I obey immediately, stumbling at first, then breaking into a desperate sprint out and away from the alley. When I finally stop to catch my breath, I’m down the next street over.
My eyes desperately search for any familiar landmarks as I continue through a maze of interconnected alleys. Rusted metal sheeting leans against crumbling red stone walls, forming makeshift shelters. Broken windows gape sporadically throughout abandoned buildings, their frames warped from Mars’s relentless sandstorms. People huddle in doorways and beneath torn canvas awnings, their faces gaunt, their clothes patched and re-patched. The air reeks of unwashed bodies, disintegrating feces, and the ever-present metallic tang of rust.
I slow to a jog, then a brisk walk as I enter the outskirts of the slums. Dimly lit shack windows and broken street lamps cast a faint glow through the crimson night in this part of town, and the sounds of raucous drinking and heart-wrenching begging fill the streets. I can feel my body slowing down, the withdrawal symptoms replaced by a bone-aching tiredness.
That’s when guilt crashes into me.
The boy.
I left him there, defenceless, with whatever that shadow figure intended. My cowardice burns worse than the magic withdrawal already beginning beneath my skin. I stop, chest heaving, and consider going back. But my feet won’t turn around.
I run along a few more streets before pausing again to catch my breath and gather my bearings. I’ve managed to run out of the slums and into the market district, so it shouldn’t be too much farther to the main road. The stark contrast hits me – here the streets are paved withactual stone instead of packed dirt, lined with stalls selling spices, fabrics, and salvaged tech. Oil lamps flicker in the darkness, casting warm pools of light. Vendors are closing up for the night, pulling weathered tarps over their wares. The air smells different here, of roasted meats and incense. Still, it’s obvious in every district that Mars has never recovered from the last wars. The slums are by far the worst off, but even here, the cracked water lines leak precious moisture into the red dust, and half the stalls sit dark and empty, their owners long gone. People collapse in the street from injury or hunger every day, and healers like me are the only safety net they have. There’s an apathy in the air, like we’ve all come to the same conclusion: our planet is too broken and poor to ever return to the glory it once was.
I glance behind me again, checking to make sure the coast is clear. I’ve never had a scare in the slums – not like this. Sure, there have been times where I’ve avoided certain alleyways, or removed myself from escalating situations, but this was the first time I’ve ever truly felt in danger. Most of the beggars have come to recognize me as a healer and helper, giving me a certain level of security. But tonight was beyond anything I could have anticipated.
Who was that masked figure? A vigilante protecting the slums?The thought makes my stomach twist as I hurry down the main road. Mother will know what to make of this. Maybe she’ll recognize whatever dark magic that was from her days as a Daughter of the Moon. Or perhaps she’s overheard some important intel at court.
I start walking quickly again, desperate to tell her everything, to feel safe at home. She’s probably pacing around our small living area, moving between the hearth and the window that overlooks the herb garden, wondering where I am. I can picture her clearly, almost a carbon copy of my own reflection – dirty blonde hair, round green eyes that almost match mine, worry creasing her brow the way it does when I’m late. She’ll have changed out of her palace robes by now, back into the simple cotton dress she wears at home. And she always leaves a pot of tea by the fire for my return at sunset – our ritual of connection after our respective work days, me out healing in the markets, and her healing at the palace. I can already smell the chamomile and lavender she blends herself, see the two chipped ceramic cups waiting on thewooden table. The thought of her worried face brings with it a fresh wave of guilt.
But when I crest the hill and see our cottage, my stomach sinks.
The house is dark. No warm glow from the windows. No smoke rising from the chimney.
I reach for the worn wooden door, my fingers finding the iron latch. It’s cold. Unlocked. I push it open, slowly, hinges creaking. My boots echo too loudly on the pale floorboards, the wood grey with age.
No candlelight. No stew simmering. No soft footsteps pacing. Worse – no tea waiting by the fire, the ceramic pot cold and abandoned on its usual spot on the table. Mother never forgets our evening ritual.
“M-Mother?”
Nothing.
Her shawl is crumpled near the hearth, the soft wool the colour of cream, hand-woven with silver threads along the edges. One of the chairs from our table lies on its side near the doorway to her bedroom, as if someone knocked it over in a hurry.
And tucked beneath a loose brick by the fire, a folded parchment sealed in wax. Crossed swords buried in flames – the crest of House Mars – burns red against the parchment.
I tear it open with numb fingers.
“To Cyra of the Red Market District,
By order of Lord Zevran of House Mars, you are hereby summoned to the palace to serve as personal healer to His Grace. Effective immediately.”
My hands shake.
A masked stranger. An attack. My mother, gone without a word, without a trace. And Lord Zevran – the militant ruler of Mars – wants me at his side toreplacemy mother as his personal healer?
The timing can’t be a coincidence.
I sink onto the cold hearth, staring at her shawl, the summons in my lap. The weight of this situation presses down on me – twenty-eight years of carefully constructed lies about who I am, where I come from. If anyone discovers the truth about the blood that runs through my veins, this summons will be the least of my worries.
Hours pass. I don’t sleep. I just sit there, staring at her shawl. Everysound outside makes me jump – is it her returning? Is it whoever took her? Is it the masked figure, coming for me next? I know I should do something – go out, look for her, anything – but I feel paralyzed.
Even after all of this – after everything that just happened – the familiar gnawing need beneath my skin hasn’t faded.
It never does.
Morning light streams through the windows, harsh and unforgiving. The light catches red dust motes drifting through our small main room, and illuminates the simple wooden table where Mother and I should be sharing breakfast. I’m still on the floor by the hearth, its red Martian stone the same colour as the dust that coats everything on this planet.
As I sit up, an uncomfortable tingle ripples through my body – an inconvenient reminder that I haven’t used my healing magic since last night. The withdrawal sits beneath my skin, making my fingers twitch and my thoughts scatter:I should look for Mother now that the sun is up. I should do something, anything…
