Prologue
Friar Ben Hasoth’s history lecture for the children of the Blessed Light Orphanage:
“Gather around and listen closely now, for today, we delve into the history of our world. Even the gods who shaped this realm from starlight, stone, and pure magic—the Elders—cannot recall who first ignited the flames of the endless war. What we do know is that the only victors were those who feasted on flesh and bone, reveling in the bloodshed.
“Centuries of relentless conflict between the Seelie and Unseelie Fae have ravaged our world, leaving it in smoldering ruins. The once-sacred mountain, home of the Elders, is now but a shattered memory. Enraged by the Fae’s ceaseless slaughter of innocents, the Elders split the mountain asunder and left this realm, cursing it. Fiery rivers erupted from the summit, consuming all life and transforming the lands around it into a poisoned wasteland. For years, black vapors shrouded the sun, and from this eternal twilight, the Shadowfeeders emerged. Their tainted touch turned every living being into mindless thralls, ravenous for the flesh of the living.
“The Elders’ curse has hexed our world and all who inhabit it. Nights now stretch unnaturally long, sometimes enduring for weeks, bringing with them death and despair. The Shadowfeeders and their armies of thralls—the Tainted Ones—are the true rulers of our world, not the Unseelie Fae who falsely claim victory.
“The war is over, but we—the humans and all living souls—have lost everything.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking: is there hope? Of course there is! Despite the nights growing longer and darker, and the Shadowfeeders creeping ever closer to the few remaining cities, the Elders, in their mercy, left us a tiny flicker of hope—the Blessed Light. A magic spell only the most skilled mages can cast, our only protection against the night and its horrors. These mages are our true heroes and protectors, not the armies of the Unseelie King who enter the human provinces only to collect taxes. Their Blessed Light spells shield our dwellings in the light of the Elders, protecting us during the long nights and helping our crops grow. But, as with all precious things in this tormented world, mages are incredibly rare…”
Talysse
The Caravan
Sunsets are the most dreadful thing. The death of the light is even worse when you know what lurks in the dark, and you hope and pray that you will live to see the sunrise.
When the light starts fading, doors are locked, kids are called home, and animals are herded into the stalls. All eyes turn to the horizon, exploding with orange and pink, and many draw triangles in the dust at their doorsteps—the sacred symbol of the Holy Mountain, home of the Elders.
I scoff. As if any of this could stop those who come with the darkness.
The gilded palanquin glides through the streets like a vision from a lost, better world. The peeling gold leaf catches the last sun’s rays, and the warm breeze billows the curtains like the sails of a ghostly ship. Townsfolk bow as it passes, but I keep my eyes fixed on the mage inside. Glossy black curls, eyes cold as a frozen lake, ruby lips a thin line—she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, though beauty is common among the Fae.
Her impassive features betray nothing. Will the Blessed Light spell hold until dawn? Will her spell be strong enough to protect the city and the fields? The Unseelie mage scolds her servants to hurry up without sparing us, the commoners, a glance.
“May your nights be short, Blessed One!”
“The Elders bless you!” Shouts ripple through the crowd, eyes darting to the sky, lips moving in prayers. More and more townsfolk murmur against the Unseelie oppressors, but mage Eloysse is our only protector and the closest thing to a hero we have in Tenebris. Concerned eyes follow the mage’s procession as everyone tries to guess how long the night will be. The last one spanned over a week. And tonight, something is alarming in the angle the dying light hits the pavement on the market streets, in the way the pigeons grew quiet and disappeared from the roofs of the Temple of the Elders.
Mage Eloysse is running late. A merchant caravan, larger than any seen in Tenebris this year, has just arrived, and she was probably eager for news.
The nights are getting longer. Rumor has it Eloysse’s powers are barely enough to hold our wards against the darkness and keep the Beacon alight. The city has grown too big, its outskirts barely touched by the halo of the Blessed Light, but the Unseelie Governor refuses to send one of his precious mages to help Eloysse. Or he’s doing it on purpose—too many humans means too many eyes spotting the injustice we have suffered from the Unseelie for centuries. A rebellion in the human provinces is the last thing the king needs after the untimely death of his heir and his weakening grip on the crown.
The last crimson rays disappear behind the roofs. For one long moment, the city stands still, holding its breath. Terror trickles down the crumbling walls, gathers in the street corners, and gains flesh in the back alleys. I ball my fists so hard that my nails dig into my flesh. Will the city go down with the last light?
A crackle of magic and golden light erupts from the Beacon, spilling over the city like a shimmering veil. I let out a breath with a hiss. The magical halo unfolds from the Beacon at the heart of Tenebris—the tallest tower—and ripples over the city all the way to the walls and the fields beyond. The sounds of life swiftly return to the streets. Street musicians start a merry tune down the Merchants’ Alley, someone hums, children laugh, and the housewives start dinner.
I tuck a few stray strands into my crown braid and head down the road to the Bountiful Bosom Inn. Everyone loathes the darkness, but the night is the time to make money, and the Elders know that I need it.
Many seek comfort from the dread of the long nights in the company of others. Is there a better way to forget that death lurks beyond the fragile protection of the magical halo than some sweet wine, some loud music, and friendly faces?
Carrying a heavy tray loaded with roasted ribs, honey buns, poppy seed sconces, and chalices dripping with sticky mead, I swiftly meander between tables and patrons. The aroma of the fresh food and the spices makes me drool.
The caravan that has arrived today has lured many townspeople to the inn, and there are many tables to tend to. A caravan is always a reason to celebrate, as Tenebris is too far away from the big cities and the trading routes of Phyllesia. Traveling the Wastelands is becoming increasingly difficult lately. Caravans have their own mages to protect them from the Shadowfeeders and armed to-the-teeth mercenaries to keep the Tainted Ones at bay, as many lose their way in the dark, never to be seen again. Since I was able to walk to the fence of my father’s mansion and peek outside, I’ve wondered how the world beyond the city walls is and was a little jealous of those brave enough to travel. Father has told me of his travels, about the caravan mages taking turns to cast the Blessed Light spell, their portable crystals shrouding the camp tents in a shimmering veil of magic, of terrifying sounds in the night, and clashes with hordes of Tainted Ones. There is a whole world out there, dead, gruesome, and cruel, but also full of marvels like starry skies, oceans, and abandoned cities waiting to be discovered. The itch for the unknown had settled in since my childhood.
“Charred woods, burnt lands, desolated cities, and monsters, lots of monsters,” is all my best friend Myrtle says when I talk about my plan to flee to the Free Cities. She is probably right that there is not much left of the world out there, just the bustling Unseelie metropolises, fattened up by the wealth of the whole realm, but the legendary Free Cities at the shores of the Thynian Ocean have become my only hope. A human autonomy where everyone is free to be what they desire.
Slamming the mead on the table, I startle the newcomers, who utter their thanks with a strange accent. The locals are already buying them drinks, trying to untie their tongues. Everyone craves news from the outside world, as messengers rarely reach us. There’s nothing precious we can offer the Unseelie overlords, so they seem to have forgotten about our existence.
Experience has taught me to instantly recognize different types of travelers. The artists and bards are dressed in colorful and expensive clothes; they tend to splurge on extravagant meals and give generous tips. The merchants are the opposite; they’re wearing inconspicuous but fine garments and keep to themselves. Mercenaries and mages are quite obvious, and I prefer to avoid them. But there are other types of customers tonight, and their presence gives me chills: the Unseelie.
Their too-beautiful faces and the way they look at us are just creepy—as if stripping us of our flesh and staring directly into our minds. Something is stirring in the Unseelie kingdom, but all Fae can rot for all I care. Unseelie and their wretched politics are problems of Magister Deepwell, not of the common townsfolk. From me, Fae have already taken everything they could—my parents and my old life.
I quickly collect the greasy, empty plates and head back to the kitchens, hoping to find Myrtle.
The inn is alive with music—the sounds of flutes, drums, and violins fill the air, making feet tap and smiles bloom. Couples twirl in dance, cheered on by the clapping patrons around them.
