A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

“It appears we put up our tents for nothing,” I remark to Sinead.

“Of course not, we need them for our victorious return,” he replies amicably. “Shall we get the horses?”

The dragon flies far above our head, a distant shadow on the background of white fluffy cloud. He is impossible to ignore. The weight of his aura weighs upon my shoulders even when I do not look. He will complete a full circle before picking one of the distant, lone mountains as a lair. The HUNT will start at the moment he completes his revolution. I hope he does so before the Thirst overtakes me.

We will need mounts to keep up.

Fortunately, I already have one. Our group leaves the tents for a large stable by the portal. We do not need to worry yet. The rules of the hunt prohibit any sort of sabotage before the horns blow, so my companions take their time to get acquainted with their mounts.

Those are Wandering Court stallions and mares, with vaporous gray coats that sometimes puff up like smoke. They work together well, and depend on each other more than they depend on riders, which will work well, because Khadras and the gladiators have little riding experience.

As for me, I do not need anyone to carry me but her, and so I make my way to the dark edges of the wood and whistle.

The compound eyes glaring at us from below the boughs skitter away while the undergrowth turns dark and gnarly. Light fades a little. Tendrils of fog snake out from between centennial bark coated with lichen.

I pat her flank, but a nose bump soon reminds me that the glutton expects her due offerings, and so I fish in my bag for a caramelized ear. This time, it is the ear of a giant bat. They almost look like pig ears. I have no idea where Amaryll found the bats, and I do not wish to ask. Apparently, they do not taste exactly the same from Metis’ confused expression. Nevertheless, the hellion accepts her boon, and I can tell from her searching manners that she is curious as to why I am here, Thirsty as a devil, surrounded with delicate, juicy prey.

I point up.

She spots the dragon.

She inspects me with wide eyes and lets out a low neigh. I feel immensely judged.

A snort.

I still feel judged.

Metis neighs furiously, outraged that I could ever doubt her. I am lifted on her saddle with insistent bumps until I sit atop her. I am so far from the ground… It has subjectively been four years and I had forgotten how tall she had become. It almost makes me forget the Thirst.

Unaware of my broodings, the proud Nightmare saunters towards the front of the camp where the riders gather. I find Sinead and look around, drinking in the sights.

There are several parties and quite a few outriders gathered at the edge of a vast plain, their pennants, flags, and banners flapping in the light wind in a riot of colors and sigils. Armors glint under the sun in every color of the rainbow. I count as many sharp spears as there are puffy vests and outrageous hats. Singers and dancers compete for attention in this tense environment. I watch with interest as a four-armed fae juggles knives and forks while standing on top of a beast, itself standing on the back of another one. Those are the travelers here for entertainment rather than for the hunt itself. They will ride then return after possibly some hunting and most definitely a few trysts on isolated meadows. The true hunters will compete to the end, or they will try to at least. I count five serious parties among the hundreds of riders, as well as a few lone contestants such as this lad riding a giant wolf with a bow as tall as he is.

Besides our own rather eclectic party, I see a Spring Court company riding elks, gathered around a couple drinking amorously from the same cup. A gathering of small folks riding dogs follow in a squabbling mass. Another is made of muscular men riding a mechanical contraption not unlike a locomotive. Lastly, Revas’ party gathers in the most harmonious and military whole. His retinue of grim-faced summer warriors ride stallions of identical dun horses while he awaits at the front of the formation, his gauntleted hand clasped around the haft of a massive banner depicting a golden palace with his personal symbol. Just like our own, his banner evokes not just his name but him as well.

The sun reflects on Revas’ perfect, fatherly figure. He gazes in the distance towards the series of peaks we will race to. The foreign sun seems caught in his aura, gathered in a gentle and protective glow. A feeling seeps into my essence, flowing through the cracks because it is not an attack. Looking at him, I feel at peace. He would be kind, and thoughtful, because this is the aura he picked and because Fae become their personae to an extent. Revas has chosen the guise of the father, the same solid dependability I felt in mine. Papa was always there for me, even after I… died. He saw what I had become and did not cast me away. He offered me my first rifle.

I frown and glare, just as Revas turns and our eyes meet. The red-skinned devil woman who acts as his second smiles needles at me from the side, now revealed through a step forward. Everything is a game with him. The rules that stop him from acting against Sinead on pain of death until the event starts do not apply to giving me a pleasant feeling, and so he did. I resent the gift for what it truly is. A ploy. It also reveals an important aspect of the contest. While Revas is established to the point of embodying a concept, Sinead is not. He is a liberator and a dancer, but he is not freedom and dance. Amaryll was correct. He rushed into it for my sake.

It makes me hate him less, despite the needling thirst.

While I brood, Hadramo the muscular metal-shaper finishes his inspection of everyone’s weapons and armor. He has taken to leading the group, with Dancer as a silent second. The mantis-like fighter remains quiet, but he has taken to communicating via gestures since, despite his best efforts to teach us, we have yet to decipher his pheromone messages. Syma the red massages a pair of hands with another pair of hands while Makyas flits about, window-shopping for eyeballs. As for Nol, the fly-faced man sits uncomfortably atop his mount. I believe he will soon ask me if he can fly instead, which I will vehemently deny.

Honestly, the gladiators are too weak to make a difference, but they are followers and they matter. Their presence matters. They send a message, and this will, in turn, impact the world. Truly, the fae spheres never cease to confuse.

Eventually, the time comes. A powerful roar resonates above our head, low and rumbling like an earthquake. A flap of titanic wings sends dust over the plain and pushes clouds away. I find myself ecstatic that the hunt is ritualized or I would be halfway through the next sphere, thirst or not. Slowly, the flying behemoth tilts towards the mountains where it will pick a lair. We wait with baited breath — at least some do — for the signal. The riders slowly move forward to the starting line. The unaligned riders wisely decide to let us go first. There has not been a single hunt without casualties, and this year will be no different.

In the tense silence that follows, we all admire the sinuous yet heavy shape of the dragon move away, leathery wings catching the high winds with lazy mastery. Light shines on scales as large as shields, reflected in phantomatic rainbow patterns by the creature’s monstrous aura. Slowly, it edges away like a distant ship of the line. And then, suddenly, the wings ignite. A line of fire expands across their length, red and furious like life and blood. It calls to us like a taunt, and like a chasm under one’s feet. I instinctively lean forward because I cannot stop myself. This message is for us. This message is for me. A taunt. A call to prove myself.

All the parties blow their horns at the same time. Through the cacophony and kaleidoscope of banners, we launch ourselves forward.

Land disappears under us, with Sinead by my side holding his banner. I have not felt this glad of a ride since the Scourge Hive crisis. The rush of hundreds of beating hearts around me pulsing with life only brings it into sharper focus. Hooves pound the earth beneath like the roll of a drum while we ride, ride after the elusive form of the dragon, this omen of a great hunt. Over hills and down valleys we go at breakneck speed, never stopping lest we lose our quarry. Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes into hours while we pursue. When I finally come to from the exquisite rush, I realize that many of the followers have abandoned the attempt, glad for the experience, I suppose. The rest of us have shed them like a comet sheds its tail, only keeping those who intend to see it to its fateful end.

Around us, the plain narrows into a series of forests and hillocks. Still, we persist. All is lost if the dragon disappears from our sight. We find the end of the valley soon enough and must pick a path among the many routes moving forward. As planned, Makyas lands on my shoulder.

“The truce ends here. Yay! Looking forward to the spiders.”

“I am not,” I reply.

“But they have eight eyes! Each!”

I give up on this old argument to focus on keeping course. Speed is of the essence. Soon, mountains will mask the dragon from sight for those who are behind, and to lose him from sight is to lose him forever thanks to this world’s strange magic. Sinead leads us down one of the two central paths. We are the first, though Revas is a close second. He picks another path. We race forth, a wall of old trees on either side.

I hear a tremendous crash and turn to see the locomotive smash a path through the forest, belching teal and pink smoke. The strong fighter at its top leaves a bloody handprint on his flag and roars.

“For vengeance!”

The oath resonates powerfully with the world and they soon pick up speed. The front of the locomotive catches on fire which, from the flame, is a design decision.

“Are they not riding in the direction of Eldraneth the Ever Brood, second most dangerous creature on this sphere?” I ask.

“They are. And good luck to them,” the prince hisses between grit teeth.

A curious yet courageous way to face the inevitable. Eldraneth is a permanent resident of this sphere, a reclusive spider whose size is rumored to be greater than that of a whale. The fae sometimes lack judgment. A few independent hunters also choose to leave the path, though I suspect they have tools other than sight to track our quarry.

We have to have been out of the plain for five minutes before the baying of hounds comes from our right. The dogs party returns, but this time the eyes of the men shine red under the canopies while their hounds display maws not unlike those of deepwater fishes.

“Abarri cannibals,” Makyas spits from my shoulder. “I recognize their pathetic mewlings. They compete with us for eyes! Kill them all, Ariane!”

“Have you considered eating normal food?”

“What’s a normal food?”

I sigh and watch the hounds circle us then approach. The leader cackles madly from under a filthy cowl stained with gobbets of fresh meat. They stopped for a snack before finding us. I feel insulted. As the first of his riders launch themselves on our flanks, an arrow takes a hound in the throat.

The cannibal leader bleats in alarm, but too late. Other arrows come from behind us, skewering his men with unerring accuracy. The smell of hound blood mixes with that, sweeter, of the little man eaters. I taste jealous rage and mindless ferocity in their alien fragrance. I could just TAKE A SNACK AS WELL. No, Ariane, poise and control. I am better than this.

The Spring Court riders on their elks join us while the cannibals disperse. Revas paid the hound riders while we bought the Spring Court’s help long before the event started. In fae politics, such maneuvering counts as preliminaries to the real contest.

With the danger dispersed, the Spring Court veers away to take potshots at Revas or at least, his lackeys. We have to maintain a constant speed or risk exhausting our horses even more than we will. Any brusque acceleration will tire them considerably. We cannot afford to fight on horseback. Even Metis will be tired before this is all over.

Makyas urges us on as he never lets his gaze wander away from the dragon. We pass by the first lone peak on the way without slowing down, then another when night falls. Two moons rise here, and still the trail of fire left in the wake of the dragon lights the path. Makyas acts as our anchor, making sure that no disruption will make us lose our way. Sometimes, his tiny hands grip a lock of my hair when he wavers. I suspect there might be some unknown difficulties involved.

It must be well past midnight when the dragon dips. By then, the ecstasy of the ride has long since given way to a feeling of persistent exhaustion in most of my companions. I am untouched so far thanks to my unusual constitution, but I understand now what Khadras said when he claimed this was a test of endurance. We watch him select a destination with agonizing slowness. Until the last moment, he seems to hesitate between two different peaks, but eventually settles for a craggy, steep rock cracked with age. From here, I can see ancient bridges criss-crossing its withered body. With a clear destination, we leave the road and dive into the forest, and into an immediate ambush, which I call with a whistle.

Spiders as large as dogs, sometimes even more, jump from moss-covered trunks or up shallow burrows with furious clicks. Metis grunts and pulps the first under a massive hoof. The gladiators form a circle around us and the battle is joined. Syma devastates the assailants with quick, precise jabs of her four sabers while Dancer repulses them with palm strikes that leave his victims bleeding ichor from their mouths. Hadranno uses a heavy hammer to catch jumping foes in the air. Khadras is everywhere, placing critical halberd strikes in the gaps when help is needed. Sinead opens a path with deadly accuracy. As for me, I merely block flying nets with a smidgen of ice magic. I am so Thirsty now, and we are still far. Any energy expenditure would be… unwise.

We quickly get out of the trap before reinforcements can come. Those woods belong to the spiders. We have no time to get stuck in. Fortunately, with our destination well in sight, we no longer need a constant vigil and Makyas finally lifts off from my pauldron to grab a passing arachnid head, which I do him the favor of detaching from its previous owner.

“I have to recover my strength!”

I do not argue. I merely avert my gaze.

Sinead slows down now that the risk of attack is higher, and I soon hear a commotion to our right. The call of a horn confirms that a pitched battle is taking place a few hundred paces away. We recognize the Spring Court instruments. I leave it to Sinead to intervene or not. To my mild surprise, he decides to offer assistance. We make for them through difficult terrain.

“We should let the horses go,” Khadras suggests in his usual cold voice. “They will soon become a hindrance.”

Most of the gladiators agree since they are not riders to start with. I also dismount, though Metis could handle the treacherous path and web traps. We are a group, for now. I do give her another ear for her excellent service before chasing her off. All the horses disappear back from whence we came.

“Let’s go,” Sinead declares.

We run between ancient bark crusted with mushrooms and webs in the direction of the fracas of battle. Arrows whistle and soon we see the flash of green of moving warriors lost in a sea of chitinous rage. Our group lays into the back of the spider tide with gusto, Nol and Dancer especially vicious. I suppose a fly and a mantis would harbor little love for spiders.

Once again, I mostly protect the others from the occasional wave. I dispose of a few larger spiders spitting acid at the fleeting forms of our allies before they can turn too much ground into hungry green puddles. We dive into the fray in a wedge, leaving broken bodies in our wake. There are a few clicks, then a massive tarantula with an exposed brain lets out a high-pitched whine.

Immediately, the whine grows in intensity.

Then its brain explodes.

Khadras lets out a dark chuckle while the spiders retreat in disarray. It matters little. There are tens of thousands of the buggers throughout those forests. Only a fast pace will protect us from being overwhelmed.

The Spring Court warriors rally around the towering, antlered figure of their leader. The women with whom he shared a drink of wine places herself into his protective embrace. He appears to have lost one fighter and half of his elks.

“My love,” she whispers in true Likaean. “You saved me.”

He smiles gently at her and, for a moment, an emerald light filters from the boughs, casting them in a gentle glow. She raises her hand to his rugged cheek.

He catches it with lightning speed, turning the fingers over. She is wearing a ring and, with a flick of his finger, a transparent needle dripping with liquid unsheathes itself from it.

“Is this how you killed my brother?” he amorously asks his horrified companion.

Her blabbering answer gets cut by a vicious dagger plunged in her chest. He stabs her with hateful spite until she chokes on her blood, her pleadings dying on blood-stained lips. Oh, she smells amazing. What a show. Wait, no, Ariane, you are supposed to be judgemental and we are wasting time.

Eventually, a panting noble of Spring turns to Sinead with grateful, if empty eyes.

“It was as you said, Your Highness. The debt is repaid. No, my debt is still running.”

The touching scene is cut short when Syma coughs, her breath labored. I am immediately by her side and removing an antidote from the pouch at my back. By the Watcher, it is so good to be able to wear accessories without them turning instantly into frozen icicles.

“Are you hurt? Where were you hit?” I ask as her face turns purple. Spider poison, no doubt.

“No… I…”

I force the concoction between her darkened lips and wait for it to take effect.

It does not.

“What…”

I place her gently on the ground but she is choking, and fast. I consider stabbing the base of her trachea to bypass her constricted throat, and rip apart her chest armor. The exposed skin is mottled with black spots. Syma grabs my hand between two of hers and guides it to her neck, where I feel something transparent under my fingers. I remove a practically invisible dart from her skin, the blood-covered tip barely visible to my improved senses.

“Better… here… than…”

She stops, and her arms grow lax. She is dead. Someone just assassinated one of my gladiators.

I find myself… rather annoyed. They are duelists, not schemers. The use of poisoned weapon in an assassination is… so very low. Disrespectful of their efforts. I just got her the nice saber too. She liked them.

“A Blood Court assassin’s tool,” Khadras explains.

“The red woman?” I ask, thinking of Revas’ second.

“Yes. She is one of the few to escape the control of her senseless court. There are no others near this sphere right now.”

“I see.”

I track in my head where Syma was and realize she moved too much.

“I can find her,” Makyas announces.

I look at the tiny flying man. He looks tired yet determined.

“I would love to have your help.”

“We cannot afford to have her pick us off, but we cannot stop. We will move towards the mountain. Makyas can guide you to us.”

“Agreed,” I declare. “Hadrano, can you take her body? I don’t want to leave it here.”

“Of course.”

“Then let us go.”

“We will accompany you to the base of the mountain,” the spring noble says. “It is the least I can do.”

We split, Makyas guiding me. First, he erratically flows around the site of the battle and I sometimes fear he will disappear behind a trunk and be gone forever, but this is not the Nightmare World and he eventually glides back to my shoulder.

“Found her. Over here.”

I have no idea how he managed it, since even I can see no hints she has been around. I decide to release my Magna Arqa and curse the wasted vitality. I cannot afford not to see her coming.

“I can feel them,” I whisper to him, and he tugs on a lock in response.

We arrive in a short clearing, not so much a true opening than a less crowded spot where the lights of the stars can be seen. A large spider lies dead, curled on itself like a contracted hand. One of the lone hunters sits against a stump with a pallid face. He sweats abundantly, and when he looks up, his anger turns to despair.

As far as bait goes, this one is rather pathetic.

At this stage, I believe I will go mad if I taste even the slightest amount of vitality. So, even though I heartily wish to shred all those ambushers into minced meat with my thorns, I will have to deprive myself of the satisfaction. That is fine. I approach the resigned form of the lone hunters and pretend to believe this is the man who poisoned Syma. I lean forward and grab the short spear on his back, then I give him another antidote.

As I suspected, the red woman poisoned him with borrowed spider venom instead of whatever horror she used on my gladiator. He immediately regains some color.

“You might as well come out,” I announce.

The Summer Court fighters shoot me with arrows. I collapse on myself and let them fly over my head, then I am up and running towards the red woman. All those who can attempt to intercept me, but I easily slide under their blows or around their lunges. Those men are competent, but they are nothing compared to what I have faced before. Even their archery pales in comparison to the vicious imagination of Blue Court’s sharpshooters. I move through them without stopping. They are slow and unused to the terrain. They struggle with so many obstacles, I can tell. I make short work of them, stabbing the borrowed spear in the chinks of their armor and through solid chain mail. They scream and they bleed and they are simply too delicious. I need to… no, I must not.

The red demoness does something and I block another invisible dart with the haft of the spear. She emerges from the darkness near a lone rock, a black tube held in her armored hands. She raises both hands towards me. A red ball rises between her palms like a twilight sun. We cast our spells at the same time.

“Hellish chaser.”

“Polar Midnight.”

Our words spoken in Likaean resonate, each in their different way. Mine is winter, hers is a land steeped in fire and endless conflict. They smack into each other. Her spell is more focused, but mine is unyielding. The orb of fire dives into the maw of winter and pierces through, only to find itself slowly digested. It peters out in the endless cold.

I smack her head aside with the tip of the spear, digging a furrow through a horned helmet.

Five years ago, we might have been a match. No longer. I even dismiss my Magna Arqa to spare my strength since she is so powerless to face me. Her style is perhaps the most similar to my own out of all the foes I ever faced, but while mine has grown sharp and effective, hers still reeks of wasted motions, of sloppy steps. I punish her every step of the way.

“Is that it?” I ask, somewhat disappointed.

She snarls and dives under a spear jab, full of openings just as she thinks me disarmed. Instead of repositioning the spear, I drop it and punch my claws into her abdomen. They dig into her armor, though the process itself is rather painful on my knuckles. I inspect my talons while she is tossed aside, reeling from the blow.

There is blood there, carmine and so very vibrant. Just a little bit of it. Just a smidgen. I casually stab a soldier trying to attack me from behind because I simply cannot take my eyes away from this perfect treasure, this new, unknown scent unlike any court I have sampled yet. Oh, yes, so small and precious, a ruby on the black needle of my claw, shivering in the wind. Its warmth will soon disperse. If I could have it, just a little lick.

“HSSSSSSS!”

“Shit, we’re leaving!” the woman claims.

Alas, the morsel takes a bell from her pocket and rings it. Fog emerges from the earth with remarkable speed until I am lost in a cloud of fluffy white, the only clear point a single, armored hand holding a bell.

So I strike with the spear and all my might. The broad tip slams into the wrist, shattering it. The severed hand falls on the ground, fingers clenched over the ghost of the bell until it, too disappears.

I turn around to see the archer on his feet, two arrows notched at the same time. He is a tall man with a beard and some spectacular sideburns. I remember he rode a wolf here, though there are no signs of his mount.

He seems a bit worried.

I realize I reactivated my Magna Arqa during the demoness’ escape. My eyes should be purple and slitted to his perception. Also, I might be drooling a little. From the frustration. It is fine.

“You are safe,” I assure him, and he amazingly takes my word for it.

“It appears I owe you a debt of gratitude, and then a debt of blood.”

He scowls mightily and takes a deep breath.

“The woman killed Juron, my companion.”

“My condolences.”

“That is fine, he will be reborn soon.”

Convenient.

“How may I repay my debt?”

I remember all those stories about humans lost in faerie land, losing their names and youth and whatnot. Honestly, they merely need to follow three simple principles. Do not be greedy. Do not try to extort them. Most importantly, be capable of hacking them to mince meat. Simple.

“You may help us win the hunt,” I quickly reply. “That would suffice.”

“Then let us be away.”

The three of us race forward to the forest’s end, only chasing off a few skittering denizens on the way. The mountain rises abruptly with a sheer cliff, but there are stairs in the distance. Out of patience, I grab the archer and claw my way on the sheer wall, ignoring the mild panic singing through his veins. I can hear voices above. Soon, we join the stairs again and I find Sinead leading our companions in a desperate climb.

“You took yet another stray?” the sunny prince gasps.

“You were the first stray I picked up,” I remind him.

“Nevermind that. Revas is above. Can you delay him?”

“I will,” I say, and race ahead. The wind blows harsher now that we are much higher. The large body we are climbing will soon end, but it appears linked to the steeper, larger side of a larger peak by a narrow bridge of prodigious length.

Revas is currently running across it as we arrive.

I do not know if the spheres play a role, or magic does, but sometimes, life has a way of lining up perfectly.

Four arrows pierce the far pillars, severing the ropes hanging the bridge. The far end drops immediately. To his credit, Revas turns and races back, displaying unnatural grace in the way he uses the falling wood as support. Our eyes meet as he approaches the halfway.

I cut the support on our end.

It brings me great joy to watch him plummet to the ground, golden armor shining like a falling star.

Sinead finally reaches us, catching a last glimpse of Revas before he disappears in the forest far below. I have no doubt that he survived, alas, but the archer was correct in his choice. I doubt he could have pierced that armor.

“Shall we go on?” I ask.

“Hush,” the prince replies, eyes closed. “Let me mark the memory of this moment in my heart forever.

We hear the distant noise of broken branches and of metal smashing on stone.

“Beautiful.”

“We have not won yet. We need to cross and get this over with,” I protest, especially because we either find the dragon in the next couple of hours, or someone is getting eaten.

“This is my time to shine!” Nol declares.

I do not say I could just grow roots across the chasm. Instead, I allow him to fly a rope to the other side, which we cross in turn. Most gladiators just walk on it like performers, which I find pleasing to watch and might paint later. The archer also joins our merry band to see his debt cleared.

We keep climbing.

Sometimes, I look behind at the trail of various warriors who have joined us on this strange quest. Far below, the rest of the mountain dives into the ground like a blade through flesh. I had not realized it in our mad rush upward, but Likaeans can cross distances in a way few other mortals could. Only a pack of werewolves could have moved faster. Returning home will require some… readjustments. I shake my head and continue up, feeling nervous energy swell in my black heart. This will soon be over. All the major parties are accounted for, and they are always the fastest without exception. Our climb continues in silence. The height of the mountain catches me by surprise. It is so high that the temperature plummets and the howling winds eventually force Makyas to hide in my bag. Around me, those who can breathe suffer despite the occasional stop.

We reach a plateau at dawn.

Here, dawn is not synonymous with an agonizing and fiery end. Instead, the sky turns pink in the distance and the light of the stars fades. A few of the gladiators sigh with contentment. I understand something is wrong when the deep fog covering the plateau fails to disperse, covering the land in cottonous layers far into the distance and almost to the distant peak. We expected this, however. It is the reason why I have not fed in a while.

“The shroud of oblivion, a classic,” Khadras replies. “Unfortunately, it would take my mother to disperse something of that magnitude. We will have to do our best.”

“Is everyone ready?” Sinead asks.

Everyone takes a few last swigs of whatever liquid they fancy. We are facing the last hurdle before the dragon proper, if everything goes well. The shroud of oblivion will cast away all those who lack the drive to reach him. Only the most determined heroes get a chance to face magic incarnate. Many hunts end without success.

“Good luck, and see you back at the encampment,” Sinead tells everyone.

We all step in.

Holding hands or using any sort of device would be of no use here. The shroud is the dragon’s doing, and he does not tolerate cheaters. I am swallowed by a vaporous tide on my way forward. The hard, creviced stone under my feet turns into something smoother and colder, reminding me of the marble of an ancient castle. My senses are soon dulled, but I do not fight it. Even my Magna Arqa would be of little help since we are in his domain.

The first of the whispers come soon.

“You are no one. Unimportant.”

I ignore it. Unfortunately, I cannot rely on Sinead’s inflated ego and unerring sense of self-importance. From the beginning, I was thrown into a merciless world where I was at the bottom of the pyramid. I have spent a lot of time there, finding my own happiness, working on my own rules and developing skills. Even now, Nirari’s power weighs upon my mind. I could not convince myself I am truly important even if I tried, because I do not believe I am. I do, however, achieve important things with people who are important to me. This is what matters. Not glory everlasting or those pompous concepts.

“You are not the first, not the last. Not even someone exceptional. You live in the middle, scrabbling in the mud with the rest. You are no one. Unimportant.”

“I am enough,” I reply.

The fog takes away my outrage and gnaws at my ambition. It weakens the ties I have with others.

“When you die, no one will remember you, no one will carve your name. You will be a footnote in history..”

“I made a kingdom for the living, and it is them I care about. Not my own majesty.”

“In three hundred years, no one will know you even existed.”

“What do I care about people three centuries after I die? I never met them. They might be twits.”

“Your sire will kill you.”

My steps falter and I almost fall on my face. What? What did it just say to me? It felt… important somehow. I struggle to remember.

“You will be a stepping stone, the last one. He lets you grow now so he can take you down at the end. You will be a statement. A cautionary tale.”

I remember that… it matters? I believe it matters.

“You could submit to him. Let go. He would treat you well.”

“Would he? I think you are wrong.”

“He would, now. You merely have to bend.”

Something is wrong, however. How can one bend and BITE? How can prey drink blood? And I will drink blood. I must have it. I must have that hunt to its conclusion.

“You were never meant to rule his empire.”

“There is no empire. He rules over ash and bones. I will not let him turn what I have into a tool of senseless conquest.”

“There will be, when he is done. Submit.”

Something rebels inside of me, backed by my essence. I have bent in the past because it was necessary, because death would have followed refusal, but this time is over. We are on the cusp of the last great act, and I will no longer surrender. I will face him, I will kill him, and I will DRINK HIM DRY.

“I am enough, I know what I want, and I will hunt everything in my path. I will slake my Thirst on your sorry, dessicated —”

My words die on my lips when the fog evaporates, and I gaze into the depth of an amber orb the size of a coffee table.

It slowly blinks.