Inside the tavern, Stransa, a primordial of shadow, felt a cold prickle spiderwebbing up her spine. A familiar presence, one she hadn't sensed in an age, settled just outside the tavern's threshold. Vesper. Her uncle. Before the Purge, before the world remade itself, they had known each other differently. Why was he here? And more unsettling, why was he here personally? A knot of dread tightened in her chest.
Without a word, Stransa rose and moved towards the tavern's exit. She stepped out onto the cobbled road, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth inside. "I know you're there, Vesper," she called out, her voice cutting through the lingering song from within. "I have no mind for your games."
Out of nowhere, Vesper solidified before her, a gentle ripple in the air her only warning. Despite being the very concept of death, he offered a warm, inviting smile, his eyes holding an ancient kindness. His presence was rarely met with such warmth, yet he carried it with an unassuming grace.
"Why are you here?" Stransa demanded, her arms crossed.
Vesper's smile broadened slightly. "For a soul, of course. Why else would I be here?"
"Whose?" Stransa pressed, a dangerous edge in her voice. "This is my home. I demand to know."
Vesper's smile faltered only slightly. "It is against the protocols, Stransa. Those who are to pass on cannot know the date beforehand. You, above all, should understand this."
"Protocols don't usually involve you making personal house calls," Stransa retorted, her shadow shifting restlessly around her feet. "Not for just any soul. This isn't your usual work, Vesper."
Vesper sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of forgotten ages. "True. The thread is… significant. Vibrant. It drew me here. I only have an inkling of its origin at this point, Stransa, a whisper on the wind, but it is undoubtedly a powerful one." He gestured vaguely back toward the tavern. "And it's still a while yet. The spool isn't ready to be cut; it still has much to unravel."
Stransa narrowed her eyes, a flicker of understanding passing through her. "A long while? So you're just... waiting? Observing?"
"Precisely," Vesper confirmed, his smile returning, though it held a hint of melancholy now. "A life of such import requires careful attention. It wouldn't do to rush the inevitable."
"And you expect me to simply accept that?" Stransa asked, her voice laced with suspicion. "You show up in my home, for a soul you won't name, and tell me to be at ease because it's 'not time yet'?"
Vesper tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. "You know my purpose, Stransa. I am here for what comes to all. But I do not rush it, especially not for a life so full. Rest assured, when the time comes, it will be as gentle as I can make it." He paused, his gaze softening. "Though I admit, seeing your city thriving, seeing you here, does make the task a little less… solitary."
Stransa didn't relax her stance, but the tension in her shoulders lessened. "Solitary or not, your presence here, now, makes me uneasy. You know what happened before. You know why I protect this place."
"And I respect it," Vesper replied, his voice calm. "But even the most diligently protected lives find their way to me eventually. This is merely a precursor. Consider it a courtesy call, if you like."
"A courtesy call from death himself," Stransa muttered, a hint of dark humor in her tone. "How comforting." She looked from Vesper back to the tavern, the singing still echoing from within. "Just stay out of trouble, Uncle. And don't hover too close. Some presences are better felt from a distance."
Vesper simply smiled, a silent acknowledgment of her words. He began to fade, his form blurring at the edges, a shadow returning to the deeper shadows of the night.
Nott, a young wolfkin woman with sharp wolf ears twitching and a bushy tail occasionally thumping against her chair, leaned back, a grin stretching across her face. She signed, "You should have seen them, Torren! Fae, for all their ethereal beauty, are surprisingly skittish."
Across from her, Asha, the tigren second queen of Nan du Tua, let out a booming laugh, her striped tail swishing. "Indeed! They fancy themselves superior, but a well-placed shriek can send them scrambling faster than a goblin from a bath."
Torren, Nott's sister, chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in her cup. "I heard tales, of course, but never the full story. How did you two manage to scare off an entire detachment of the Fae host with… ghosts?"
Nott’s grin widened. She signed, "It was Asha’s brilliant idea, really. We were dug in, holding the line near the Whispering Woods, and the Fae were relentless. They kept trying to flank us through that overgrown field."
"Too many trees for their cavalry to charge effectively," Asha added, taking a sip of her own drink. "But too open for our archers to get a clear shot. So I thought, what do the Fae fear more than anything?"
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
"The unknown," Torren supplied, her eyes twinkling.
"Exactly!" Asha slammed her fist lightly on the table. "And ghosts are the ultimate unknown to them. They have all sorts of superstitions about spirits and ancient curses."
Nott picked up the story, signing animatedly. "So, we gathered all the spare white cloaks we could find, painted crude, glowing faces on them with phosphorescent moss, and strung them up on the taller branches in the field. Then, as night fell, we had a few of our most… talented catkin yowling and wailing from the tree line."
"Not just any yowling," Asha interjected with a dramatic flourish, "but mournful, bone-chilling wails! And the wind, bless its heart, picked up just enough to make the cloaks sway and shimmer."
Torren threw her head back and roared with laughter. "You created a haunted field!"
"Precisely," Nott signed, pride evident in her movements, her wolf ears swiveling slightly. "The first few Fae scouts who ventured in let out shrieks that would curdle milk. They reported back of an ancient burial ground, swarming with restless spirits, and suddenly, that flanking maneuver wasn't so appealing."
"They spent the rest of the night trying to find another way around," Asha concluded, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "It bought us enough time for reinforcements to arrive and push them back for good."
The three shared another round of hearty laughter, the tension of old war stories momentarily forgotten in the warmth of shared humor. Just as their chuckles began to subside, the heavy oak door to the chamber creaked open.
A guard, clad in the silver and blue of Nan du Tua, stood in the doorway, looking somewhat flustered. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty," he said, bowing to Asha. "But there's an avenkin woman and man at the gate. They're requesting an audience. The woman says it's urgent."
Asha’s smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. "Avenkin? Did they say their names?"
The guard nodded, his voice dropping slightly. "The woman says her name is Elara, and she comes from the Scholarik Noctis. The male seems to be her help, Your Majesty."
A palpable tension descended upon the room, instantly replacing the lighthearted atmosphere. Asha's expression hardened, her eyes meeting Nott's. Nott's wolf ears flattened almost imperceptibly, and her tail ceased its rhythmic thumping. They had been waiting for her, for Elara, since the oracles had fallen silent five days prior, entranced and unresponsive. It was believed Elara might hold the key to understanding, or even resolving, the dire situation.
"Show them in," Asha commanded, her voice edged with urgency. "Immediately."
As the guard turned to leave, Asha and Nott exchanged a grim look. A moment later, the heavy doors opened again, revealing an avenkin woman and a male companion. The woman, Elara, appeared utterly spent. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, and her usually vibrant feathers seemed dull and ruffled, as if she hadn't known a moment of significant sleep in weeks. The exhaustion clung to her like a shroud.
Nott, without a moment's hesitation, walked swiftly towards Elara. The moment she reached her, Nott pulled the avenkin woman into a fierce embrace. "Elara," Nott signed, her voice a silent whisper of relief and concern. The two women had a shared, profound history; ten years ago, after the devastating memory haint attack, it had been Elara who had meticulously helped Nott piece back the shattered fragments of her mind.
Elara looked at Nott in shock, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Nott? Is that truly you?" She pulled back slightly from the embrace, her gaze searching Nott's face. "I came to Nan du Tua to ask Asha about your whereabouts. No one has heard from you in ten years, Nott. After you beat Nyx, you just… disappeared from the battlefield."
Nott's shoulders slumped. She signed, "I tried to return to the world after, but they didn't want me. They were afraid of me and my power. They said such awful rumors, and I retreated back to where I lived before the war."
"Your father's cottage?" Elara interjected, her voice laced with concern. "I would have thought it a painful place for you after the night he took your voice."
Nott shook her head, a faint, melancholic smile touching her lips. She signed, "I have more good memories than bad. It's where Vidar, my brother, you remember, raised me."
Elara's eyes darted around the room, as if expecting to see him. "Where is Vidar?"
Nott felt the familiar sting behind her eyes, the tears welling up, but she fought them back fiercely, her hands making words with shaking fingers as she struggled to maintain her composure. "He didn't make it."
A heavy silence descended between the two women. Elara's expression softened, a deep sadness settling in her eyes. "Killed in battle, then? During the war?"
Nott nodded slowly, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She signed, "Yes. The last days. We were surrounded. I tried to save him, Elara, I truly did. But there were too many. He was fighting so bravely, covering our retreat, and… and I couldn't get to him in time. I couldn't save him." The last words were almost lost, her hands trembling with raw emotion that transcended even the power of her signs. The weight of those ten years, the burden of that loss, was etched on her face.
From behind Elara, the male companion, a hummingbirdkin about half her height, whispered, "This is Nott? The Nott? The hero of Varashroova?"
"Hero of Lore, if truth be told," Asha interjected, her voice firm. "She saved us all."
The hummingbirdkin stepped forward, bowing slightly. "I am Kallen," he said, his eyes wide and starstruck as he looked at Nott.
Nott felt a blush creep across her cheeks, a rare warmth spreading through her. This was the first time in a long while that the old rumors hadn't tainted a first meeting. She extended her hand, and Kallen eagerly shook it, his small grip surprisingly strong.
Just as they released hands, Elara's gaze shifted past Nott and landed on Torren, who had remained quietly observant in the background. A look of surprise crossed Elara's exhausted face. Torren bore a striking resemblance to Nott—the same sharp wolf ears and bushy tail—except she was noticeably taller and broader in stature.
"And who might this be?" Elara asked, her eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity as she took in Torren's similar features.
Torren stepped forward, a faint smile on her lips. "I'm Torren. Nott's half-sister."
Elara's eyebrows shot up, a quizzical expression replacing her exhaustion. She remembered, distinctly, during the arduous ritual in Nott's mind—the one where she helped piece back the shattered memories after the memory haint's attack—that Nott's mother had died shortly after Nott was born. This made a younger sister, particularly a half-sister, an impossibility in Elara's understanding of Nott's history. The memory of Nott's infant cries, and the deep, silent grief of a new father, flashed through Elara's mind. How could this be?