alyon. Her life. My life. It was always about you."

Alyon tried to shake his fists off the front of his clothes. "Has being a ghoul robbed you of your sanity?"

"Time has clearly robbed you of your sense!" he shot back, refusing to let go. "Why do you think she tries so hard to keep a distance? Because you are the one person she cannot ever kill. You are the one she died protecting!"

They locked feral glares.

"Why are you here?" Alyon repeated, measured and calm, unwilling to let a ghoul get the better of him, no matter how well he knew Silhouette.

Nyx let go. "A method to undo the Ghostwalker State. It's a theory, but you should know it."

"Why should I trust anything you have to say?"

"For the same reason you trusted a woman you had every reason to kill."

"Talk."

"Darkness is not the absence of light. It will keep taking until there's nothing left." Nyx hoped that the advice he was about to give would get through to him. "You could say that a Ghostwalker goes through three stages before falling into it. First, they withdraw into themselves. Second, their personality begins to change, becoming meeker. Third, their physical strength seems to go away."

"This doesn't tell me anything I don't already know."

"If you've ever seen... sensed a Ghostwalker up close, you'd be able to feel it. That darkness devours her from the inside. She'll lose her ability to think, and then her mind. After that, she'll forfeit her body to the same power. Here's my solution," he concluded. "In the event she turns Ghostwalker, forcefully reinsert her memories. It'll give her enough of a shock to suppress it."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

Nyx narrowed his eyes. "Have you noticed her habit? She grabs a spot on her chest, right beside her heart. It glows. When she's consumed, that spot will shine brightest."

"So?"

"When that happens, reach for it. Again, this is all theory, but it's the only solution I have. And another thing, it has to be you. No one else will be able to do this."

"Why not?"

The ghoul glimpsed at the earring. "You're the key."

M

Damian never saw anything like it. People were climbing out of every sewer entrance they thought shut.

"This is the first time many will see sunlight," Feyt noted. "They're afraid of it."

"So am I."

"What?" asked the sailor.

"I'm afraid of the light," Silhouette repeated. "Strange, isn't it?"

"Most children I know are afraid of the dark."

"Ah yes," she breathed. "The dark. With stories of monsters waiting to steal you in your sleep. At least with the dark, you know what to expect and you stay on your guard. Light is dangerous. It plays tricks on you. It tells lies."

She sauntered over the next bridge, and the one after that, onto a lifeless rooftop garden. She looked appropriate among the fallen leaves and dead branches, things of great beauty warped by neglect and errant hands.

"It isn't as if the dark is all bad." Silhouette looked at the troops of children being ushered up the tiers. "We hide in it. The scared, the broken. The dark protects us. Heals us."

Feyt felt like she heard the words before. She said similar things centuries ago, back when hope guided her heart. Her feelings were becoming entwined with the mage, she realized. It almost felt like an out-of-body experience, as though she was looking at herself from a distance. It wasn't good. The distinction of Silhouette's personality was becoming blurred. Feyt could no longer tell whose words came out of her mouth, the thoughts behind them, or the emotions that followed.

"Silhouette, I know you're still in there. You're moving on your own." She hurried to catch up with her. When she reached out and grabbed her shoulder, it felt like someone did the same to her. Their connection was spilling over. "What are you up to really? Why act li– Argh!" She dropped to one knee, clutching her chest.

Pain?

She caught a glimpse of Silhouette's expression, filled with concentration. Her eyes widened. That was how she was still able to move.

She was redirecting the backlash onto her.

"Silhouette, stop," she groaned. "I can't follow you like this."

M

"Here we are," Damian announced. "The Shroud."

It was almost half a year since she last stood at the ruins. Dust and frost limned its battered frame. Silhouette paused at the dent in the road, marking her first steps as a Ghostwalker. There was no debris from her landing, only missing stones.

The mage struggled, robbed of her ability to comprehend all but the basest of thoughts.

"Silhouette?" Her eyes were glazed, regarding him as a stranger. Damian took a step back. "I... don't think this is a good idea. Let's get you out of here."

Her hand slipped into her pocket. She pulled out a crystalline ball. It was because of the motion that he missed her fling a shard of ice at a pipeline.

Hssst!

Steam filled the air. He coughed, dodging backwards.

"Dammit!" The sailor squinted, wondering why the girl hadn't moved from her spot. "You're going to get broiled!"

He dunked the arm of his shirt into a pool of chilled rainwater, thrusting forward to grab hold of the girl, but his hand fell through.

Damian heard a crack, and lifted his boot to find the remnants of the ball she was holding earlier. It occurred to him that Heron mentioned something about it–an ability to create a copy of the environment.

"Silhouette!" he called to no avail. He swore, rounding onto the next street. "Silhouette!"

M

"A little... farther."

Elliot furrowed his brow. "What?"

Faodrin slumped against the nearest wall. They ascended the fourth tier above Hangman's Cross, every step weighing down like lead.

"What?"

"You said something." He broke away from the tail of the group, eyeing the Shadow with concern. "Are you alright?"

This way.

He could hear Silhouette's voice; a whisper in his mind.

Down shaft.

"Faodrin?"

The Shadow waved him away. "Silhouette, where is she?"

"With Alyon."

"No, she's not."

"He wouldn't let her out of his sight!"

"She's not," Faodrin repeated. "She's trying to get somewhere."

Elliot made a face, looking back over his shoulder. "I'll run to the nearest outpost and see where Alyon is. He should know where she went."

"Thank you."

"Are you able to come along?"

Faodrin shook his head. "I'll only slow you down. Please, Elliot."

Hurry.

M

"I wonder if Teacher's okay."

Crimson rested a hand on Vale's shoulder. "Worried?"

"Yeah." His violet eyes were more distinct than ever in the graying world. "Lately, she's been sort of... restless."

Ekarius gazed upon the streets, uncertain what to make of them.

The days were strange, to be sure. Children were raised for the slaughter, the dead never stayed dead for long, heroes were hapless youths, and a villain deigned to save them all.

"She'll be fine," Crimson reassured him.

"I wouldn't be so sure." She looked at the Abbot, horrified. "One thing about time is that its effects can be healed, its perception altered, but never truly stopped. How much she has left, I can't say."

"Which tier did Alyon ask us to meet them at again?" Vale asked.

"Tier... fourteen."

"You seem distracted."

"It's... nothing, Vale." She forced a smile. "Come on. I'm sure Alyon has her close."

M

I'm sorry, Faodrin... Feyt... Damian... she thought. I'm so sorry.

Silhouette pressed her hands against the wall. She ran two streets and fell down the trash chute leading to the Undercity, relieved to find it deserted. It was the first time she noticed that the stalagmites hummed. Dozens of them whispered amongst each other, making her feel like an uninvited guest in their home.

Elvawein would come. She was sure of it.

She learned that the children were her weakness, which also meant that she knew where to find them. Silhouette had no way of telling whether she'd done the right thing by sending them off, but she hoped it would make a difference in the confrontation.

"You don't look so good."

Silhouette released a low growl at the illusion of her child-self.

Tera giggled. "Getting smarter, I see."

"Elvawein."

"I trust you don't need me to lead the way, yes?" she quizzed, motioning to a crack in the wall. "Let's go to the place where it all began. We have much to do and so little time."

The mage forced her feet forward. The torches went out as she passed them–an effect the madwoman set up for theatrics. "Tera" skipped ahead and embraced the skirt of the lunatic, seated on the stone table at the heart of the Core.

"I see you took some precautions," she announced, crossing her fingers beneath her chin. "You do realize you can't keep them from me forever?"

Silhouette flung a bolt of ice past her face, grazing her ear and cheek. Elvawein didn't move a muscle.

"I do so love that side of you. So ferocious."

"I'm soft, though," Tera interjected.

Elvawein cupped the illusion's face, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "So you are," crooned the witch. "I tried to protect you, you know. I tried to get you out of Daerin's hands in the very beginning."

"Really?"

"Why, yes. I did." Elvawein picked up the ghostly child and sat her on her lap. "But I was put under a spell, you see. I've yet to break free of it."

"Spell?"

"Enough," Silhouette ordered. "You're lying."

Elvawein glanced from the corner of her gemstone eye. She pulled a handful of objects from her pocket and flung them at the ground. Silhouette expected something dangerous, but they were only beads. Green beads.

"How did I know where Kendra's grave was? How did I know where the children were housed? How do I know abou–" She doubled over, coughing so hard that blood splattered on her hands. Elvawein broke into a strained laugh. A trail of tears made it through the soaked portion of her eye patch. Either she was telling the truth, or she was a very talented actress.

"What are they?" asked Elvawein, pointing at the beads. "What are they?!"

"Peridots?" asked Tera.

"No."

"Emeralds?"

"No."

But Silhouette knew, so she answered, "Jade."

"Yes," the illusion affirmed. "Jade."

A shiver ran down her spine at the sound of her younger voice saying that word, so much like a name. Did Elvawein know about that as well?

"You will only hurt everyone you will ever care about."

It was the prophecy that had started it all.

Oh.

"Jade," Silhouette repeated.

"The third Primordial," Elvawein croaked. "Absolution."

At that point, the illusion scattered. It literally scattered, as if blown into a thousand pieces, forcibly dispelled.

Elvawein breathed deep, raising her head as a different person. Her lips curled into a twisted smirk, dripping with venom.

"You've tried hard to be a good child. Let's try something a little different, hmm?"

The floor bloomed to life as a field of flowers sprung from the air.

Silhouette's eyes widened at the red garden, spider lilies all. Their petals began to drip what looked like dew, but turned to blood.

Silhouette felt the wrenching of a monster within.

Elvawein flashed a victorious smile. The girl was so distracted that she failed to notice the Ravens behind her. One threw her so hard that she grazed her side against the carved floor. The second pulled her up by the hair and slammed her face into the table at the heart of the room.

"Like mother, like daughter."

It was sad to watch her fight back when she had to devote her strength to an internal struggle. Silhouette flung her arms in clumsy, wide motions. She was pinned to the dais in a matter of seconds, her arms fastened at her sides.

Her lips smoldered like coals and embers. Half her face was as black and wet as ink. Tendrils of hair were turning gray, and her eyes, irises and all, had become a ghastly, glowing white.

31: Saving Silhouette

"Where does discipline end? Where does cruelty begin? Somewhere between these, thousands of children inhabit a voiceless hell."

Francois Mauriac

Alyon didn't know what to do. Nyx knew that dying a second time would be the end for him. Pressed flat against the wall, he showed no signs of fear or resignation. There was just anger.

"Alyon?" Elliot's voice interrupted his thoughts. He saw Vale and Crimson approach as well, wary at the sight of him.

"What's going on?"

"Faodrin, he... said something was wrong." Elliot cast Nyx a curious glance. "He says that Silhouette is alone."

"She's with my father."

"Not anymore."

They blanched at Damian's approach.

"Where is she?" asked Alyon.

"Began to act strange," he breathed. "Tricked me. Ran off."

"Where!"

"The only place she could go." Nyx drew all eyes on him. "The Core."

The earth rumbled beneath their feet.

"What's happening?" Alyon gripped him tighter.

"Elvawein knew she'd come find her." He raised his eyes. "Silhouette ordered the Undercity evacuated to set a stage for the two of them. That's always been a fault of hers–honor, I mean. But Elvawein didn't go there alone."

"Are you telling me she walked into an ambush?"

"Knowingly," Nyx affirmed. "To protect you."

"I didn't ask for this kind of protection!"

Elliot pulled him by the shoulder. "This isn't the time, Alyon. We've got a Ghostwalker on the loose."

"Lasted almost ten minutes last time," said Damian. "I'm not sure how long we'll have to hold out until it ends."

"How does it end?" asked Vale. No one gave him an answer.

"People die," Crimson spoke. "It's likely that one of them will be Silhouette."

"But she survived it the first time!"

"A fluke," Damian cut in.

"She's still fighting." Again, everyone looked at Nyx. "I can sense it. She's trying to remember."

Elliot closed the space between them. "Remember what?"

"Anything. As long as she's searching, you still have a chance at saving her. But that's just the thing." He stared at Alyon. "Are you willing to risk your life, knowing that if you fail, the Guild War goes on? Or will she die so you can salvage the High City?"

"Alyon, what is he talking about?" his father asked, reaching for his shoulder.

"Don't listen to him," Vale pleaded.

"It's likely a trap," said Elliot.

Crimson wrung her hands. "But if he doesn't go, won't Silhouette die?"

"She would've died in the fighting or after a trial," Elliot pointed out. "Silhouette chose the time. I say we respect that decision."

Alyon thought amidst the bickering. Silhouette's death was all but set in stone. If she died and took Elvawein out in the process, it could be taken as a boon, but what Nyx said bothered him. Why was he important? How did he fit into all this?

Only you have the right to kill me, she told him on the Isle. Only you can give me permission to die.

"What's the fastest way down?"

"Alyon?"

The prince ignored everyone but Nyx, waiting for an answer. He wouldn't allow it. Not yet.

M

A shiver of fear ran down her spine. Elvawein shook with anticipation. This was the power that so captivated her attention. The only thing capable of cutting the Threads once and for all.

The ability to deny existence.

She stood beside a rune of space-shifting, curiosity rooting her as all other senses screamed to get away.

Dark smoke rolled off her skin. It was as if layers of a human shell were being peeled away, leaving an incorporeal husk behind. Elvawein called the Ghostwalkers Gods, but the opposite was more appropriate. Perhaps the greatest flaw of any deity was that they could only create. Even while destroying, they created: massive disasters, champions of their cause, vile monstrosities.

The Ghostwalker was none of that. It was nothingness in feral form. Already, Elvawein could see the table becoming smaller as layers of stone disappeared, with no trace of rubble or dramatic display.

Then, all at once, it moved.

Elvawein was lucky. She didn't expect it to leap so far, so fast. The rune activated just in time to spirit her to the safety of her Tower. She touched the side of her face where the Ghostwalker managed to tear through her eye patch. Laughter bubbled at the trail of blood.

M

The earth quaked beneath their feet.

"What's going on?" Alyon demanded, narrowly dodging a potted plant that fell from a second-story window. Nyx clutched a lamppost until the vibrations came to a reasonable level.

"Elvawein must've gone back to the Tower. Silhouette's looking for her."

"How'd she get back?"

"Space-shifting rune."

Alyon fought to keep up with the ghoul in front of him, dodging falling banners, laundry, and rubble in his way.

"I don't see why she has to bring down the city for a woman that teleported out of her range!" he exclaimed.

"As a Ghostwalker, she's not that bright. It might be the only weakness you have to exploit."

"Me? I thought we were in this together!"

"And have Elvawein break my neck when I go back? I don't think so!" he puffed. "I'll lead the way, but you're on your own."

"The hell he is!" Elliot called out, sliding down the streets.

Crimson seemingly appeared from thin air beside him. "We're not leaving you, Alyon."

The ground rumbled a second time. "Watch out!" Elliot cried, spotting a timber column looming over their heads. The lumber combusted into flame before any of them could react, falling in a shower of embers.

They looked over their shoulders to spot Vale chasing at their heels.

"What the hell are you here for?" Alyon wondered when he reached them.

"Because I give a damn!"

"Do you realize how dangerous this is?"

"Can't be more dangerous than living with her."

Nyx snorted at that comment. "My advice, Your Highness? You'll need every mage you can get. If a Ghostwalker gets within melee range, you're dead."

"You want me to get in her range, though."

"It's a question of timing," said Nyx. "Strike her before she strikes you. I should also mention she moves abnormally fast."

Elliot gawked at him. "Then how do you expect him to do that?"

"I might be able to slow her down," Crimson offered. "Our priority is to protect Alyon, but if there's a way to save Silhouette, I'm willing to try."

While they deliberated, Nyx paused at the steps to the next tier. He attempted to remember the layout of the Core. If Silhouette knocked down those walls already...

"Grab something!" he shouted. Everyone scattered to the nearest buildings, clinging to bars, the heads of fountains, a railing down a staircase. This quake was different from the ones before in that the ground literally slid away from their feet. Crimson let out a terrified shriek. Elliot ducked as the glass broke free from a window over his head.

The streets were sucked downwards. Alyon listened to the sound of horrified Lydians screaming throughout the High City as their homes were eaten into the earth. He couldn't hear his own thoughts above the sound of crushing stone and collapsing frames.

And then it came. The soul-piercing screech filled with rage and desperation, freezing everyone with fear.

M

"Feyt!" Faodrin wheezed. "Feyt!"

He spotted the blackened elf, fallen in the middle of a rooftop garden. The Shadow managed to block Silhouette's thoughts, retaining his ability to function. It appeared that Feyt wasn't as lucky.

"This is not a good day for me," he muttered, using his voice to distract himself from reality–how his hands were shaking. How the heart of the High City was a bed of stones and early graves. "Come on, Feyt," he urged, slapping her cheeks. "Tell me how to fix this."

She groaned. "Where is–"

"Hangman's Cross."

"How long?"

"Three minutes? Four?" he guessed.

"Six minutes left." Feyt coughed. "I can't hear her in my mind anymore."

"Can you sense her?"

"Minimally. It's best I don't. The pain is immobilizing."

The Shadow shivered at the destruction the Ghostwalker, the little girl he cherished and raised, just caused. So much of him was in disbelief. Everything else was in mourning. "How do we save her?"

"I don't know."

"How do we stop her?"

"We don't."

"What?"

"She either stops herself or she dies."

He grabbed the aberration by her shoulders. For the first time in years, something resembling fear shone in her colorless eyes.

"What do you mean you don't know? You must know something! You've been doing this for how many years and you haven't managed to save one Ghostwalker?"

Feyt pushed him away. "If I'd succeeded with any Ghostwalker, I'd never have made her one."

"Dammit," he swore. "Dammit!"

M

"Yherod, I need to go," said Ivane.

"No, I need to go!" he growled, slinging his hammer across his back.

"You saw her body last time, Yherod," she reasoned with him. "She'll need a healer."

"Then who'll watch the children?"

An older group of wards pointed to themselves. "We'll do it."

"Hmph! Do you know how dangerous it is street-side?" the dwarf demanded.

"We're not children anymore, grumpy dwarf." A girl smirked. "We'll watch the little ones." A worried shadow fell over her face as she scanned the city below them. "Go, Yherod, Ivane. She doesn't have much time."

A man veered his head at the crowd climbing towards the Rim. "All decent mages, go to Hangman's Cross! Half-assed ones too! You got a Ghostwalker to save!"

Yherod's mouth flapped, but Ivane grabbed him by the wrist and started charging down the steps.

"W-who gave them permission?!" he stammered. "No one orders a dwarf!"

A boy, taking advantage of his longer legs, surpassed Yherod. He flashed him a broad smile as he and several others took the lead.

"We're not kids anymore!"

"Can't let you have all the glory!"

Ivane shook her head at the audacity of youth. She laughed at her cousin's face, a cross between pride and scandal.

"Who gave them permission?" he repeated.

They weren't supposed to grow up.

M

Hangman's Cross had become a wasteland of rock and flooding water. Everyone's eyes locked on a patch of still-shifting rubble. What crawled out from the earth was clearly not of it. It appeared human, but hunched. Its legs were bent, with feet resembling those of a large cat. Then there was the arm. Large and misshapen, the Ghostwalker's right arm was significantly longer than the other, with its hand at least five times the size of its counterpart, the fingers like blades, ending in tips rather than nails. Ringlets of gray smoke stretched from its head in a poor imitation of hair. Everywhere the creature stood, the ground eroded into nothingness. It kept climbing to prevent it from falling deeper into the chasm from which it came.

"Why isn't it moving?" asked Vale.

No one could answer.

The Ghostwalker's student zeroed in on the bright red splotches on the ground. It was clear to him that their surroundings weren't the only things being eaten away. Silhouette was being consumed as well.

A sphere of flame charred the spot beneath it, causing the creature to roar.

"What the hell are you doing!" Elliot demanded.

"Anything." Vale brushed the dirt off his pants.

Damian grabbed his arm. "You're going to get killed out there."

"If I don't, then she will too!"

"I'll go with you," Crimson said. "The closer I am, the easier it is to stop the flow of time."

"I'm not so certain," Ekarius cut in. "A Ghostwalker unravels existence. If our universe was never created, then time holds no bearing in it."

Nyx leveled his eyes on the guildmaster next to him. "Remember what I told you. Reach for the spot that shines brightest."

"Got it."

"We're all going to die." Elliot groaned.

The Ghostwalker released another shriek, searching for the source of Vale's blast. The pyromancer unleashed another one farther off, drawing it away from their line of sight.

Then there was another, and another.

"How are you doing that?" Alyon wondered.

"He didn't," said Damian, pointing at the opposite end of the Cross. "They did."

Other people took Vale's queue and began to fling spells in the Ghostwalker's vicinity, sending it into a blind rage. Alyon noticed that none of them were actually aiming at the creature.

"They're from the Undercity!" Nyx exclaimed. "I see Yherod and Ivane bringing up the back. If you're going to have any chance of saving Silhouette, then it's going to be in the next few minutes. Go!"

He shoved him forward, sending the guildmaster stumbling through the wreckage. Crimson and Vale bolted, the short priestess hopping on fallen rocks to keep up.

The Ghostwalker had a large mouth composed of pointed teeth, stretching up to where Silhouette's cheeks would meet her jaw. Its eyes were slanted, glowing a fierce white. The way its maw flapped gave the distinct impression that it was laughing, flaunting a gruesome smile at anyone who'd look.

How could he grab its attention when so many mages sent it running in circles? He didn't have magic. He didn't have any supernatural or particularly redeeming qualities. He could hold his own in an average fight, but there was nothing average about the one he currently found himself. He stretched his neck over his shoulder to find Nyx sneering at him, and then he realized why.

Aw hell, he thought. I'm bait.

"Hey, Ghostwalker!" His cheeks burned. Alyon swore he'd get back at the ghoul for reducing him to this. "Over here!"

The only thing more humiliating than calling out to the most dangerous creature alive was being ignored by it.

"Silhouette?" He began to get impatient, shaking at the stupidity of the plan. "Silhouette!"

"Try Tera!" Faodrin shouted, startling him.

"Bu–"

"Just do it!"

"Tera!"

The Ghostwalker reared its head. Faodrin grabbed Alyon's hair and angled his head to the side.

"Key!"

The creature unleashed a low growl, ignoring the others' haphazard attacks. Alyon pushed away from the Shadow. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"Yeah. You're welcome," he breathed.

"She'll kill you."

"I'm about as dead as it gets. I'm willing to take my chances here. Got a plan?"

"Sort of."

The response was met with a sour glare. The Ghostwalker dove forward. It halted. Crimson shrieked.

Whatever temporal field she set didn't do anything to stop the advance. Its misshapen hand swatted towards them. Alyon and Faodrin dodged in opposite directions.

It regained its footing, hissing at him. Alyon froze at a very deliberate, chilling smile. He used the time it regarded him to take a look at the shining spot Nyx spoke of, like a stone in the place above its heart.

The Ghostwalker struck twice, and he was barely able to step back in time. Alyon backed away and stumbled, swearing at the rubble. The creature made a sound similar to the hissing of a steam vent. It took him a second to register that it was laughing.

Red blots soaked through the fabric of his pants as it hunched over him.

His hand picked up something cold and cylindrical. A metal pipe. He swung it as hard as he could.

The middle section disintegrated the instant it came in contact. A piece of it bounced off in the distance.

It hit him then. No matter how hard he struck out, no matter what he used, it'd be worthless. It wasn't a fight against a berserk mage. He was literally staring Death in its face.

"Don't space out!" Faodrin yelled.

To his amazement, the Shadow physically latched his arms under the Ghostwalker, holding it back. It unleashed an animalistic roar.

"I can't... last!" He strained.

If ever there was a time to reach, it was then, but with the creature flailing so wildly, he could lose his hand.

It screamed again. A sound that oddly resembled crying. Blood splattered on the earth.

Alyon found an opening. He lunged.

M

Blackness fell from its skin like raindrops, disappearing into smoke upon hitting the ground. Silhouette crumpled in Faodrin's arms.

Patches of skin were missing like the moth-eaten sections of a blanket. What remained was heavily bruised and hemorrhaging. The two healers worked to stop the bleeding.

He picked up the locket that had fallen at his feet.

32: Kill Me Softly

"Your children need your presence more than your presents."

Jesse Jackson

Elvawein destroyed the High City. Silhouette tried to stop her, but was mortally wounded. That was what Alyon told them.

Any would-be assassin would think twice about going after her now, thought Alyon. All the while, Nyx's words replayed in his head like a broken record.

For whose sake did she cross those Threads, Alyon? Have you ever bothered to ask? Whose fate is she so desperately trying to change?

Yours.

Damian curled his fingers within the council room, tracing the cracks on the surface of his hands.

In those lines, he could see the years that slipped past the folds.

"You knew the whole time."

He looked up in time to see his son closing the doors. Damian expected to find anger, but his green eyes showed none.

"I did."

Alyon dragged a chair across the room. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing.

"How is she?" asked Damian.

"Stable."

"Will she wake up soon?"

"No idea."

"Why?"

"The way Ivane put it," he said, "was that even if she wakes up, there's no telling if she'll function."

Alyon jumped a little at the hand that squeezed his shoulder.

His father gave him a reassuring smile. "She's always returned to your side. She'll do it again."

His eyes watered.

Damian leaned over and pulled his son into his arms. "Leave guild matters to me for tonight. Stay with her."

M

One night turned into one day. One day became two, and then three.

Crimson shut the window as the sun disappeared from day four. The priestess lifted a tray of food and headed towards her room. She knocked on the doorframe.

"Alyon?" She stuck her head in. "Dinner's here."

He sat hunched over a book, the locket tucked into his fist. He reacted as though he'd heard her for the first time. "Sorry," he apologized.

Crimson gave the tray to him. "There's only one bowl today."

They looked at their patient. She rested against a mound of pillows, layered beneath colorful quilts. They stood in stark contrast to her deathly complexion, so much like a doll in sleep that it seemed she wasn't real.

"The cook said if she wants food, then she'll have to ask for it. With all the new refugees, we can't afford to waste anything."

"Rations were instated?"

"They had to be, Alyon," she answered apologetically. "We have a lot of growing children to account for now. It's a wonder they had enough food down there to last this long."

"She found a way." He moved a lock of hair away from her eyes. "She always does."

M

The more he looked, the more he wondered why he didn't see it. Her face, her hair, her lips, her skin. She spent her life watching over him, listening to his complaints, chasing off his demons. Whether it was with magic or with her presence, she protected him.

"I'm not worth it," he whispered into his palms.

"I beg... to differ."

A cranky mage blinked the crust away from her eyes, adjusting to the light. They trailed over his face, down his arms, and finally at the locket sitting in the palm of his hand.

"Oh boy."

"Why?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "I need to know why, T–"

"Don't," she stopped him. "She died in Riverstone."

"Then how am I looking at her?" His voice softened. "Tell me."

She glanced, uncomfortable. "Where her life ended, mine began."

"In order to become a Ghostwalker, you had to have defied Fate in some way." He rubbed his forehead. "We were children. What the hell did you die for?"

"A promise."

He blinked, not quite understanding. She clenched fistfuls of blanket, scared of the conversation that she never thought she'd live long enough to have.

"I promised I'd protect you."

Something clicked. "You're joking." She flinched. "You're serious." He stood and paced the side of her bed. "That's it? That is what was so important that you died to become this?"

"I didn't know I'd–"

"You died because of a promise you made when you were six years old. You took on a ghost of some psychotic elf–"

"She's n–"

"A ghost that turns you into some kind of... destructive... thing. Stalked me, committed mass homicide, and now you're trying to tell me you did it for some stupid promise!"

"It's not stupid." Trembling arms betrayed her voice. "So many times," she said, "that stupid promise kept me going. In Riverstone, you called yourself a bastard for being a half-breed in the caste system, but try being a half-elf for a day. Try being a Ghostwalker." She glared. "Try living with the fact that your existence is an abomination and that nature itself will kill you for it. A Ghostwalker is the one thing in this world that doesn't have a right to live. That stupid promise was my–"

She swallowed at a lump in her throat. Her eyes shined so brightly that he was taken aback at the sight of them. He saw bits and pieces of the Tera he knew, along with the darkness that seemed to follow Silhouette everywhere she went. She had the look of someone with no other hope in the world, as if waiting for him to reach out and pull her in from a storm.

"I wish... I could tell you that you didn't waste your time, but the truth is I'm not someone worth this much... devotion. I never was, and I never will be."

"Look around you, Alyon," she motioned. "Look at all the people you've brought together. Under your father's lead, this guild was a glorified shelter, but you gave them a purpose. Look me in the eyes and tell me that this isn't worth it."

He knelt on the mattress and cupped her chin.

"You did this. The Frozen Mirage, the encouragement. You opened me up to the idea that I could be someone. If you hadn't, then I'd still be some pathetic kid trying to dodge his parent's footsteps."

"That's not true."

"It is!" He released her. "Do you see what you've turned into? The Tera I knew was always smiling, laughing! You, you..." His voice trailed off, realizing he said the wrong thing. "I feel responsible. I should've known it was you."

"It's not your fault, Alyon."

"I never asked you to sacrifice so much for me."

"What sacrifice?"

The fact that she had the nerve to ask shocked him. He was struck by a revelation.

She was damaged.

"You don't hold any value for your life." The truth numbed. "You never ask for help, and you're willing to throw everything away for a child's promise."

"So?"

That simple word broke his heart in so many ways he couldn't begin to explain it. It was the difference between Tera and Silhouette. The woman was a pale imitation of the girl she used to be. It mattered little if she was stronger or smarter or wiser. If she no longer placed value in her life, she may as well be dead.

"Alyon?"

He tossed the locket on her lap. "I'll make arrangements for someone to escort you to Damian's ship tomorrow evening."

"When will I be back?"

"You won't." He couldn't bear to look at her. "The Guild War ends for you tomorrow. I'm sending you back to Riverstone." Alyon expected her to scream at him, throw her pillows, or shake her fist. Instead, she smiled as she watched him walk away. "Goodbye."

M

He was gone.

It felt like a weight was steadily pressing against her chest. Her smile faded. The locket sat on the covers like a chunk of lead. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, bit her lip, and begged herself not to fall apart.

Only you can give me permission to die, she'd said.

"Goodbye."

With that word, he killed her.

33: The Worst Betrayal

"We have for a long time neglected our children."

Dada Vaswani

She placed the blankets and pillows into their cabinets, swept the floor, and straightened the room. Ivane handed her a thick set of clothes. Alyon confiscated her gear. Silhouette replayed Ivane's conversation in her head.

"You're just going to leave without saying anything?"

"It's how I came to Lydia. I'll leave the same way."

"What about that cleric? Or that pupil of yours? Don't you think they deserve some kind of explanation?"

"That's Alyon's prerogative. I'm not going to cause trouble for him anymore."

She didn't remember much after that, just a crippling hug and a few words of comfort that fell on deafened ears.

"Your life can become more peaceful now," Feyt offered, trying to lighten the mood. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"I'll unravel the Threads and then think about peace."

"You're going to Riverstone, though."

"No." Silhouette lowered her eyes to the floor. "Alyon just wants me out of Lydia. That I can do, but I won't be going to Riverstone."

"Then where?" Feyt asked. "Dalani is a large continent. Do you plan on going to Taerinval? Isoviel?"

"I don't know, Feyt. Please don't ask me. I don't know."

"Are you just going to let her run free?"

"Who?"

"Elvawein."

Silhouette stopped. Her memories within the Core were fragmented, but she recalled being slammed into a table, and green beads rolling across the floor, and...

"The third Primordial," she murmured. "Absolution. Does it mean something to you?"

"Where in the world did you–"

"Don't you dare try to evade the question."

The specter hesitated. "As you know, magic comes in three base categories. Primordial contains Light and Darkness. You can perceive that as substance and absence. The Third Primordial was a theory and never truly realized. You could say that if it did exist, then it'd be a violation of every natural law."

"Like the Ghostwalkers?"

"Like the Ghostwalkers."

"What is Absolution?"

"The ability to override free will."

"Then why call it something that means freedom?"

"Because it's the only form of magic that can be used to directly counteract the Threads. If you force someone off their intended destiny, then they will be freed from it."

"But they'll die."

"Correct." Feyt sighed. "I can't free my soul from the blade it was sealed in, but my essence can be redirected into my host. This enables you to use my powers. I am as much your anchor to life as you are my vessel in it."

"Then how do you explain Faodrin?"

"The bonds tying you two were close enough at the time of his death that he latched onto your essence."

"Which explains how he was able to hold me back in Hangman's Cross."

"Yes. He's an extension of your magic, thus it has no effect on him. Now answer me, why did Elvawein mention Absolution?"

Silhouette folded her arms, leaning against the wall. "I think she's innocent."

"What?"

"Someone's controlling her. I think I may know who. It's the how and why that bothers me."

"An Absolution mage?"

"I'm not sure." She shook her head. "She's a seer, though. A powerful one. But she shouldn't be anywhere near here."

"Who is she? What makes you suspect that she's controlling Elvawein?"

"I–"

"And to think, you were here all along." Silhouette craned her neck to see Iago approach. "I've been waiting since sundown."

"I don't have any business with you."

"Didn't Alyon say that you were going to be escorted by a guild member?" he wondered. "I happened to volunteer."

"Volunteer? You?" she asked. "Consider yourself lucky I didn't tell Alyon what you've been up to."

"Let's not delude ourselves." He motioned for her to follow. "You were afraid something would happen to him if he got involved. Though now, I suppose I have reason to be concerned. He threw you away. You no longer have a reason to protect him." The wound was much too fresh on her heart. He could see the pain on her face, clear as day. Iago smirked. "Oh, I'm sorry. Too soon?"

"Shut up and keep walking," she snapped at him. "Why the new leaf? What's Elvawein plotting?"

"That's of no concern to an outsider like yourself."

He loved the way she flinched when he stressed her pariah status. The suffering look suited the unwitting martyr.

They made it out of the guild and into the woods of the Rim.

"Why serve her at all?" she asked him outside. "I heard it from Alyon years ago. You lost your parents to guards and were taken in just before the Guild War started. The Shadow Blades gave you a home. Why are you trying to tear it apart?"

He didn't expect her to know that. Whatever surprise showed on his face quickly faded into nonchalance. "You're overthinking it, mage. It's just my aesthetics."

"Aesthetics?"

"Perfection frustrates me. The only thing more beautiful than throwing a wrench into a machine is being that wrench." He thought it over. "A prince wins over his broken people, reclaims his throne, and is celebrated for generations to come. Bleh, makes me sick just thinking about it. But you, now, you changed the game." He shot her an appreciative glance. "An assassin is loose in the city, backing a useless prince into a corner. I was rather hoping you'd murder him."

"You're sick."

"Funny how quick people are to call you crazy when your ideas deviate from the norm. I expected you of all people to understand that."

"Do you realize that people are being slaughtered because you're aiding that woman?"

"You are the last person permitted to talk about slaughter." He snickered. His eyes trailed down to the locket hanging over her heart. Iago took a step forward and tore it off. The weak chain snapped easily. "You're not worthy of wearing this anymore."

"Give it back."

"No."

She summoned an icicle. "Give. It. Back."

"Make me."

Silhouette jumped at him. At the last possible moment, Iago turned to the side and threw the locket at the nearest tree. The ice buried into his thigh. He gasped at the surge of pain. The mage breathed heavily, marching towards the necklace, but it was picked up by a female hand.

She looked up, surprised to see a ghoul. Small fingers clutched her apron. A child peered around her skirt.

"Well done, Isabelle."

Other ghouls with young children stepped out from behind the trees, regarding the mage fearfully.

"What is this?"

"Insurance." He struggled back onto his feet. "Elvawein made the offer to you earlier. Leave when she needs you to leave. The instant you were thrown out was the time she was talking about."

"I'm not going along with this."

"Do you see these ghouls?" he asked. "They've been ordered to escort you to her, or kill you if you try to get away. Even if you take them on, can you stand killing them in front of their children?"

Silhouette paused, noting how terrified the young ones were. Her stomach coiled into a knot.

M

Isabelle envisioned the woman called Ghostwalker to be a terrifying sight, but what she saw was a girl. A very beaten, very broken girl. When Iago left, Silhouette looked at the children again, shivering furiously in the winter cold. Isabelle extended her hand. In it sat the sheet of paper Nyx had given her weeks ago.

Silhouette took it, unfolded the parchment, and scanned the page. Her confusion turned to a sad smile, and that smile became a harsh laugh.

"Oh, Nyx," she said, sighing.

"I," Isabelle started, then hesitated. "I know we're beyond saving, but Nyx said you could save our children."

The mage regarded her and the tiny form grasping her side. "Did he now?" she mused. "Normally, I'd take them to the Undercity, but I'm afraid that isn't really an option at this point."

"Please, you must be able to do something."

"Are you ordered to stop the children if they try to run off?"

"No."

"Interesting." She crouched to meet the boy at eye level. "What's your name?"

"Ian."

"How old are you, Ian?"

"Eight."

The mage smiled. Shadows began to take shape behind her. Faodrin stepped into the open. "I'm going to give you some flowers, Ian. This is my big brother. He's going to lead you to Alyon with the other children, but you have to be very quiet, okay?"

Ian gasped when Silhouette created flowers in the palm of her hand. Ice twined into delicate arches and elegant boughs, creating eight distinct shapes. Threads of light snapped onto them. She placed the flowers in his arms.

"Alyon will know what to do with these."

"Silhouette, what's going on?" Faodrin cut in.

"Later," she whispered. "I don't have a lot of time. Could you please lead them to the guild? Make it straight to Alyon. If possible, keep them out of Iago's sight."

He ran a hand down his face. "I better get a good explanation for this later."

"You will."

The ghouls pulled their children in for one final embrace. Silhouette wondered if she could ever hand the fate of a child over to a stranger, knowing they had no chance to survive if she didn't.

Inky tears streamed down their faces as they nudged the little ones towards the Shadow to be led away.

Isabelle squeezed her shoulder. "Thank you."

M

Alarms sounded throughout the guild.

Guards ran through the halls, ringing chimes that echoed the massive bronze bells on the ramparts.

Elliot shook his head, groggy from slumber. "What's going on?" he mumbled.

He found Crimson at his side. "I don't know," she whispered. "I heard the guards saying that Iago was hurt."

"Then shouldn't he just rush to the infirmary for treatment?"

"Exactly." Her lips ran a thin line.

Several guild members watched Damian approach.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to Riverstone by now, Damian?" he asked.

"Silhouette never showed. I came in time to hear Iago's been wounded." He searched the faces around him. "Did she even get out?"

"Ivane told me she left almost an hour ago," Crimson answered. She looked between Elliot and Damian. "You don't think something happened to her, do you?"

"What!?"

Scores of faces turned to the gate where Alyon stood, perfectly still. Iago clutched his side. Crimson pushed through the crowd.

"What happened?"

"Silhouette attacked me... working for Elvawein the entire time," he wheezed. "I tried to stop her... but she wouldn't listen..."

"Crimson." Alyon's voice was steel. "Check the wound."

She sat Iago on the ground, removing his hand. She used a little of her magic to remove the projectile. As bloody as it was, she could tell it was an icicle.

"The edges of his skin show signs of frostbite," she said, as calm as she could manage. "He was impaled with ice."

Iago removed something from his hand. It tumbled on the grass. Everyone shuffled forward to see a pendant. Dozens of guild members whispered ominously on what it could mean. Those who knew better kept their eyes on Alyon, gauging his reaction.

34: Roles Reversed

"You see much more of your children once they leave home."

Lucille Ball

"He's lying!" Vale shouted. "There's no way."

"The wounds said otherwise," Crimson whispered.

Yherod shot her a vicious glare. "Damn the wounds! He faked it. A blow to the side doesn't hurt as much as he was acting."

Elliot tried to coax them. "Please calm down."

"Stay out of this," Vale hissed, pacing the room. "Iago has to be lying. Silhouette has every reason to hate him. He probably provoked her."

The only one silent was Alyon. He watched the people bicker as though through a dense fog. The locket scorched his palm with its coldness, screaming at him, mocking him. By the time he silenced the demons in his head, Alyon found that he was the center of attention. He searched for something that a leader might say.

"I don't want anyone leaving this room tonight," he said slowly. "We'll think clearer in the morning, and I don't need your thoughts getting subjugated by rumors."

Yherod helped Damian by passing out covers. The dwarf shot all of them a warning glance as they prepared to sleep.

"That girl would never do something like this," he muttered firmly. Most of them believed the same.

But for all their faith, Doubt sat in the corner and laughed at them.

M

Ian tapped the flowers in his hand. They were tired from running in the dark, but they made it to the guild unnoticed under Faodrin's guidance.

"There should be an entrance around here," the Shadow whispered. The western wall of the Shadow Blades compound was enormous, carved out of the very mountain itself. They groped the stones blindly for the next several minutes.

"I got something!" a girl shouted.

There was the faint impression of a rune behind a curtain of ivy. Faodrin spoke its phrase. They passed through the wall and into the council room.

"I need to go now," Faodrin whispered, dissipating into the air. "Alyon should be in here. Stay safe."

M

Alyon jumped at the sound of footsteps.

"Up here!" a tiny voice yelled.

Crimson rubbed her eyes at the new arrivals. "Dwarves?"

Yherod snorted. "They're human children."

They eyed the adults timidly. Some held hands while descending to meet them, on their guard. Alyon knelt so he was at eye level with the apparent leader of the group.

"Where did you come from?"

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Are you Alyon?"

"I'm Alyon, yes."

Ian held out his hands. "The Ghostwalker told us to show you these."

Everyone exchanged startled glances, wide awake.

Alyon stared at the blossoms, and then at the boy. "Anything else?"

"Iago showed up at the meeting place, and our parents surrounded her."

"Your parents are ghouls?" Damian interrupted.

Ian wrinkled his nose at him. "Everyone calls them that, but they're normal folk, like you or me."

"I meant no offense," the sailor assured him.

"Anyway, she didn't want to kill our parents, and he stole her necklace."

Elliot brought the locket from the desk, showing it to the children. "This?" he asked.

They nodded.

"So, she's innocent," Vale murmured. "I knew it."

"Told you," Yherod huffed.

"Oh yeah," Ian added, "and I'll tell you how Elvawein makes ghouls too. She takes bodies and wisps and puts them together with some drawings on the floor."

"That's probably why she wanted Silhouette to turn Ghostwalker," Elliot reasoned. "She needed more materials."

"And it explains the slaughter at the orphanage," Alyon agreed. "She probably thinks that children are useless for an army."

"Alyon," Crimson whispered, "I don't think this is a good subject for our guests." She tilted her head to the children. He reddened at his tactlessness.

"Can you tell us anything else, Ian?" he pressed.

Ian sneezed, rubbing his nose from the cold. Crimson moved to hand each of them the covers they'd been using.

"Well, I know where Elvawein's taking her," he thought aloud. "The Trench has an opening, kinda like this one." He pointed at the servant's entrance. "It takes you inside the cliff. She's at the top, the level before that is for all the bodies, and everything beneath has everyone else."

"Ghouls," Damian said again.

"I told you they were normal!" Ian objected.

Alyon scowled at his father, who turned away sheepishly. "Do you know what Elvawein is going to do with Silhouette?"

"Dunno. I guess she wants to turn her into a ghoul." He glared at Damian.

Alyon stepped back, looking to Crimson. "Can you keep them somewhere? Just make sure that they're hidden from the guards, especially Iago."

"You can keep them in Silhouette's room," Vale offered. He looked at the dwarf. "You coming, tree stump?"

"Aye. No one smuggles children better than I do, 'cept for the girl of course."

"Cool!" A smaller boy jumped, silenced by a chorus of "Shush!"

They were taken out of the room, leaving Alyon, Elliot, and Damian within its walls.

"I need the encyclopedia."

"I keep one under the seat cushion," Damian muttered, wresting it from the chair. Elliot looked between the two men as they arranged the flowers from side to side, flipping through the pages while comparing the pictures within.

"Red tulip, snap dragon, pink rose, orange mock, white heather, gladiolus, daisy, cyclamen?"

"Girl has a lot to tell us," Damian huffed. "Let's see, according to this it says, believe me. Snap dragon and orange mock both mean deception and deceit."

"Iago is lying," Elliot translated.

"What else?" asked Alyon.

"Hmm, roses have too many meanings. The only one that makes sense is please believe me, so that and the tulip go together."

"She's desperate." Alyon ground his teeth. "Keep going."

"Daisy: she's innocent."

"Go on."

"White heather: protection from danger?"

"The gladiolus?"

"I'm sincere."

"Cyclamen?"

"Resignation and..." Damian paused.

"And?"

"Goodbye."

Elliot wondered, "Do you think she's...?"

"Don't say it," Alyon seethed. The guildmaster sank back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please believe me. I'm innocent. Iago is lying. I'm sorry. Goodbye." The words hung off his mouth, leaving a bad taste on his tongue.

"You forgot the heather," said Elliot. "I'll protect you."

Alyon whipped his pen across the room.

"Dammit!" he shouted, raking his hands over his face. "I sent her away to keep her safe!"

"You'll have time to regret this later, but for now, we have to figure out how to deal with Iago." Damian frowned.

"I say he deserves death for this." Elliot grimaced. "He's been putting us in danger."

"For the time being, he's a Shadow Blade," said Alyon. "We need evidence first."

"We have the flowers and those children," Damian pointed out. "What more proof do we need?"

"No." Elliot stopped to curse. "Alyon's right. All that proves is Silhouette's innocence, not Iago's involvement."

Alyon picked up from where he left off. "Everyone knows or suspects that we'll vouch for her. What we need is solid proof of Iago's connection with Elvawein."

"Can't we just search his rooms?" Damian asked.

Elliot shook his head. "Every guild member has the right to privacy, particularly their rooms. It'll incite a riot."

"And it places Ian and the others in danger." Alyon sighed. "We have to get someone from the outside to take care of it. So far, I can't think of anyone willing to risk their life to do it."

"And what about Silhouette? We can't just let her get turned into a ghoul."

"No," Alyon said glumly. "We can't."

"So do we wait for another message from her?" Elliot wondered.

Alyon sat in silence. "No. She'll be watched like a hawk once she's in, and all the children there will probably be dead by then."

M

The ghouls were gracious. Two offered their coats to the mage after seeing her shiver. She received them with meek smiles of gratitude. If their kindness surprised her, then her demeanor did the same for them.

They slowed at the lowest tiers. Silhouette gawked at the remains of Hangman's Cross, unable to believe she destroyed the heart of Lydia. Feyt gave her arm a comforting squeeze.

"Would ya look at that," said one of the men. He pointed at a building miraculously standing atop a sea of rubble. Silhouette laughed before she could stop herself.

Of all the damned things, the Frozen Mirage was still intact.

"And the shittiest pub in the city manages to survive. Watered down drinks and all."

"Used rotten hops."

"Thought we didn't know the difference between flies and raisins."

Silhouette looked at the window she and Alyon frequented, spending hours talking into the night. What could she do for him? Who did she live for?

Her eyes flicked towards the looming shadow of Elvawein's Tower, and wondered.

M

Elvawein's run-in with the Ghostwalker left her on edge. She didn't realize to what extent until she saw that its attack would forever leave a scar on her face.

Her eyes traced over the paper in her other hand.

She's alive, wrote Iago. Alyon saved her.

"I wonder how," she mused, eyeing Nyx.

The ghoul gave her an infuriating little smile. She crumpled the parchment and threw it on the floor.

"This place is littered with runes. If I don't like the way she acts, I'll kill her in a heartbeat."

"I thought you needed her."

"I needed her dead," Elvawein sniped. "She has mastery over Darkness now. If she wanted, she could trigger the Ghostwalker State without harming herself from this point forward."

"Doesn't that make her a threat to you?"

"No." She tapped a finger on her lips. "Because she doesn't know how to utilize it."

"Yet." He smirked.

The woman narrowed her eyes, but she couldn't do anything. Nyx was the last bit of leverage she had. If he was hurt in any way, Elvawein would be in very real danger.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter."

Isabelle led the others in. The mage trailed at the end, tired, pale, and weak. Seeing her in that state brought back some of Elvawein's vitality.

"You made it. What did you think of your escort?"

"Well mannered. You ought to learn from them."

"In light of your recent misfortunes, I'll overlook that petty insult," Elvawein muttered. "I see you weren't bound. You came willingly. Why?"

"My skin is dry enough without ropes to chafe it, thank you."

"You're dodging the question."

"I'm not stupid enough to fight a losing battle," she growled. "You've gotten your Ghostwalker and Alyon kicked me out. Are you happy now?"

"Why, yes." She flashed a brilliant smile. "Nyx, why don't you get our Ghostwalker something to eat."

He performed an irritating mock bow. Silhouette regarded him with a surprised glance, following him in silence. The door clicked shut.

Elvawein folded her hands beneath her chin. "I notice an absence of children. Now where, oh where, could they be?"

M

They sat in the kitchen. Nyx passed her a loaf of bread. He waited for her to get through half of it before asking, "What did you mean by Alyon kicked you out?"

She couldn't look at him.

"Silhouette, what did he do to you?"

"Nothing." Her voice cracked. "Nothing I didn't do to myself."

"Look at me."

"No," she whispered. "Just forget it. Forget everything." She hunched over her plate, picking at food she had no appetite for.

Everything Old Man said in the Core came back to haunt him. Silhouette built her world around Alyon. The man was her reason for living. Her hopes, her dreams, her God.

She cradled her head in her hands. Teardrops seeped into the wood while she cried after the god who cast her aside.

M

Feyt clutched her heart. Felt it breaking while the mage wept.

Nyx looked particularly reticent. He was thinking of all the times he complained to Silhouette about Alyon, and how unsatisfying it was to be right if it brought her to tears.

"Did you read the paper Isabelle gave you?" he asked finally.

The mage wiped her nose on her sleeve. "It was some kind of rune, but the charcoal got smudged, so I didn't know what it was for."

"May I see it?"

She pulled the folded paper out from her pocket and handed it to him. Nyx rummaged for a pen from one of the cabinets and did his best to retrace the blurring lines.

"It's a rune of space shifting. I was hoping you could use it to get away from here. Somewhere safe, maybe."

"Never thought I'd hear 'safe' being used to describe Lydia."

The corners of his mouth turned up. "Anywhere in Lydia is safer than here."

"I'm so used to the whole city wanting me dead that I don't really differentiate anymore. Also, Feyt says it's impossible to have a rune that complicated be so small."

"Feyt's an old hag. Things have changed since her time."

A scandalized look tore across the elf's face. "Old hag," she mouthed.

"This rune used to run like a circuit through a group of mages," he explained. "The royal family figured out how to transcribe it to the ground. It has a limited charge that's dependent on the strength of the surface it's carved into."

"And anyone can just use it?"

"You need a token. A drop of blood usually does the trick."

"Blood." She rolled her eyes. "Why is it always blood?"

"Pay attention."

"I'm listening."

"There are several of these littered around. Two you already know; the Core and Vaisya Isle."

"How did you–"

"Elvawein kept me close to gloat," he sneered. "Took every chance I had to spit in her face without signing my death warrant. Since you're here, I can share what I've learned."

Silhouette looked dubious. "Don't take this the wrong way, Nyx. But if I were Elvawein, I'd have ordered you to keep your mouth shut or to feed me false information. If you were alive, you know I'd trust you, but–"

"I know, I know," he assured her, "but she hasn't. I wish I could give you my word for it. It's just that..." He looked at the ceiling, thinking it over. "I wouldn't say she's arrogant, but... she knows Lydia, and there's something about the way she acts sometimes. It's not the attitude of someone like Daerin, hell-bent on controlling what he believes is his. More like–"

"Like she's being controlled?"

"You've noticed."

"I'm guessing you have a plan to go with it." She changed the topic, picking up on footsteps down the hall. "You said we could use it?"

Elvawein swept the doors open with a flourish. "I see I won't have to explain as much as I thought."

Nyx sucked in a breath. The woman's shoes clicked as she moved.

"Like he said, these runes are littered throughout the continent, but they can only be activated if you've crossed their paths at least once." She folded her arms across her chest. "Lydia has several. One happens to be in the council room of the Shadow Blade compound."

Silhouette's eyebrows shot up. "You could've wiped out the guild and you didn't?"

"Please," she scoffed. "A few hundred loons hardly pose a threat. If anything, it's a breeding ground for cattle. I've made quite a few ghouls that were former members, you know." She set her emerald eye upon the mage. "I can turn you into one of them, or you can earn your place beneath my roof. I want you to use this rune, go to the council chamber, and then I want you to bring me the head of someone... influential."

The women exchanged hard gazes. Silhouette rose to her feet, walked past Nyx, and faced Elvawein up close.

"Lead the way."

As they left, Nyx couldn't help but smirk. Silhouette brushed the hand that held the rune, and slid it up her sleeve.

M

Alyon was at a loss.

In retrospect, none of it mattered until recently. Eat. Sleep. Survive. When he thought about where it all changed, he kept going back to the night he met Silhouette. It was a lack of drinking money that brought him to look for a serial killer. It was curiosity that ended with him wanting to learn more. The woman called Spiderlily was little more than a girl, yet she fascinated him in a way few things did.

The locket shone in his hand. He felt how worn its surface was, and wondered how many times she reached for it. How many times did he cross her mind? The last time they spoke at the Frozen Mirage, he guessed his father was keeping an eye on her. He saw it then, the way her face was wiped blank, replaced by pain. For years, he wondered why she looked that way, but now he finally understood.

She hadn't been forgotten, but abandoned.

And like a fool, he'd done it all over again, but it was a thousand times worse for the simple fact that he knew all that she had done for him.

If he bothered to look up at that moment, Alyon would've seen a spray of green shards glitter to life at the center of the room. Silhouette materialized from the storm, staring at her surroundings in disbelief.

"I expected it to hurt more."

He thought he was hallucinating in his exhaustion. Silhouette looked over her hands and fingers, curled them, and smiled when she was satisfied that she was still in one piece. Then she saw him.

"Oh." Then she saw the locket. "Oh. Uh, did you get the flowers?"

"Wh- how did–"

She raised her hands. "Sit. Breathe. And please, whatever you do, don't start screaming, okay?" She looked at the doors. "Is anyone coming?"

"No. I thought you left?"

"I did. Iago stole my locket. I got led to Elvawein. Say, did you know you got a rune here?" she asked, tapping her foot on the area rug. "Really should get rid of that after I leave."

"Why are you here?"

She rubbed her arm. "I'm not welcome here now?"

"Woman," he growled, pressing a hand to his head. "I've spent the last several hours convinced you're undead and that's what you're worried about? I'm asking your reason for being here."

"I just need to kill someone and then I'll be on my way."

"What?"

She explained it to him–Elvawein's assignment.

Alyon couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So not even twenty-four hours after I tell you that you don't have to protect me, you decide to assassinate me?"

"She said someone influential."

He pointed at himself. "Can't get much more influential than this."

"Coming from the man who went on and on about how not-worth-anything he is," she shot back. "She said influential, not most influential."

"I'm not going to let you arbitrarily kill someone."

"Oh, come on, just one?" she asked. "I promise you won't even notice they're gone. You'd be thanking me even."

He knew he shouldn't because it was in poor taste, but Alyon cracked a grin. He shook his head at the mage. "What do you have in mind?"

"A trade," she replied. "I give you a copy of the space-shifting rune with some basic instructions, and you give me Iago."

"Iago," he repeated aloud. "Somehow, I highly doubt Elvawein will be happy you killed off her agent."

"She said 'influential,' Alyon. She never specified what kind of influence they had. Daerin, may he rot forever, was smarter. He knew to give me exact targets or else I'd find a way around killing them outright." She paused, flustered. "I'm sorry. Is he in his room right now?"

"Ought to be." She turned to leave, but Alyon grabbed her wrist. "Stay here."

"First you say leave. Now stay. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to go back to how you used to be."

"You really can't stand me as I am that much?"

He panicked. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what do you mean!" she exploded. It was the first time she had tears in her eyes when speaking to him.

"You should've never gotten hurt," he said. "As long as you're near me, I'm going to keep hurting you. You are the one person that shouldn't have had to go through this. And no matter what I do, I just end up causing you more pain."

He turned her around and caught her face between his hands. As he expected, her eyes were shiny and wet. She wasn't angry. If anything, she looked like she might fall apart if he let go.

"I'll protect you this time."

Any sadness she had was instantly tinged with amusement.

"What?" he asked. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, Alyon." She took the locket from his hand. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

35: Sacrifice

"A revolution can neither be made nor stopped. The only thing that can be done is for one of several of its children to give it a direction by dint of victories."

Napoleon Bonaparte

"Alyon, wake up! Iago's been murdered."

"Ah." He scratched his head. "That."

"Wha- forget it," Elliot muttered. He threw a robe at his half-asleep friend. "Come on!"

Alyon no sooner slipped one hand through a sleeve when Elliot dragged him to his feet. The events of the night before were quite foggy in his head. He and Silhouette talked. She slipped away, and then he was called off on an errand. By the time he returned, the mage was long gone.

There was a small crowd massing at Iago's doorway. Yherod's laughter boomed from inside. Crimson leaned against the wall for support, one hand covering her mouth as though she was about to lose her breakfast. His father blocked curious onlookers from getting too close, and offered a relieved look at his son's arrival.

"Thank the Gods you've brought him, Elliot."

"What's the commotion? It's not like it's the first time anyone's seen a corpse."

"It's not the fact that he's been murdered that's surprising, Alyon," Crimson muttered. "It's how."

When he stepped into the room, the metallic reek of blood almost barreled him over. An entire wall was plastered with paper–letters to Elvawein. Clearly, assassinating a man wasn't enough for Silhouette.

She had to spell "Traitor" over them too.

"Ivane, pull the covers off." Yherod chortled. "Let the boy get his eyeful."

Alyon looked to the bed where the body had been covered by a tarp. The dwarf woman scowled at Yherod's lack of delicacy and unveiled the victim.

Iago looked like he'd been in a brawl those last moments. It was as though that was the one time Silhouette made an exception and allowed her target to face her "head on."

And he'd lost his for the trouble.

"This... is overkill."

"Can't be too dead for Lydia." Yherod laughed. "Beat the bastard to a pulp and took a souvenir! That's my girl!"

"Yherod!" Ivane gasped. "Have some decency."

"Alright, alright." He leaned over and spat on the body. "Decent is as decent does."

"Heldarien help us."

Damian craned his head over his shoulder and smirked at the wall. "Least she cleared her name, right?"

Alyon stared at Iago's remains and searched himself for a shred of sadness. It surprised him that he found very little left to spare. Though they'd spent years beneath the same roof, Alyon realized that he knew almost nothing about Iago beyond his work ethic. The man was a mystery, but Alyon didn't feel pressed to look into it.

"Burn it. I want the letters on my desk and this room cleared by nightfall."

"And what about Silhouette?"

The guild couldn't doubt her innocence. Iago was branded the real traitor. The mage didn't have much time left. Alyon looked at the faces in the doorway, a mixture ranging from agitated, disturbed, angry, and eager. It was everything Silhouette had been aiming for.

"It's time to go after Elvawein."

M

Shrieks echoed throughout Elvawein's cavern of runes.

She gaped at the head tossed near her feet. "So it's come to this. You rebellious little bitch."

The mage did little to hide a triumphant smirk. "I did what you asked."

"And in doing so, you've signed the death warrants of everyone in that guild, your precious prince included." The woman sneered. "The Shadow Blades will have an easier time assaulting the gates of Kharlaryyv."

"You just can't admit that it's over, Elvawein." Her confidence exploded into controlled rage. "You see the end and it scares you."

"I see your end and you're too stupid to realize it!"

"My end has been a long time coming," she responded coldly. "I didn't have to be a Ghostwalker to know that dying is something guaranteed. Death doesn't frighten me, but it terrifies you."

"Preposterous."

"You're afraid of losing your favorite toy. You're afraid of facing me head on!" the mage bellowed. Elvawein shrank back. Silhouette knocked her to the ground and wrapped her hands around her throat. "Why are you doing this!"

Silhouette allowed her just enough slack to speak.

"You've never asked Feyt what your original destiny was, did you?" The woman laughed. "And I'm the one afraid?"

"I'm not."

"Then why are you shaking?"

The mage's grip loosened. Elvawein took the opportunity to throw her on the ground. She activated a rune, rendering Silhouette paralyzed.

"You will only hurt everyone you will ever care about." Elvawein reveled in how hard it made her cringe. "Now why would that frighten you? Don't you dream about the life you could've had? Or is it..." She forced Silhouette to look her in the eyes. "That you're afraid you were meant to be a monster from the very start?"

What little blood she had left drained from her face. Elvawein beamed. She found it. The fear that lurked deepest within the mage's heart.

"You're right to be afraid, you know. Just because you can change events doesn't mean you can escape your true nature. I could tell you, if you'd like."

"–en?"

"What?"

Silhouette lifted her head from the floor. Her entire body was shuddering from the effort it required to move. "When will it be enough? My home, family, friends, my... name. How much more do you have to take before you're satisfied?"

"It will never be enough."

"Why?" her voice cracked. "What have I done that could've offended you so much?"

Elvawein paused at the doorway. "You existed."

M

A wire snapped in the dark, leaving Nyx swearing at the door. He fumbled through his pockets and dug out another to try again.

"Would you like some light?"

He jumped. The ghoul looked aside to find Isabelle standing against the wall, along with some of the others who captured Silhouette earlier.

"If you get caught, Elvawein will kill you," he warned.

"We owe her," she insisted. "I just pray we aren't too late."

Nyx considered her logic and made a reluctant sound of agreement. He heard the strike of a match and watched a jar of oil burst into life. He worked at the lock until he finally heard the click of success.

The rune chamber was as dark as a sepulcher. Isabelle raised the flame, casting shadows all around. Though his heart ceased beating years ago, he felt it lurch at the sight of the body against the floor. Nyx turned Silhouette in his arms.

Her eyes were still blue, and very much alive.

"Silhouette, what happened?"

"This rune's been activated," another ghoul murmured. "It's keeping her from moving."

"Then turn it off."

"I can't without the command phrase."

"So break it!" a different one hissed.

Nyx scowled. "Silhouette, could you summon a bit of ice? It might be the only thing that can break through this rock."

An icicle took form in her palm. Nyx raised it high above his head, spotted the grooves, and impaled the floor with all his strength.

Blinding sparks erupted from the point of impact. Silhouette lurched in pain. Nyx threw the ice aside and took a look at her back.

"It could've been a lot worse. Can you move?"

"Not... now."

"Any water?"

"Here," said one, handing him a leather sack. Nyx held it to her lips. Silhouette coughed.

"Take it easy." He held her as carefully as he could manage. "We need to get you out of here."

"It's no use," she said. "Either she dies or I do. It can't end any other way, Nyx."

M

"This is suicide," said Feyt. "You can barely walk, and what you're plotting requires a tremendous amount of control."

Silhouette pulled the hood down her face, but the specter dropped to her knees. Feyt locked her achingly beautiful face on hers.

"I don't need to contain any of it," the mage replied. "The trouble is the timing. If all of the ghouls in Lydia are inside the Tower now, then I need a way to shut them in."

"That's not the part I'm concerned over." Feyt took Silhouette's hand. It was pale and blue, in sharp contrast to the bright rose of her nose and cheeks. "Less than a week ago, the Ghostwalker State nearly killed you. If what Nyx said is true, and you successfully managed to Awaken my power, you can call upon it without risk of going berserk, but that doesn't mean you have the stamina to sustain it."

"I know that," Silhouette coughed. "I know, it's–"

"I've got them," Faodrin announced, stepping out of the rune on the floor. One look from Feyt told him that she didn't have much success in veering their errant mage off her course.

The Shadow shook his head, smearing the contents of the vials he was sent to get on the floor. "Your prince is marching up the shoreline as we speak. He's setting up a rune there."

Silhouette groaned. "Please don't tell me he's coming."

"Didn't give me a choice."

"Why can't he just listen for once?"

Feyt tousled the girl's hair. "You're one to talk."

"Knock it off."

"No." She pulled Silhouette in her arms. "And about what Elvawein said," she whispered, "there's no reason to be afraid."

"And how do you know that?"

"I happen to know a bit about Destiny, being its incarnate and all." She smirked. "You're not a monster, Silhouette. In the life you were meant to lead or the one you have now, you have never been, and will never be, a monster."

She shuddered. "You only talk nice when you think I'm gonna die."

Faodrin whacked her upside the head. "If you have time to talk, then tell me what you're going to do about Elvawein."

"Tackle her head on."

Faodrin hit her again. "Are you an idiot? That shit only worked with Iago because you caught him half-asleep! You're no good in a normal fight."

"This won't be a normal fight."

"Which is why it won't work! Tell me how destroying a few runes is going to help you."

Silhouette scanned the chamber. "It's another Core. You saw the destruction in Hangman's Cross. Do you really think I could've caused it by knocking into a few walls? When runes are destroyed, they act like bombs. This Tower is on the edge of a cliff. If I manage to set them all off at once, this place will crash."

"It's the 'all at once' part that will be most difficult to manage, and that doesn't leave you much time to escape," Feyt cautioned.

Faodrin felt his stomach drop. "She's not planning on it."

M

"I hate needles."

"Bear with it," Crimson told him. She took the pin and jabbed Alyon's finger. A red bead formed on the surface of his skin. She smeared it against the ground and released him. "Vale, your turn."

While she worked on him, Alyon eyed the carvings on the wooden board. It would have five charges before breaking, at the very most. Two to bring him and Vale, and three to return with Silhouette.

"I don't recognize over half these faces," said Yherod, approaching them in his typical rigid stride. "Everyone and their mother is on the beach tonight."

Vale winced as a splinter caught his finger. "The Guild War will be over by morning. It doesn't happen every day."

"I can barely remember a time where there wasn't fighting," Crimson agreed, "but I don't think we can rest easy just yet. Peace is its own kind of battle."

"The girl is wise." Ivane winked. "You'll make a fine Abbess for the Isle."

All of them froze at that comment. Ekarius had a knowing gleam in, you have a duty to lead Heldarien's faithful."

A strangled laugh fell from her lips.

"Now you know how I feel." Alyon snorted. "No pressure at all, is it?"

Elliot neared the group and placed a hand on Crimson's shoulder. "I've gathered up everyone who knows how to bandage a wound. They're waiting for you at the medic tent."

"I'm not sure how much I can teach them in less than an hour." She dusted the sand off her apron. "Heldarien help us."

The dark agent faced the rest of them. "What Ian said had some truth to it. There's an entrance near the Trench, but there're more than sixty ghouls guarding it, particularly nasty-looking ones."

"Those must be the Ravens Faodrin warned us about," Alyon guessed. "We can assume there'll be a lot more inside the mountain. I want those to be drawn out into the open. Going in is a deathtrap."

"Any oil or spike pits we need to worry about?" Yherod asked. "Built them ages ago, but I've no idea if they've been maintained."

"Why?" Vale groaned.

The dwarf made a sour face. "I don't know, boy, maybe because we thought Lydians weren't stupid enough to go attacking themselves from the inside out!"

"Let them finish, Yherod," Ivane chided. "Please go on, Elliot."

"Damian is keeping a lookout over the water and the rocks. It seems like there's only one way in. Apart from that, I've arranged melee units in the front, mages behind them, and crossbowmen and archers on scaffolds as we finish building them."

"Will they be able to reach?" asked Alyon. "They'll be shooting upwards either way. Elvawein has elevation on her side."

"I don't know what to tell you," he replied. "This is the best we can do."

"Spike pits?" Yherod asked again. Ivane sighed.

"Filled with bodies of those that tried to run off in the past."

"Bah! Perfectly good engineering gone to waste." He spat on the sand.

Ivane hit her cousin on the head. "Please don't mind him, dear. He means well."

Elliot ignored the fussing. "Any more word from Silhouette?"

"No." Alyon looked at the horizon, wishing for the sight of the moon. It had been a long time since he saw a sky so black. "We're leaving in a few minutes. No one is to start fighting until Elvawein strikes first."

M

"I thought you said you're going to lure her out?" Nyx wondered. Silhouette sat there, her eyes closed. "Are you even doing anything?"

A scream tore through the level beneath them.

Silhouette laughed darkly.

"What... did you just do?"

She opened one eye. "You'll see."

Less than a minute later, Elvawein backed into the room they were standing in, shaking and swearing at a ghostly illusion of a little girl.

"Get her away. Get her away!"

"Not so pleasant being used against you." Silhouette sniffed.

"Who is she?" asked Nyx.

Silhouette gazed upon the fragment of her memory, a girl with bouncing brown curls spilling down to her waist. Jade smiled and skipped towards the woman, who continued to back away in terror.

She handed Nyx one of her orbs and nodded for him to leave the room. "You know what to do," she mouthed.

Silhouette cast her illusion aside.

"I'll kill you for this," Elvawein seethed. "I'll rip the skin from your bones!"

"By all means," said the mage. "Try."

M

Alyon heard angry yelling. There were no words in it, just frustration. He and Vale appeared on the inside of a stony hallway. Nyx was in front of them.

"Right on time," the ghoul said. "See those stalactites behind you? First throw this ice at it, and then Vale's fire."

"Why?" asked Alyon.

"The rapid temperature change will cause it to break and block the way. After that, it's your fight."

"What about you?" the prince wondered. "What will you do?"

"Rest in peace. And if you weren't about to face a homicidal maniac, I'd knock you into next week," Nyx warned. "Do us all a favor and stay away from her when this is over."

"You really do care."

"More than you ever did." He stepped back and aimed at the rocks above them. Nyx faced Vale. "Ready, kid?"

"I'm not a kid."

He tossed. Ice plastered itself over the rock. Fire engulfed it less than a second later. Then they fell.

M

Elvawein whipped her head around. "What was that?"

Ice flew past her cheek. "Don't turn your back on me."

The older woman flicked her wrist, prompting Silhouette to dodge back as a rune activated on the floor. Fire engulfed the spot where she was standing, singeing her leg.

"You're not worth my– Gah!" Elvawein lurched. As if by divine judgment, the fire she used to hurt the mage was thrown at her back from a different source, the mage's student.

"Nice timing!" Silhouette laughed. "Now get out of here."

"Yeesh." Vale frowned, heading back to the rune. "You're welcome."

"Alyon, you go too!"

"I'm not leaving without you."

Silhouette caught Elvawein move from the corner of her eye. Words formed in her mouth. It warped the air as only a command phrase could.

The mage sent Alyon a panicked look. "Get back!"

A pillar of flame shot up from the ground, blinding the both of them. Apart from minor burns, Alyon was unharmed. Silhouette wasn't as lucky. Her skin blistered on her arms and neck.

"She isn't someone you can fight, Alyon," she pleaded. "Please go!"

"You first!" he insisted.

She looked to Elvawein again. They wouldn't have another chance if she decided to expend as much energy as the last blast.

"All right," she gave in. "I'm going."

M

Feyt watched Silhouette stand and run off. Alyon trailed close behind. Coming in contact with a rune with the intention to use it was enough for it to activate.

Alyon was right to be confused when the mage crossed its boundary, but remained on the other side. What's more, she faded into threads of light.

He spun on his heel in time to see the real Silhouette still in the chamber. She casted that copy of herself the instant Elvawein's pillar of fire blocked his view. He traced the smile on her lips, the same one he'd come to know from their conversations. The one that belonged to the child she used to be. It told him that she would be alright.

And if it weren't for the fact she was crying, he would have believed it.

M

"No, no, no, no, no!"

Ivane and Yherod pulled Alyon from the broken rune. Its last charge had been used to bring him through.

"Easy, child! What happened?"

"She's still in there!" He got to his feet. "I have to get her out."

"The fighting's begun, you fool!" Yherod barked. "Ghouls are spilling out of the entrance. The girl will find a way."

"You don't understand." He shook their hands off of him. "She's–"

Screams and cheers turned their attention to the Tower. Chunks of cliff fell into the waves.

M

"What do you think you're doing?" Elvawein called. "You're going to destroy this place!"

Silhouette ignored her. She knelt on the floor and kept her palms to its surface, digging her nails deep into its grooves. Ice snaked through the carvings, similar to what she'd done to the canopy back in Vaisya Isle. Only this time, instead of dropping something above them, she was dropping the floor below.

She bit hard on the inside of her mouth. Wedging the ice made her fingers feel like someone was peeling the skin off of them.

A little more, she urged herself.

Feyt's blackened hands came into view. Silhouette looked up, baffled.

"I see what you're up to," she answered the unspoken question. "Using your ice as a conduit. Clever." Her fingers twined with her host. "I can mitigate the flooding."

Elvawein yelled again in the background. Neither Feyt nor Silhouette paid attention. Blood dripped from the mage's nose.

"At this rate, you truly will die."

Silhouette tried so hard to laugh through her tears. "Practice makes perfect."

M

The Tower rumbled. Massive sheets of rock slid and dropped into the water below.

Thousands of Lydians cheered. A sizeable number kept silent. Many cried in relief and pent up emotion. Alyon should have been happy.

"Silhouette?"

He heard Yherod's voice in the background. Sets of arms had to hold him back.

"Silhouette!!!"

36: Aftermath

"Raising children in an uncertain thing; success is reached only after a life of battle and worry."

Democritus

Two weeks passed since the Guild War ended.

Alyon faced the cold, gray ocean. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw rocks flying into the water. And somewhere among the stone was a body thrown like a rag doll.

Crimson set a hand on his shoulder. "We're ready." She pulled back, hesitating. "We found the locket."

Alyon reached a hand over his shoulder. Crimson dropped it in his grasp.

The moonstone was cracked. The gentle glow that emanated from its surface was gone. All that was left was a worthless chunk of tarnished, dented silver.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

"Alyon."

He looked at Crimson. The markings she acquired on Vaisya Isle shone brightest in their bleak surroundings. Her namesake red locks were shorn close to her head.

She held out her hand. "You can't keep running, Alyon."

"I'll be there," he assured her. "Just give me a few more minutes."

She gave him a strange look, but relented. He watched her disappear between the trees. In less than an hour, he'd be in the middle of Hangman's Cross, kneeling so they could place a metal band atop his head and call him a ruler. In that moment, he'd lose all the freedom he ever had.

He wanted to reject it. Dozens of times, he opened his mouth to refuse, but every time he did, Silhouette's face would flash in his mind. He saw her torn up hands, and bruises, and scars, and marveled that she was ever the little girl from a magical forest.

Alyon knew in his heart that he could never repay her for the friendship she'd given him, but he could do this one thing.

He could try to change Lydia, so that people like them, people who didn't belong, could have a chance.

"It's pretty."

He jolted so hard that he almost fell back. Alyon squinted towards the patch of sunlight between the trees. A vague outline became apparent. He felt the locket in his hand grow warmer.

Alyon saw a second shape, of Jerrold, speaking with his daughter. He remembered Yherod mentioning that the locket was a recording device. He heard her voice in his mind, though she wasn't making a sound. He knew he was watching the moment she first received the locket from her father.

He watched the way her face lit up as she squeezed his hand on the way home, and how she ran out the bath to find him. Not long after, Alyon saw the two illusions of their child selves, quiet and uncomfortable.

"No matter what," she said. "I'll protect you."

M

Many miles south of Lydia, in the High City of Taerinval, a woman giggled.

She sat upon a mound of pillows, surrounded by tall stained glass windows. Her room should have been stunning, but was considered dreadful by most.

Hundreds of marionettes hung from wooden beams. Not all of them were human, and some could be called monsters. Marrick felt as though a thousand of their little eyes were on him as he approached. He shivered at their painted, wooden smiles.

The woman on the dais was also unusual. Her eyes were covered by a green blindfold. She gauged her surroundings by the jingling of metal coins sewn into the hem of her dress. Despite her supposed age, she acted like a child, and grinned brightly as he neared her.

"I'd like you to go to the shore today," she said.

"And do what?"

"Find a corpse."

He wondered if he heard that correctly, but the elf knew better than to ask questions with this one.

When she didn't say anything else, he turned his back on the room, feeling dozens of beady eyes with every step he took. After he left the building and got on his horse, and saw waves in the distance, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He dismounted at the last tree before the sand began. Marrick scanned the area. To his dismay, he really found a body.

The closer he came, the more he made out the features; wet hair, white skin. Deep scratches marred the poor creature. He turned it over to get a look at her face.

Only to find that she was still breathing.

# A Note from the Author

#

I debated, long and hard, whether to include this section in the book. A part of me feels the average reader couldn't be bothered. The other part recognizes that a reader who gets this far might be interested in what I have to say.

The book you hold in your hands was initially written in 2003, when I was nine. The result was sixteen pages of 16pt Times New Roman font, atrociously put together, and more of a bastardized synopsis of a story than a story itself. Nonetheless, it was a first step. And a step, however horrendous, counts for something.

This final version was completed during a lecture, sitting in AP Macroeconomics at Byron Nelson High School. I was seventeen. It marked the twenty-second full manuscript since that first, floundering attempt in the fourth grade.

Many called that talent.

Many also didn't know that I was in ESL, or had to fight to get into advanced courses, or knew the hours I poured into the computer, the dictionary, or the thesaurus. They didn't see the boxes shoved in the back of my closet, filled with rejects, whose red-penned edits bled like pockmarks of some venereal disease. If talent had anything to do with this book, then it wasn't one for writing; it was pigheadedness.

It's been five years since I sat in that class. While I've improved, I stand by this version of the novel. It's a bit clunky, a bit off, but it's a story of growing up; I've yet to see anyone do that gracefully.

Every writer loves stories, and they both love, and hate, the writing behind them. Some days it reads like poetry. Otherwise, it reads like the morning-after of a morally crippled night. Today's best will be tomorrow's mediocre.

Greatness is built on "good enoughs". Expecting perfection on a first attempt, even a first series of attempts, is a recipe for undue frustration. Failure is not nature's way of telling us we lack talent. If anything, it's the process of elimination, helping us find an answer, one dead end at a time.

Odds are, we've never met in person. You may not give two wits over what it takes to write a book. But I'm willing to bet you have a dream, or a hobby. I hope that hobby borders passion in your mind.

You've had your own circumstances in life by this point. You know what it is to fall flat on your face. Don't allow that to discourage you. If you think the world cares to laugh at every misstep that we make, you'd be wrong. This planet, this beautiful, terrible, and everything-in-between-place, is filled to the brim with people just like you and me; people whose greatest concerns revolve around their own lives, finding their way, the best they know how.

Let's take Silhouette for a prime example. Here we have a girl given a barrel full of lemons with a note attached, reading:

Yours Always,

-Life

She makes a slew of mistakes. Some are minor. Some leave us shaking our heads at their enormity. To err is to human, after all.

The world this book is set in, though filled with elves, dwarves, and magic, isn't so different from our own. We don't choose the circumstances we're born to, or whether we're born at all. Many hit those first few walls and resign themselves to fate. Yes, it's harder for some. Yes, fighting is painful. But allow me to pose you this question: which is the greater force to be reckoned with?

Is it the fighter who never lost a battle, or the one that rises each time the crowd has him down for the count?

Kick. Scream. Cry. Retreat. Face your demons on the days you can. Weather them on the days you can't. At all other times, build your strength. Whatever you do, don't abandon yourself. Don't be the audience in the telling of your own story. Be the writer.

Be a Ghostwalker.

Nicole
