Years ago, the Governor ordered the construction of a subterranean refuge, known among the aristocracy as the Burrow, beneath Rasileus Academy. This, I have learned, is regularly stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, meats, and beverages brought from the kitchens in the Iron Citadel. Recently, as you well know, the Old Ones marched farther eastward to obstruct the Citadel’s gates. This brought no discomfort to the Droves; the Burrow contains enough essentials to last the Governor’s soldiers a lifetime. Possibly more.
All this time, these soldiers have had something to fall back on, a last resort, a contingency plan if—when—all other plans are blown to Hell.
“I’m not liking where this is headed,” Percival said, his voice thin. He looked as gray as the room in the museum had after being leached of color by the sword.
Speechless, Roy continued reading Farrek’s account.
Rumors began to stir of an arrangement made for the lower classes. A sled loaded with cargo—a fraction of the provisions delivered to the Burrow—would be shipped weekly to the communal shelters situated at the northern outskirts of Rasileus. These sleds would make the same journey: out from the front gates of the Academy, then through the valley nearby and to the shelters based on the other side, ending at Rasileus’s northern border.
Unfortunately, the storm rendered this area nigh impassable. Snow fell in and blocked up the valley, building twice as a man is tall. The Governor refused civilians’ pleas to invest in horse-drawn snowplows, as the only two available were at the time being used to clear the courtyard of the Iron Citadel to extend the Droves’ range of mobility, in case the Old Ones stationed at the gates pressed farther inward. The drivers made efforts to clear the snow themselves, with what equipment they had at their disposal, but were unsuccessful and died in the attempt.
As you can imagine, the circumstances grew very drastic, very quickly. None of the rumored caches of food reached the communal shelters. The civilians posted there mourned the loss of the valuables. For it was not only the food they were mourning but the lives of their mothers and fathers, their children and siblings, their lovers, themselves. They’d been waitingtwo weeksfor a delivery, Briar, and there was nothing remaining of their last save for chicken broth, stale tea biscuits, and plum jam.
Roy knew what was coming. He could feel it winding through his chest, coiling tighter and tighter. He turned to the penultimate page of Briar’s letter, sweat trickling down into the notch between his shoulder blades.
Once word of the snowbank got to the communal shelters—sighted by a team of five scouts, only two of whom returned, the others likely lost to the cold—panic set in and broke out. The civilians’ meager supply of biscuits and jam and broth was raided and scoured clean. Not a crumb left. Those who did not participate in the looting either did not eat and were later discovered dead of starvation and frostbite... or else found other ways to survive.
These once peaceable folk picked up their rakes, pickaxes, and shovels and hunted down their own. When the doing was done, the town was as filled with blood as it was with snow. The survivors of the massacre celebrated their triumph by feasting on their winnings, the food they’d stolen from their neighbors, but neglected to consider just how long this half-spoiled food would last them. Not very, it turned out.
The last several lines were written in a jagged hand, as though, like Briar, Farrek had been trembling while writing.
Tell me, Briar, and truly think about this one:
How precious is this life to you? How important? We live and die to serve a system that holds in its heart no love for people like us. We read and learn and educate, but our knowledge is suspended on a string, and that string can be cut at any moment and for any reason.
Would it be melodramatic to say I heard the sound that was made when the string poised over Rasileus was severed? Ifeltit, too. Above, I swear I did. The cries, the gurgling, the screams of confusion and disbelief... Thescreams!What harrowing measures we must endure to forsake our humanity and eat those who once ate with us. Mothers filling their bawling children’s stomachs with tongues and intestines. Lovers begging one another to amputate a leg, an arm,somethingto stave off the crippling hunger.
Questions hound me. Is it better knowing that the massacre preceded the cannibalism? Can this tableau of despair be justified by the hopelessness of the underfed and the impoverished? Or am I the fool for bringing morality into a scene where there is none?
I only discovered what I have told you because the Governor eventually sent out a handful of his Droves to plow the road—only a few hours after the massacre, mind you. Why he chose to clear the pass at all is still up for debate. I attempted to inspect the shelters in search of any scholars I recognized, but with no success. In fact, it seemed to me that there weren’t nearly as many corpses as the size of the shelters indicated, though I can’t be sure. Probably they were cannibalized. Still, it keeps gnawing at me—that the Governor only responded to the outcry once the bodies had finished piling up... and yet when I arrived at the scene, once his sled was out of sight, most of the bodies were gone.
Forgive me. I am chasing shadows at this point. I know my end will soon come, because while I’ve taken up accommodations in the beating heart of Northgard, other regions of the city will no doubt be drawn against the carnage that befell Rasileus. A matter of hope no longer; it is only a matter of time.
Underneath this was the conclusion of Briar’s letter.
What is this all for, Roy, if our fate is sealed? Why fight, why defy, when the path is paved with unknowns and leads only to death? How precious is this life? How important is it to keep?
Roy gawked at the letter for a long while, silent. A chill went straight through the middle of his heart at Briar’s words, so haunting and bleak, so unlike his sweet-tempered sister. But it wasn’t her unfamiliar demeanor alone that troubled him. It was how she’d described Gregori. His eyes, specifically.
Thosedevileyes.
“Percival,” Roy said, his ears ringing, “you said you’ve seen the Old Ones before, that they march as one unit, but have you... have you ever seen themunarmored?”
Recognition flashed across Percival’s face. “Devil eyes.”
“‘He stares at his reflection and talks to himself, and he uses different features, different accents and voices. These strange noises...’” Roy said, gripping the letter in his hand. “There might be some discrepancies to this theory that I’m glossing over, of course, but those soldiers... They’re us, Percival. Humans. But altered in some inexplicable way.”
Percival sat back, fear plain upon his face. “The Old Ones.The Old Ones.Roy, Northgard gave them that name because of the outdated design of their armor.” He let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “But they truly are old. Which means we were fuckingwrong. They aren’t the progeny of a long-standing bloodline. They aren’t theirdescendants. They’re the same legion as all the stories we’ve read, sustained by some kind of dark, macabre magic. This city is at war with an enemy as ancient as, or maybe even predating, the Age of Scribes.”
I can’t stand being in the same place as that horrid man, Briar had written in her letter.He’s like a beast.
On his journey to the Orphic Basilica nearly three months ago, Roy had watched, appalled, as a Drove cracked open the skull of a young boy who’d shoved ahead of the line waiting for food at a communal shelter. But before then, the Drove had looked over her shoulder as the sled had jolted into motion. Roy had at the time thought her eyes were bloodshot, though the snow had been falling thick, obscuring his view, and he had been weary, cold, and preoccupied. It occurred to him now that her eyes could very well have been red—the same burning light as that which streamed forth from the ghosts’ eyes.
“‘Burning light,’” Roy said, and an apt, uncanny portmanteau crossed his mind. “Blight.”
Percival gaped. “Charles Patiny’s poem. ‘... whose eyes of burning light do glow / upon their prey’s final breath.’”
“The Old Ones didn’t cause Gregori or any of his comrades psychological harm; they... theyBlightedhim,” Roy said. “They killed him, then somehow brought him back and made him into one of their own. All those traumatized Radiant Droves on the front lines... Percival, they’re all turning into the Old Ones.”
