One Thousand Word Fantasy.

Kilian woke up in a sweaty heap, gasping for air. The room was dark, but the stone walls around him held a row of candles, casting a dim glow across the square bars of his cage and throughout the rest of the room. Tiny insects skittered across the floor, giving him a clue as to what might be causing the thick stench in the air. You deserve this, he thought to himself. You have committed a crime. You have killed people. You deserve to be imprisoned.

Slowly, he sat up and placed his back on the wall behind him. His bones ached from the hard floor. On the other side of the cage, a bony man sat in a chair staring at him. The guard was tall, but he kept his head so low that it aligned with his shoulders, creating a disfigured posture under his cloak. One of the candles illuminated the man’s face, revealing the anger in his expression. This man, who still would not reveal his name, was here every time he woke up.

“Where is the other guard?” Kilian muttered, not even lifting his head. “Usually there are two of you.”

“Silence, criminal,” the man snapped. “Do not speak unless spoken to.”

“I will speak when I choose to,” Kilian replied.

“I SAID SILENCE!” the guard jumped from his seat, knocking the chair to the ground.

Kilian frowned. “You can come in here and silence me.”

“Do not tempt me, criminal. You will regret it.”

“I have no regrets.”

“But you have much to regret, boy. Your crimes against our community, against your own family, will see you dead before the sun sets.”

“I was not their family.”

The guard looked at him for another moment, then picked his chair up and sat back down. “The other guard will be here soon with your last supper. I’d advise you to behave if you intend to eat it.”

Kilian looked back down, then noticed the sun’s warm rays on his cheek. His hair was becoming long and vine-like, each of them big enough now that they blocked the sun from getting in his eyes. Usually he would have them tied up to maintain his field of vision, but there was no need for that now. In a few hours, the same people who threw him out of the village years ago to fend for himself would be executing him for his most recent crimes -- though he knew they wanted him dead even back then. And now, they'd be getting exactly what they wanted. He sighed, and was about to lay back down when a heat flashed through his body, waking up his senses.

Murder them.

The voice in his head came from nowhere, but haunted him like a ghoul. He averted the guard’s gaze, for fear of him noticing a change in his expression. He wasn’t sure anymore that he could completely hide its effects. I deserve to be here, he thought again. I have killed people. I am a criminal.

The sound of whistling came through the windows as a man approached the door to the prison. It was the other guard, whose bulbous nose made it into the room before the rest of him did. He was carrying a plate with a freshly cooked reyen steak on it, its steam and heavenly fragrance wafting in the air. He passed the plate to the man who had just stared him down, the decider of his fate far too often. The man accepted the plate, not moving from his seat.

“Are you going to give that to me?” Kilian asked, smacking his lips.

“Tell me why you did it,” the guard replied.  

He stood up. “Does it matter why?”

“It does if you plan to eat this food.”

His stomach growled loudly, and he scowled at the man.

Murder him, Kilian. Cook him like a reyen on a spit.

He closed his eyes, and shook his head until the rumble of the voice was gone. “We were home,” he began, his mind still delirious. “We were preparing to eat dinner. They had invited a guest over–”

“I know what happened, criminal. I want to know why you did it.”

Kilian was silent. The room quickly stiffened with tension.

The man stared at him through the bars, eyes squinted. “You are nothing, less than a bug in the soil, yet you still think you can look down on me, ah?”

The man stood up from his chair and fit the plate through the bars, then threw the plate at Kilian from afar. The fresh steak fell in slow motion from the plate, its delicate juices already dripping to the ground. He dived to catch some of it in his grimy hands, but he couldn’t react fast enough. It had fallen to the stone floor, and the insects were upon it.

MURDER HIM, KILIAN.

“Now you can eat with the other bugs,” the guard said, getting up with a grunt and turning around to leave the room with the other guard.

Kilian’s mind was spinning out of control, leaving no room for any clear thoughts. A fiery heat flooded his body, pouring out of his limbs like lava. Then, a flash in the sunlight drew his eyes to the knife at the hunched guard’s waist.

MURDER HIM. NOW.

As the guard was about to step out, Kilian jumped forward and reached his hand out of the bars, grabbing his ankle. He pulled hard, forcing the man’s foot through the square opening until it jammed on his shin. The man gasped in surprise at the assault, and while he attempted to regain his composure Kilian unsheathed the knife tied to his waist. With one hand gripping the man’s leg and the other now holding a knife, Kilian smiled at him before driving the blade all the way through the man’s leg.

“AAAAAAGH!!!”

The other guard’s eyes widened as he looked at his screaming friend, who was panicking as he tried to pull his leg back out, only to slam the knife painfully against the square opening. Blood ran freely down the man’s leg to the stone floor, already covering Kilian’s hands. "I’ll go get help!” he yelled, turning back toward door.

“You don’t want to leave your friend alone with me,” Kilian said, stopping the man in his tracks.

The guard turned around, his whole body trembling. But after a moment, he stiffened himself and looked back at Kilian. “He knew the dangers when he volunteered, like I did,” he said, backing away from the jail cage. “Go ahead and kill him if you must. You will only make it worse for yourself.”

Kilian held back a grin as he watched him turn around again. He didn’t want to do any worse, but the man was leaving him with no other choice.

Here comes the fun part!

He reached over the guard’s jammed leg, grabbing his small toe with two fingers. Then, he wrenched it in the opposite direction until he heard a snap.

Howls turned to abject screams that filled the room. Kilian stopped himself from smiling as he watched the other guard shudder. He was reaching for the first guard’s next toe when the other one finally ran back over.

“Stop this! He’s had enough, ah?”

“Tell me, should I break all his toes before I chop his leg off, or do you think one is enough?” Kilian raised the knife up toward the first guard’s ankle. “I know you said to kill him, but he will have to indulge me first before I do him the favor.”

“No! Please!” the first guard sobbed.

The other guard looked at the sobbing man, then back to Kilian. His eyes were already full of regret.

Get out of here. Go to the forest.

Cyrah’s blue springy hair bobbed up and down as she sprinted past the empty houses in her village. Usually around this time the place would be bustling with activity: traders yelling at passers-by, people drinking and fighting in the streets, yet the only thing she heard today was the slapping of her sandals against the stone floor. She couldn’t believe it. The unthinkable was happening ― finally! ― and somehow she was the last person in her village to know about it. She was never going to live this down.

As she approached the Outer Sands, she could see the wooden behemoths in the ocean, parting the water like spears as they made their approach. They were mere minutes away from hitting the shore. With no time left to waste, Cyrah burst into a sprint, pushing her feet past the stone floor of the village to the glistening powder of the Outer Sands. The entire village was already there, watching, though they weren’t sure what they were seeing yet. Cyrah’s heart pounded as the boats hissed onto the Sands, finally coming to a stop. The Chief of the village ― a tall, gaunt man who smiles and jokes far too much to ever fit his role ― stepped forward, approaching the three ships who were now casting a shadow on the land.

As time passed and tension rose, Cyrah imagined every one of the villagers to be thinking the exact same thing she was: who could have taken a boat across Maur’s waters without so much as a scratch? Something like that could only be achieved by working directly with the God of Night himself. Could these boatsmen have been sent by Maur to dispose of every single person on this island?

She thought about her mother, and the boat her father left behind. The Chief and all the villagers, everyone she knew and loved. As the thoughts spread warmth through her mind, she clenched the sword she had tied to her back with a strip of thick leather, and the round wooden shield that lay atop it. As soon as she sensed danger, she would attack whoever was on those boats without mercy. No harm would ever befall the people of this town without her dying first.

She heard a clunk sound – a loud slam, possibly coming from inside those wooden beasts. Then, one by one, people began to reveal themselves at the top. All of them were men, each of them with large muscles and long hair flowing above their heads. Their bodies were adorned, neck to ankle, in a tight white cloth that carried a large black stripe from shoulder to shoulder, and two red stripes from their neck down to their legs. This is where the similarities ended, however – some of the men wore very large coats made of incredibly thick fur, while other men wore hats and shoes made of something that looked like leather. And nearly all of them carried weapons on their backs like she was, only they were much, much bigger. They all walked toward the edge of the boat, looking down at us with deep scowls and folded arms. One of them stood in the center, looking directly at the Chief. His hair and beard were blood red, and he carried scars all over his forearms that twisted and turned into each other. There was an intensity about him, something that made her palms sweat as she gripped her sword. Her heart sat in her throat as she stepped forward from the back of the crowd.

But as she took her first step, the Chief took a step forward as well. Then, with a power she’d never heard arise from his lungs, he declared: “I am the Chief of this fishing village. You come from across the Ocean, the domain of Maur, the God of Night and Deceit. This troubles me, and I worry for my people.” He looked behind him at all of the villagers who trusted him with their safety. “We have never seen anything like this before. I will give you a chance to explain yourselves: who are you men? And why have you come?”

“His name is not Maur,” said the red-haired man in a low, gristly tone. “It is Mault. He is the God of the Night, and all that Poisons.”

After these words, he jumped straight from the bow of the ship to the sand, and all the men on the boats followed suit. Altogether, muscled and garbed in white, they stood as a commanding force. “We have been guided here in order to vanquish him in all his forms from your homeland. We are the Sentinels, the chosen warriors of Audrin, the God of Light and All That Cleanses.”

Cyrah moved even closer, watching the interaction between the Chief and the Sentinels. The water from the ocean crashed around them and against the hull of their giant ships, salting the air. When she looked again at the Chief, his flowing dress shining in the sunlight, carrying himself with such poise despite facing such uncertainty, she finally understood why he was chosen by the villagers all those years ago before she was born. She couldn’t believe anybody – especially the Chief – was capable of standing so firm to unknown danger.

“Simply stating who you claim to be is not nearly enough,” he stated to the men. “You come from your massive boats with great leaps, and with large weapons splayed across your backs. Trust is not so easily earned.”

The red-haired man smirked, then nodded his head. “You are braver than we were told, Chief,” he said. “But you are right. This is nowhere near enough.” The man waved his hand, and the men behind him jumped into action. Each of them turned around and began climbing back into their boats, going back down into the innermost parts of the ship. After a while, Cyrah could see each man coming back up carrying a thick sack full of weapons: swords, knives, one-sided and two-sided axes, weapons for throwing, claws, and a plethora of other sharp metal objects she had never seen before. Each of these men jumped back down with their sacks, then promptly dropped them all into the sand before the chief and villagers. The red-haired man, who was still looking at the chief, slowly reached behind his back and unlatched his own sword from his back, letting it drop to the ground. After picking it back up, he walked forward and handed it directly to the Chief.

Then, as if on cue, every single man dropped to their knees and placed their heads against the sand. Cyrah had never seen such a pose before, but even she could recognize the vulnerability of the gesture. If they chose to, all the villagers could attack these men before they even had the chance to grab their weapons to defend themselves.

The tide splashed across the sand as each of the villagers looked to the Chief, who furrowed his brow in thought.

A haunting grumble filled the dark air, a sound like the low growl of some vicious beast in the final, stalking moments of the hunt. Prince Aya was being watched; he knew that, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He stood firm in the darkness, but his soul trembled. The world around him was black and amorphous, ever- shifting and completely unfamiliar. He felt no grass under his feet, and he carried no armor or weapons to defend himself. And it was cold ― bitterly cold, and when he touched his shoulders he found them, as well as the rest of his body, completely naked. Nothing seemed to make any sense.

Then a sobering clarity swept over him, and he knew. He was to be a sacrifice. Wherever he was, he would remain in this realm, alone, until death came for him. As this thought settled in his mind, another grumble came from behind him.

He turned around to see a man ― or what once was a man ― with purple, peeling skin, and dark blue veins wrapped around its spindly arms like spider webs. It was close, too close, and when it approached him he couldn’t breathe, and it opened its mouth in another growl, revealing its bloody gums and rotted yellow teeth. Its eyes glowed an alarming, hellish red, and as the creature finally came upon him Aya began to lose himself in their fiery light.

This was his final moment. The last thing he would ever see. And then he felt teeth crunch into his shoulder.

*****

The prince’s eyes jolted open, and he rose up from his pillow with a scream. At first the world around him still seemed unfamiliar, but after a few moments he slowly regained his bearings: he was back in his bed, nestled under a quilt made from the warm, brown-and-white fur of an adult phaug. The bright sun peeked from the open window on the right side of the room, bringing in a light that helped to calm him down. Two female servants sat on his left and right side, fanning him with large star-shaped leaves. They each held their necks high like statues, revealing the bold white line that marked their dark brown skin from their chins down beyond their necks and continuing under their flowing dresses. He commanded a long time ago that they greet him in the morning dressed in more intimate attire in order to please him and his cousins, but they refused to do so even after he threatened them with exile. He remembered how it angered him, but despite his cousins’ protests he kept them at their post. To him, there was something redemptive about their rejection: a quiet, important strength that he one day wished to possess. So he left them alone, his decision carried by the fleeting hope that he would eventually learn their secret. One of them stopped fanning to reach under her and hand him a steaming plate of food: smoked phaug legs and samsa bread. On the other side of the room, a man wearing a painted mask stood next to a hollow wooden shell hanging by the door with heavy sticks in his hands. Before he could take his first bite, the man began to bang against the wooden shell. The Prince is awake, the man told the entire kingdom with his beat.

“One day I will have him killed,” the prince said to the quiet woman handing her back the untouched plate as he gritted his teeth.

His primary lecturer and her servants were no doubt clamoring to his door at the sound of the shell, and he could not be here when they arrived. Aya jumped into his night shoes and quickly climbed out his shining window to the wooden platform below, then turned and skipped lightly across the wooden bridge connecting his bedroom to the dining room. In between each plank he caught a glimpse of the emerald leaves from the forest down below, gleaming in the morning sunlight, so dense that they completely hid the forest floor. The entire kingdom hung above this forest, from the Highest Palace all the way down to the Servant’s Quarters, connected to each other by narrow bridges and platforms built around a family of giant trees older than his ancestors. The bridges often swayed and creaked while he crossed them, which sometimes was enough to keep people inside their homes during windy days. But his mother once told him that the rope of the bridges was made from the ancient trees to be strong and supple, and so he had nothing to fear. However, Prince Aya had never feared the forest below in his life.

“Aya!” a quiet voice called ahead. It was Lior, one of his cousins, gesturing from the other end of the bridge for him to come closer. Aya crossed the bridge toward him, and when he got near enough Lior jumped up and they both ran through the open door into the dining room, racing up the spiraling staircase immediately to their left, then stopped to catch their breath at their top. Soon they would be at their hideout, but it would be better if they were caught here than followed inside.

“Did you see anyone downstairs?” Aya asked.

“Not a soul,” Lior replied.

“Good. My lecturer doesn’t give up so easily anymore, so be sure to keep an eye out. ” Aya looked away from the stairs to face him. “How did the mission go?”

Lior looked down and remained silent, though his parted lips revealed his breath was shaking. “Aya, I...I’m so sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Aya asked, concerned. “What happened?”

Lior looked up at him with tears in his eyes. “We were completing your mission: we climbed down the tree to one of our hiding spots down on the forest floor, waiting for some people to cross on their way to the Well. But something...went wrong.”

“What do you mean by that?” Aya responded curtly. “You guys were going to scare them away so that we had the Well to ourselves, right? What could have gone wrong?”

He dropped his eyes again. “I...I don’t know.”

“How could you not know?!”

“Because it got dark! All the animals were making strange noises since last night, these bizarre howls and groans, and when we got down there it seemed to only get worse. They started getting louder, and closer, and then it went dark, and we started running and climbing back up the tree, but when we got back up…” he trailed off, catching his breath.

Aya gave him a minute to breathe. “What happened when you got back up here?”

“Nanke and Umaga were right behind me, but…” he looked back up at Aya, or beyond him at the memory. “...Banlat was gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“He wasn’t behind us. And when we looked back down, he wasn’t on the tree either. There was only darkness down there...and the howling.”

Aya put his back against the wall behind him and slid down until he sat on the floor. His mind jumped to Banlat, the short ball of fire he was, with his crazy hair and eyes that seemed electrified. Then, he remembered the blackness of his dream. The groans that surrounded him. The rotten teeth sinking into his flesh.

“Do you think...he was taken?” he asked.

“I have no idea. But something was coming toward us when we ran away.”

“And where are the others?”

“In the hideout, waiting for us.”

Aya sat in silence for a while. None of this seemed right. First the worst dream of his life, and now his cousin was gone? Just remembering the cold and the darkness of that nightmare made his body shiver, but the sight of that poor man’s peeling flesh, the acrid smell of decay…then a dark thought crossed his mind. Was his dream some kind of warning? And was it already too late?

He looked over at Lior, who still had tears in his eyes. A part of him was angry that his cousin ran back home, but another was happy he was here with him. Lior’s decision to leave their cousin behind must not have been easy. But no matter what was down there, Aya would make sure he didn’t regret it.

Water splashed on the canoe’s surface, pushing hard against its wooden hull but not enough to pull it back into the water. Instead it remained on the sandy beach, still among the roaring winds and splashing tide. Xochil sat quietly inside, tucking her knees into her black tunic and waiting for something to happen. Her curly black hair, wet from their initial trip, sat in dripping heaps on her shoulders. Behind her sat her mother, a tall woman with large brown eyes whose black tunic fit her noticeably better.  She faced the trees inland, searching all around the island in a frantic pace. Her breaths were short and fast, and though she tried to hide it from Xochil she knew her all too well to be tricked.

The bottom of the sun had fallen beneath the ocean, bringing with it the first violet rays of evening. Soon it would vanish completely under the water, and the Chablisse would appear. They needed to be in the water and away from this island long before that happened.

“Mom, what’s taking father so long?” Xochil asked, turning.

Her mother stopped her search and looked her daughter in the eyes, quickly feigning a peaceful smile. “Patience, cheresi. He must have found a very good spot deep inside.”

Xochil hated that word. She was not a little girl anymore. “The sun is beginning to set. We have to leave.”

“He should be back any moment now. Patience.”

Her smile faded as soon as she turned away to continue her search. Her mother had always been a worrywart, but she had never seen her this agitated. Something must have gone wrong.

“I will go look for him,” Xochil remarked, standing up.

“No, cheresi. There is no need,” she responded curtly, grabbing her hand. “Trust your father.”

“But–”

Before she could finish, the trees beyond the beach began to rustle. A man emerged, broad shouldered and wide-bellied. His calm, grey eyes were half-open, as though he were sleepwalking.

“Kain!” Xochil’s mother yelled out, immediately dropping her facade. “What took you so long?!”

Kain continued to stride quietly toward the canoe, ignoring her. When he reached them, he grabbed the canoe with both hands and began to push.

“Father,” Xochil began, maintaining her balance, “what happened?”

“Nothing happened, cheresi,” he muttered. “Our work is done.”

He continued to push them without another word. He always got like this whenever they spoke to him – as if nothing they say could possibly be worth his attention.

“Something happened in that forest, Kain,” Xochil’s mother continued. “Do you know how late it is? We were worried about you.”

He sighed, then grunted as he pushed again. “But I’m here now, am I not? So let us move on.” He was deep enough now that his tunic began to float toward his waist, so he gave the canoe one more push before climbing in from behind. “We will make it to the Outer Circle in time.” He grabbed two oars and began rowing away from the island. His hairy legs and the bottom of his tunic dripped on the floor, making a pitter-patter sound as he rowed.

He continued his rowing in silence, completely ignoring her mother, who looked ready to boil over at any second. Xochil placed an understanding hand on her shoulder, hoping to calm her down. But suddenly, as if in a daze, her mother got up and started grabbing at her father’s tunic. She quickly scanned every inch she could with her fingers even as he resisted, but as soon as she touched his sleeve her hands sprung back.

“Your sleeves are ripped!” she exclaimed. “I knew it! Something did happen on the island! He attacked you! He hurt you!”

“Enough, Oda,” her father said. “He did not hurt me, he was just becoming…unappreciative.”

“What do you mean by that?” Xochil asked. “Did he not come willingly like you said?”

“Of course he did,” her father responded.

“Then why would he hurt you?” she said, raising her voice.

He looked away from both of them and continued rowing. “We are going to reach the Circle soon. Get the sea snakes ready.”

Xochil grabbed the large skin flask on the inside of the canoe while glaring at her father’s back. She contemplated pouring its content right down his tunic, snakes and all ― he’d kill her for it, but at least he’d look her in the face and acknowledge her. At least he’d respond.

Then suddenly, a piercing scream ripped through the air. A man’s voice. It came from the island ― within the trees. They were farther away now, but when she stepped closer she could still see the trees rustle as a figure made his way through them.

The man who emerged was tall with a bald head and hooked nose, naked except for a cloth between his legs. He ran around frantically, howling like a wounded animal. And all around him, a dark liquid was dripping from his face like water.

“It’s blood,” Xochil said out loud as it came to her. “He’s bleeding from his eyes. He’s been blinded.”

“Is that…the tribute?” her mother muttered, squinting her eyes.

Kain ignored them. “We’ve reached the Outer Circle,” he stated, bringing the oars in. “Release the sea snakes ― remember, only one on each side.”

“Did you do that?” Xochil said, glaring at her father again. “Did you blind that man?”

“Release the sea snakes, Xochil,” her father responded slowly.

“Not until you tell me what happened on that island,” she replied.

The sun had nearly disappeared behind the ocean. They had only a few more minutes to connect their ships to the others before the Night came, and the ritual began.

Her father got up and stepped toward her, rocking the entire canoe with his weight. His pale eyes seemed to stab right through her, and she found it difficult to muster the spirit to resist him. Without another word he grabbed the leather sack from her, quickly loosened the strip that held it closed and reached in for the slender blue necks of the two snakes. They glared at him with yellow eyes and bared long fangs as they hissed, but even they could do nothing to resist his grip. He put the head of one through the small hole on the left side of the hull ― just large enough for the snake’s thin body to fit through ― and pushed it until it touched the water and took off toward the canoe nearly a hundred feet away from them. As it swam its body unfurled within the sack like tightly wound string, not stopping until its large crescent-shaped tail slammed against the hole. Under the water, it would hook necks with the sea snake of the adjacent canoe, connecting the boats together so neither would float off. After doing the same on the right side, Xochil’s father stood back up and walked to his seat.

Xochil looked at her mother, who seemed just as perplexed as she was. They could still hear the man’s strangled cries from the island.

“What happened in that forest, father?” Xochil asked, her voice shaking.

“He tried to kill me when I turned my back. His eyes were denying him the truth that lay right in front of him,” he replied, keeping his back to her. “But soon Mault will grant him new Eyes, just as He did for me. They will serve him far better. Look,” he pointed up into the sky. It was still faint, but the thick purple wisps of the Night were pouring like a smoky waterfall through one concentrated point in the Chablisse. It was the Nightrift: the one crack in the Chablisse through which the Night could enter. To the Eyes of Mault ― the only true followers of the Night God ―  it was the holiest symbol of His inevitable triumph over Audrin, and the well of power from which all the Poisoned were born.

Xochil watched as the dark smoke finally hit the island, rising back up in a great puff of fog. As the entire island became engulfed in the cloudy smoke the waters began to churn, rocking their canoe violently back and forth. Then, as if on cue, every corner of the island erupted in cacophonous screams. The horrid sound bled into the ocean and into Xochil’s ears, storming through her body and rattling her soul.

I’m taking a new direction with 1,000 Word Fantasy. This time, 1,000 words is not just a challenge for myself. Rather, it will be used as a plot structure for a bigger story, and the primary way that the reader engages with the narrative itself. The story I plan on telling in this format is large, but before I begin I would like to give you all a brief introduction to the world it’s set in: Oulure.

Oulure is an aquatic planet with no large land masses. Instead, its blue surface is dotted with large green islands, each filled with grass,trees, animals, and people of varying shapes and sizes. The Great Ocean of Oulure, which spans the entire world and goes by many names, is home to thousands of different creatures, all of them giant and ravenous for human flesh. These monsters have prevented all contact between the islands since the Dawn of Man, sinking all ships and eating all birds that attempt to cross the azure waters. This forced isolation has stood in the way of the growth of trade, economics, and technology across Oulure, leaving nearly all islands stuck in an age not far beyond the advent of fire and bartering systems. But despite these challenges, or perhaps because of them, each island has adopted their own unique approach to all the other issues that face communities: cultural customs, social hierarchies, moral standing, and even ideas on what it takes to live a good and fulfilled life.

Yet despite having never communicated, there are a few things that every single person on each island knows to be as true as the earth under their feet. These axioms regard how the world was created and how human beings continue to live upon it ― Mault, the God of Night and All That Poisons, who brings some kind of deadly plague to the entire world every evening, and Audrin, the God of Light and All That Cleanses, who protects all of humanity from the Night with the Chablisse ― a voluminous golden veil that dwells among the clouds and sparkles like a chandelier in the sky. Their names differ depending on the tongue of the island, but every person is taught that the Chablisse stands as a barrier between humanity and the Night trying to get in, defending the people of Oulure from its poisonous fumes and shining so brightly that it removes even the darkness itself. Because of this, no Oulurian  has ever needed any kind of external light source -- at the darkest hours, not even candlelight is needed. This comes with some advantages, but is not without its flaws. For one, another trait among all Oulurians is a deep fear of darkness, which are handled in a myriad of ways depending on the island.

In a larger context, Audrin is known in the universe as the God of Light as Water, while Mault is known as the God of Darkness as Air. They have been in constant war since the people of Oulure were born. Ever since, Mault has been trying to figure out a plan to get past the Chablisse and bring the people of Oulure into his dark hands.

And now he has one.

The story I’m going to tell from this world will be told from the perspectives of four characters ― Cyrah, the headstrong and fearless daughter of a potter and a fisherman; Prince Aya, the only son of a warrior king that spurns him at every turn; Xochil, the daughter of two devout followers of Mault who is growing apart from the community that raised her; and Kilian, a violent criminal who finds himself on a haphazard journey toward his own humanity.

Q: This story is about Duval in the first place ― a boy who is struggling to find himself amongst the shadow of his parents’ legacy while attending the school they succeeded at. What purpose do the side characters serve anyway?

A: They allow Duval a springboard for his ideas.

Q: But does that mean they only serve the purpose of revolving around him? Do they only serve that one function in the story? Then why are two necessary? Can’t one really spunky character do the trick?

A: I guess I just imagined him with two friends. Having just one seems pretty lonely, and also forces that one character to become fairly significant.

Q: And what’s wrong with that?

A: Nothing, I suppose. I’m just not familiar with it. It’ll be harder to tell if it’s any good at all.

Q: Isn’t that what you wanted?

A: I guess more than anything else I’d like to have enough sensibility to know when I’m on to something. Making decisions in the dark has never felt liberating or comfortable to me.

Q: But you don’t have that sensibility yet. And perhaps you never will. What then? Will you stop writing?

A: I don’t think I’d want to stop writing. It certainly wouldn’t be as enjoyable, though.

Q: Or at least the joy of writing wouldn’t come in the way you expect it to.

A: I’m afraid, you know. I get this heavy feeling that makes me feel like I’m drowning and that I have to stop before it’s too late.

Q: But you know it’s only in your mind. That feeling is stopping you from playing, from liberating yourself. You have a lot of baggage when it comes to letting go during the creative process. You want to control it, to understand its every function as they occur, but by doing that you continue to dam the flow of creative energy necessary for abundant creative expression.

A: It doesn’t feel like it’s okay to let go. It doesn’t feel right.

Q: Writing isn’t a math problem, though. There is no right or wrong answer when it comes to creating round characters or engaging plots. No textbook will give you insight that will always lead you in the right direction. Writing is an art, and as such it is based to a higher extent on instinct, wonder, and passion. There is a reason that no incredibly successful writer writes the same as any other incredibly successful writer. It’s because somewhere along the line they discovered some important aspect of themselves, and found a way to reflect who they were in their creative process. That’s why they all approach writing so differently, and that’s why no matter who you study you will never become the writer you are meant to be by emulating their process to the letter.

A: I hear you, but something’s got to give. There has to be a way to make this writing process more fun.

Q: You know, after talking about this more in depth, I don’t think you’re equipped to have fun with the creative process right now. Everything you need to liberate yourself has yet to be acquired. But the point is, they can be acquired, and it may lead to a level of joy that’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. And I think that’s worth learning how to sail the uncharted waters.

A: I agree.

Q: Then I'll ask you again -- if you end up never acquiring that sense that you're on to something, and you end up "doomed" to have to give everything complete effort to see if it'll work or not, would you do it? Would you still want to be a writer?

A: I think I would. No...I'd regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't.

Q: Then what are you going to do?

A: Keep writing until something can't help but stick. Force myself to learn that there is no water drowning me. It's the only option I have.

“I just don’t think they’re that great,” Binh said, leaning back in his computer chair.

His friend Owen sat across from him turning a video game controller like a steering wheel when he suddenly paused the game to look at him. “You don’t think Queelos are that great? Are you joking?” he asked, sounding offended.

“Dude, they taste like knockoff Skittles or something. They make them all different colors, but they all taste the same.”

“They don’t all taste the same!” Owen persisted, putting the controller down. “Yeah, they make them all from the same foundational flavor, but they each have unique twists! None of them taste just like each other!”

“Wow, you’re one of these Queelos fanboys too?” Binh chuckled. “Oh my god, there are enough of you online. How is it that this many people are obsessed over candy?”

“They’re made from queeloberries, that new superfruit they found on Madagascar,” Owen replied. “They’re super nutritious, and they taste amazing. The more of them you eat, the better off you’ll be.”

“But people have been going a little too crazy over Queelos, dude. Like didn’t you hear about the people that died from eating too many?”

“They died from choking on Queelos, not from the Queelos themselves.”

“Fifteen people in separate parts of the country were all eating Queelos so fast that they stopped breathing. That doesn’t weird you out?”

Owen shrugged his shoulders. “I’m pretty sure it was less than fifteen, but whatever.”

“And what about those rumors that Queelos contain some kind of drug that the government’s been hiding?”

“Those are rumors, Binh. You a conspiracy theorist now?”

Binh squinted his eyes. “Why are you defending them so hard? It’s just candy. It’s not like the company cares about you.”

“I don’t care about that,” Owen said, reaching in his pocket. “Queelos are the greatest things I’ve ever tasted, hands down. The first time I ate them I thought they were a little overrated too. But the next time, it was unbelievable. The flavor captivated me, and washed over my entire body in waves. I’ve never felt anything like it in my entire life. I thought about how stupid I was for brushing them off that first time, and I cried. Seriously.”

Binh got up from his computer chair. “Owen, you’re acting a little weird man.”

“How many times have you had Queelos, Binh?” Owen asked, finally grabbing the aluminum pack of Queelos from his pocket. “I bet you’ve only had them the one time, haven’t you?”

“Dude, I’m not trying them again. You sound like a fucking addict.”

“Just try it one more time, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. If I’m wrong and you don’t like them, I’ll shut up about them forever. You can talk shit as much as you like. Just try them one more time.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Binh said, resisting the temptation.

Owen sighed. “I’m not letting you leave here without trying them again, Binh. As a friend, I can’t let you do that to yourself.”

“Listen to yourself, Owen! You’re fucking crazy! You’re about to hold me hostage in my own dorm room over some fucking candy?”

“You’re the one that’s crazy! You wanna act all high and mighty and above everyone, but you’re just jealous that you don’t like anything half as much as I like Queelos!”

The words stung more than Binh wanted to admit.

“Try them again Binh,” Owen said, walking closer. “Try them again and you’ll understand everything I’m telling you.”

Binh shook his head, wondering whether he should believe his friend or not. Was he blowing this out of proportion? What if he ended up liking it? Was he really being cautious, or just bitter? He couldn’t tell anymore. However as Owen continued to approach him, something still seemed off. It took Owen finally being two feet away from him to notice.

Owen’s eyes were slowly swirling around in their sockets.

Before Binh could react, Owen tackled him to the ground and opened the bag of Queelos.

The Dragon King looked down at his five hundred subjects, confused. They had all barged into the central chamber of his golden throne room at their own volition, and were staring up at him from his rightful place at the Throne of Solstice. His guards outside were strong, but none of them could have been prepared for such a bizarre circumstance. He leaned on the stone guardrail in front of him, unsure if he was witnessing some kind of revolt.

“On an unimportant day,” he began, “within an unimportant week in an unimportant month, the entire Voleri people choose to storm into their king’s palace and address him directly. Why?”

The people below him began to look amongst each other, as if searching for their leader.

“We address you today because we have become unsure as to whether you have any right to rule us after all,” a voice declared. It was a tall man near the front, who dared to look the Dragon King in the eyes.

The king couldn’t believe his ears. “You question my right to the throne?” he began, his voice quaking with anger. “I am the Dragon King! My father and his father before him lived their whole lives on this throne! I am the Anointed Child of the Sun itself!”

“We are all children of the Sun.”

“But you are not all kings!”

“And how are you so sure of this?” the tall man asked, turning around and inviting a small child with coily black hair to step in front of him. “This child was visited by the Sun God just last week, most of us witnessed it with our own eyes. I have brought him to you every day since, and each time you refused me. You refused me because you are afraid of your father’s words ― that you would be the last of your line. But the Voleri people are not afraid. We will usher in the next generation of kings, whether or not you are prepared for it.”

The Voleri people began to rally around this man and child and began to speak louder amongst each other. The Dragon King looked at his left to his advisor, who had already taken a few steps back and was looking in another direction. It was clear that he was losing this battle.

“You dare to carry out this insurrection in the hope that you can talk me from my throne? Guards, seize these fools!”

“Sir...your father said you would respond like this,” the lead guard to his right said. “This is not a dynasty. Your father made sure that truth conquered all. We shall not act against the truth.”

It was then that the Dragon King realized what was happening. His father must have plotted this against him the entire time, angry that he usurped the throne. He looked up at the skylight on the palace ceiling, watching the glimmering sun shine through. He closed his eyes, and hoped with everything he had that this would be the moment that the Sun God came down to visit him. Then they would know they were wrong, and they would beg for his forgiveness. But when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed.

Maven pulled the bowstring back as far as it would go, then aimed his arrow at the small fire coming from the candle in the tree. There were candelabras jutting out of every tree around him for at least a half-mile, but he made sure to only light each candle one at a time. This was his second day running away from home, and he had to make sure no one thought he was still in the village, much less camping out right inside the training grounds. One of his dreadlocks fell in front of his eyes. He whipped his neck to get it back around his ear, annoyed.

After a deep breath, Maven closed his left eye and shot the arrow. A half-second passed before the fire suddenly went out. He had hit his target perfectly.

“Dammit!” he growled. He punched the tree next to him, startling the birds inside to fly out.

Over and over he had shot his arrows at the candle fires, and over and over he hit them without worry. But that’s not what he’d been out here for. In these training grounds, his father discovered his ability to make his arrows invisible and completely silent once he shoots them. He used his ability to earn his spot as the Prime Hunter, and he’s fed everyone in the village for more than twenty years. Less than a year ago his older sister discovered that she could change the speed of her arrows mid-flight, whether she wanted them to move in slow motion or past the Blue Mountains before you could blink. She became a hunter as well, refining her power and bringing her skill to new heights in order to provide for the community. She liked to remind him of this often.

But when was he going to get his turn? He may be only ten years old, but he far surpassed the other children in the village. He was ready. So why won’t his power come to him?

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Instead he took his flint and knife out of his pocket and walked back toward the extinguished candle.

Suddenly a rustling sound came from the bushes.

Maven jumped into the tree behind him in an instant. The branch he stood on was thick, allowing him to cross its surface without any noise. It wasn’t long before he’d made it to the other side of the tree, peering through the dark leaves at the spot he was certain the sound came from.

“Maven?” a strong voice called out. His father’s voice. “Maven, come out here. Now.”

Dammit, Maven thought. How did he find me? He heard his father’s footsteps as he approached the area he was just in. His father wore his embroidered cotton tunic ― the symbol of his status ― and a pair of pants made of animal skin. His dreadlocks reached his elbows and were tied with a tall weed, like always. Through the moonlight, Maven could see the dark skin on his father’s face contorted in worry, betraying his firm tone.

“I know you’re here, boy! Your tracks are as fresh as a spring flower!” Maven’s father called out louder.

He could call as much as he liked, but Maven was never going to come out. He couldn’t face his father, and definitely not his sister with nothing to show for all his effort. He knew exactly what his father would do if he came out: first he would yell at him for a while, then pat him on the head and maybe commend him on working so hard, but tell him ― again, like always ― that he was just a child. And then he’d give him the whole “your time will come” speech the whole walk home. No, that would be worse than Hell. He would stay out here for as long as it took for his powers to awaken.

“This isn’t right, Maven!” his father yelled, as if sensing his son’s resistance. "Come out!"

Maven stayed where he was, motionless.

After a long pause, his father dropped his head in resignation. "Maven, I didn't want to tell you like this," he began, sitting down in the grass, "but I wish you didn't feel like you had to run away from me. There's a reason I'm not very...supportive of your efforts to grow." He scratched at the thin beard on his cheeks before he continued. "I'm afraid for you, Maven. I'm afraid because I was just like you when I was younger. I worked very hard for my powers. Every chance I had, My friends and I would sneak away to the training grounds and shoot at candles until someone came to pick us up. All that effort paid off when we got our powers. But once I got them...that's when everything changed."

Maven narrowed his eyes.

"We were all made hunters after that and left our old families behind. But none of us knew what we were in for. Moving as a unit while trying to sneak up on animals would be foolish, so most of the time you're by yourself. That first hunt none of us caught anything, but one of my friends didn't make it back home. I tried to tell the other hunters, but they didn’t bat an eye. The next hunt, two more friends were gone. I knew there was something going on, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out.

“I’ll never forget when I found my last friend’s body, bloody and limp, in the maw of a giant four-legged predator. It glared at me before it dashed away, as if I was next. None of us were told what was out there. I don’t think the villagers even know. But the hunters do. And when I told them what happened, they said it was better this way. They told me that I should be proud I survived for this long, that they were looking for new hunters like me to carry the next generation. I couldn’t believe it. I spent the next year tracking down that monster, and by the time I finally killed it I had already become Prime Hunter, and I knew the truth. That monster was just one Predator, Maven. There are so, so many things out there waiting for us to make a mistake. To slip up. And when we do, we’ll never be seen again, and we won’t be missed. That’s the only thing that awaits the hunter.”

After another long pause, Maven finally jumped out of the tree. Upon hearing him land, his father turned to face him.

“What about Lessa?” Maven asked, looking his father in the eyes. “She’s...not going to die, is she?”

“You’re not scared for yourself?”

“I’m more observant than her. She’s the one we should both be worried about.”

His father chuckled. “That’s true. I’ve watched over her all this time,” he said, standing up. “I’ve seen her grow as a hunter, kept her safe more often than she realizes. But I can’t do that for the both of you at once. If I let one slip past…”

Maven was quiet, but he continued to look at his father. For once, he understood. “Alright, I’ll wait,” he said. “But once you think Lessa is ready to hunt on her own, then I’m getting right back to training!”

Maven’s father smiled. “Your time will come, boy.”

“You said if gay marriage ever became legal you would light yourself on fire,” the orc wizard told the Priest of the One Light. 

I first met him one night after my mom put me to bed. I asked her to check my room for monsters and she said she already did, but I knew she was lying. How did I know, you ask? Because I saw his white eyes glowing through the slits in my closet door.

After a goodnight kiss, my mom went to bed and it was just me and him.

I don’t know why he didn’t scare me. He seemed more lonely than menacing. He opened the closet door slowly and walked over to me all hunched over, and then he asked if I wanted to play a game with him.

“But if not, that’s cool too,” the Boogeyman said. “I’ll just head back. I don’t want to pressure you.” He looked down and twiddled his claws, awaiting my response.

His voice was just like mine. I thought it was funny. “Yeah, sure,” I said. 

His glowing eyes widened. “Really?! Oh, that’s great! I know JUST the game to play! Come on!”

He ushered me out of bed and brought me to the other side of the room, where my window was. The moonlight was pouring through, a bright velvety blue, and he pushed me to sit in a well-lit spot, just inches away from the darkness beyond the window.

“I’ll be right back!” he said, then ran back into my closet.

If you asked me what the the Boogeyman looked like, I honestly wouldn’t know what to tell you. His body is darker than the night sky, and always a different shape when I look at it again. The only things that ever stays the same about him are those eyes and the cool claws he has instead of fingers. When he came back, he sat across from me in the dark, not far from me but just outside of the moonlight’s revealing gaze.

“This is gonna be fun,” he said, dropping five perfectly smooth stones onto the ground in front of us. “Okay, you grab two stones and I grab two, and the point of the game is to have three stones before the other person. But you have to throw your two stones in the air before you reach for the third one, and if I catch one or one of them falls on the ground, you’re out!”

“Whoa, that does sound fun,” I said.

“Right?!” the Boogeyman replied. “Oh, and one more rule: you can’t use your feet! You can only move around on your hands and knees!”

“Let’s do it!” I said, immediately throwing my stones in the air and reaching for the third stone in the middle.

“Hey, no fair!” he replied. I saw his claws fly up as he threw his stones in the air, but by the time he looked back down at the third stone I had already grabbed it.

“Aww, darn it!” the Boogeyman said. But just then my two stones twinkled in the moonlight as they came back toward me, and the Boogeyman’s eyes widened.

I got lucky and managed to throw them perfectly up above me, which made it easy to catch them again, but also really easy for the Boogeyman to get them too. Since I couldn’t stand, I got on my knees and reached for the falling stones, and the Bogeyman did too, forgetting all about his own.

“I got ‘em!” I yelled.

They were heading right into my hands, but then something shot through the moonlight at me. I ducked out of reflex, and when I looked up I saw what it was: a grotesque, twisted arm that was twice as long as mine and covered with matted black fur and riddled with fleas. The arm caught my two stones and whipped back into the darkness toward the Boogeyman, who was looking at me with his glowing white eyes.

“Was that your arm?” I asked, staring at him.

“...I’m sorry, I just got too excited,” the Boogeyman said, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. It’s really ugly, I know.”

“No it’s not, it’s a part of you,” I said, sitting back down. He didn’t seem to understand what I meant, so I lifted up my shirt and showed him the long scar that went up my side toward my armpit. “I got this when I was sledding down a hill last winter. I was catching a lot of speed, but then I fell off and hit a rock at the bottom and I broke a rib. I don’t remember much, but my mom said the doctor had to do immediate surgery because the rib hit my lung and almost killed me.”

“Whoa,” the Boogeyman said.

“Yeah,” I replied, “but I lived. Anyway, I woke up in the hospital and the scar was really gross and red and leaking and I told my mom I didn’t want anyone to see it, but she said that she already invited all my friends to come visit me! I was so embarrassed.”

“So what did you do?”

“I showed it to them anyway,” I said. “And they did all think it was super gross, but nobody cared that much. What they really cared about was finding out how I got it. So I told them, and they told all the kids at school. And you know what? Nobody cared about how gross it was anymore. They all thought I was really cool. And I think you’re really cool.”

I couldn’t see the Boogeyman’s mouth, but it looked like he was smiling. But right then, I heard my mom’s footsteps walking briskly toward my bedroom door.

“Oh no, we gotta go!” I whispered to the Boogeyman, and I jumped back in bed. He flew back into my closet and silently closed the door behind him. I saw his eyes looking at me through the closet.

“Maybe we can play together again sometime?” he asked.

I smiled. “Definitely.”