The Journal of Xavier Vandus

Burns. We split the first aid kit, tending to our wounds. The searing pain isn’t just skin-deep- our failing muscles ache. I have to force my hands to move, working against the spasms. We ran until we reached a cliff’s edge. Donavin told me there was a small sandstone cave not far beneath it with a ledge that could catch us. As soon as we landed, we both passed out. Morning arrived.

Dust clings to our legs and lands on our faces, carried by the wandering wind. Exhaustion binds us to the ground. The orange morning light begins creeping into the shadow. I had anticipated moments like these as a result of escaping. Moments of quiet pain. The air carries unspoken words. There are silent, shared fears. Nothing needs to be said to confirm agreement. The feelings are inseparable from the experience. 

The pain is the least of it for both of us, even if Donavin’s gestures show he takes it worse than I. I can’t blame him. I run my fingers across the aged, bumpy scar that stretches from my cheek to my chin. He doesn’t have as much experience with burns. 

With a labored breath, he tries to stand, using the wavy striped walls to support his back. His knees wobble, and one leg nearly buckles near the site of a hit. The nerves in the area are imprinted on the skin like a red shadow. He outstretches his shaky hand, preempting a fall, then slowly retracts it. He looks at me. “There’s a port nearby, on a plateau. It’s only an hour’s walk away.”

I stare at him blankly. “Can’t we rest for a while?” My hand twitches. “I don’t think we’re ready to leave.”

His focus steps behind the curtain of his eyes. After a still moment, it returns, and he looks at the ceiling of the cave. “They could find us. Our guard is down. There’d be nothing stopping them…”

“You’re right,” I admit. “But… there’s no way we can make the distance the way we are now.” 

He stares at the rocky expanse. “If we stay, we need to be ready for them to find us.” His eyes fall to his hands. “And I don’t trust our weapons.” 

I stare at our backpacks, discarded on the floor. Slearic batteries spill out of them. An idea forms.

I grab a handful, hobbling over to the ledge. He understands my plan, and comes to my side. Slearic is a dangerous substance. It powers laser weapons with an extraordinary amount of energy. Slearic batteries are explosive and fragile. I set them down slowly and carefully, because if I were to drop one, even from this distance…

When it hits the ground and bursts, it would catch all of the other batteries in its explosion. We’re standing too close to ever escape that blast. Being hit by one Slearic battery is enough to kill an uninjured person.

We were far from that.

I scatter them across the ledge so that they won’t go off all at once. The Crusaders wear electricity-absorbing vests, meaning that the trap would damage them, but not kill them. Force is a last resort.

By the time we both feel capable of making the journey, the sun has reached its apex. Sweat leaves my crimson uniform damp. The Echoes keep all of their training within the walls of their facilities, so my uniform was never meant to see the sun. At least, they weren’t meant to see the sun from Guren. To make things worse, the Fervorous has connections with Echo occupations on Septia, a planet cooled with massive machines to freeze the hydrochloric acid in the rain. We were given thick wool uniforms in preparation for our service there. I have no doubts they’re serving the new alumni well, but you can imagine what it does for me.

I unscrew the cap on a cantine Donavin gave me. It’s a little over half empty. 

“The port gets traffic from all over, especially neighboring planets.” That meant tropical Thalassa and urban Denva. “Around Huletineti, though, the trip to Hintite is at its shortest.”

I’m unsure of how to say my question in Amharic so I use my two index fingers as stand-ins for the planets. I mimic their orbit around the sun, bringing them close to each other. “Because of this?”

“Yes, exactly.”

We begin walking.

“We brought Hollens, right?” I ask, laughing. “I don’t want to have to sneak on a ship or anything.”

He feels around his backpack for a pouch bloated with small plastic tokens. He chuckles. “Yep, no need to worry. And I’m certain there will be at least one passenger ship heading to Hintite.”

The stormy planet is anything but a tourist destination, but I’m sure there will be. After all, if the planets are close around now, there must be at least one person trying to capitalize on it.

I frown. “Do you think the people at the port will recognize us? I bet we don’t have nearly enough money to bribe our way past our reputation.”

He waves his hand and shakes his head. “Oh, heavens, no. Word travels slowly here. And the Gurenian traders are probably still at their homes celebrating Huletineti, not off in the ports.” 

He remembers what he’s missing and frowns. 

“We’re ahead of Magnus Crusader though,” he says, picking back up again, “so there’s little chance the Echoes have made a public statement there to see it.”

“They could have informed the port police by now, via radio,” I suggest.

“But they’re all Gurenians and, once again, it’s still Huletineti, at least until tomorrow.”

“We’re in good luck, then,” I realize. “The offworld shippers are probably too preoccupied with their routes to want to stop us, too.”

“Yep. There’s not enough Hollens to our names yet.”

I smile. Reaching Hintite will be smooth sailing, or, to use a Gurenian idiom, soft rock.

As it turns out, we dramatically overestimated the market for transportation to Hintite. There is not a single passenger ship headed there, only cargo ships, and none headed straight to Stoya.

Concerned, I volunteer to ask the Hintite-bound shippers for a ride on their ships, since my English is better than Donavin’s. There aren’t many that understand (these being Denvans, who speak Chinese as a lingua franca), but of the ones that do, they all refuse.

Forlorn, I continue pacing around the port until I catch the scent of Thalassan sea salt. It catches me by surprise, and I pause. It had been two and a half years since I enrolled at the Fervorous. The scent of my homeworld is somewhat unfamiliar. 

There is a good chance that the sailor isn’t Greek, and as such, they won’t know English. But there’s a chance they will. 

I approach the ship, where a figure is unloading crates. She turns around to face me, her loose, blonde ponytail shifting as she does. I can tell from her must that she’s the source of the Thalassa smell, and a sailor back home. Her eyes look tired. 

“Do you speak Greek?” I ask in English.

In Greek, she answers, “Yes.”

I muster a relieved smile and she replies with a faint grin. Our conversation continues in Greek.

“Where is your crew headed?”

Her voice is strained, likely from fighting against the sounds of waves and machinery. “Ultimately, Stoya. But we’re landing at a nearby village first and using the monobullet to head up to the city.” Her expression shows that she’s unsure if I’ll understand the practice.

I don’t.

“The toll is higher if you land in Stoya directly instead of coming up from the base of the mountain.”

“Ah.” 

I notice she’s eying my uniform.

“You’re in no trouble,” I explain. “I’m a runaway.”

“Oh.” Her tone is empathetic. “So you’re looking to hide in Stoya?”

“Until me and my companion have an idea of what to do next.”

She snorts. “You won’t need to do anything else.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I’ve heard rumors of the crime but I didn’t know-”

“The real place is worse.”

“Oh.” I shudder.

It seems like she didn’t mean to scare me. “Only if you’re not careful, you know.” Her voice darkens. “You’re from Thalassa, right?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I grew up in Neo-Ionia. I knew the Promitheftis family.” That name belonged to a once infamous young crime boss. “And to me of all people, Stoya- the abandoned neighborhoods, anyway- are worse.” She slumped over on one of the cargo hatch’s hydraulic lifts, savoring a satisfied smile as a loose lock of hair fell to cover one of her green eyes. She nonchalantly threw it behind her ear.

“Wow,” I mutter. “Does crime just happen to everyone?”

She shakes her head. “No, no. The gangs only target the Echoes and Zencrotes.” Her eyes fall to the insignia on my uniform. “Might wanna find something else to wear before you get there.”

I attempt a chuckle, and the results are shy and shaky.

She rushes to put a hand on my shoulder. “I, I didn’t mean to scare you that bad, I’m…” She sighs, shaking her head. “Sorry. You know how important the truth is.”

“I do.” I clutch my wrist and it hurts. “I’m just a little shaken right now.”

“I understand.” She checks to make sure her captain isn’t around, then asks, “You want to go to Stoya, right?”

“Right.” I throw a thumb in Donavin’s direction. “We can pay you a good deal if that’s what you ne-”

She waves her hands at me. “No, no. There’ll be no charge. I have a way, though you’ll have to be discreet. We aren’t gonna follow our cargo all the way to Stoya, either. Once we land, we hand it over to monobullet shippers. That’s where your free ride will end. But, there’s plenty of passenger monobullets headed to Stoya. Your Hollens will serve you well then.”

She pauses. “Will that work for you?”

I break out into a full smile, hardly believing my ears. “Yes, yes! Absolutely! Thank you, thank you, once for each island in the sea.” The idiom refers to the total of roughly 4,000 Thalassan islands.

“Good. I don’t like to see anyone helpless.” She outstretches her hand. “I’m Elexis.”

I take it, and her grip is firm. “Xavier.”

She grins. “Fetch your friend and follow me.”

The ship itself was rather large on the outside, but only a small portion of that space inside is dedicated for people. The rest is being packed to the brim with shipping containers. I assume they’re full of raw metals, as that’s the prime Gurenian industry. 

Elexis explains that the crew is outside, still loading, which leaves the crew area empty and spacious. Benches and collapsible bunks hang from the walls. The edges of the area are littered with cabinets and compartments. There’s a single table and two chairs, pushed off to the side. 

“Where are we meant to hide?” I ask in English.

She leads us to a tall closet and thrusts open the doors. Jackets of all kinds hang inside.  “It’s far from a comfortable seat, but it’s the most I can give you.”

“It is generous,” Donavin assures her. “Your effort is respected.” 

I nod in agreement.

“Thanks,” she whispers, smiling, briefly. “You need to be silent once I close these doors. I’ll do the rest. The captain is a Gurenian Turk, so he’s still celebrating Huletineti at his town. The ship doesn’t leave without him. The pilots are going to come first, then the rest of the crew, once they finish loading the cargo.”

She tosses her eyes over her shoulder. “I’m supposed to be helping them. They will come looking for me eventually.” She looks back at us. “It will be a while before the captain arrives. He stalls.”

Donavin nods, subtly. “I can understand why.”

She nods. “Yeah, can’t blame him either.”

“Elexis!” calls a weathered voice from outside.

“One more thing,” she hurries to explain. “The ship will reach Hintite some time next morning. If you can sleep standing up, do it. Don’t worry about snoring, someone else will probably snore louder. If you can’t… well…”

“Elexis?!”

She sighs. “Tough luck.” She grabs the door handles. “When you get found out, I do the talking.”

The doors shut, and the darkness swallows us.

As my eyes adjust, I can see Donavin’s chin shaking ever so slightly. “What does ‘tough luck’ mean?” he asks, almost inaudibly.

“It means ‘you have to bear it; there is nothing you can do.’”

“Ah.” He shifts to find a comfortable place to stand between the coats and empty hangers. “Then I won’t be sleeping.”

“Neither will I.”

Donavin never mentioned that fireworks were part of the Huletineti festivities. So when I heard the explosions at dawn, I knew something was wrong. 

Flashes of blue light stab my blurry vision as I stumble out of bed. The floor rumbles beneath me. Marching rattles the walls.

My fingers clench the handle of the Psi as I lean against the wall. I can hear people scurrying out of bed, both in the house and in houses nearby. A commanding voice projects from outside, asking, “Where is the home of Donavin Eshe?”

Her question is met with silence. The voice’s familiarity makes me pause. Outside, the rolling murmur of footsteps dwindles, only leaving those coming from inside. Donavin- as quietly as possible- hurries into the room, carrying a backpack, a Psi, and Slearic cartridges.

His weary eyes say everything.

“How long has she been here?” he asks in the faintest whisper.

“Since yesterday,” I answer. “She was a guest at graduation.” She’s called Magnus Crusader. Magnus is her title- she’s the leader of the Echoes’ Crusaders. Most know her for her smiling face at parades and ceremonies, eyes hidden behind her visor. From what I understand, they’re a young group and not a dangerous one. Their job is public relations- they avoid using their weapons. They are listened to, but not feared. 

Her tone seems off.

She says something else. “We won’t hurt you, if possible. We only want information. We have broken down the door to your storm shelter for a search, but we will repair it in time. If you cooperate and locate Donavin Eshe, we will leave your city and its people intact. This is just the work of the law.”

“What do you need him for?” asks Kia, her voice uncharacteristically shaky.

“There have been many reports of runaways from the Fervorous training facility,” she explains. I grab my bandages. “The wounds they sustained in escaping are always healed when we recapture them. To our knowledge, Donavin Eshe is the only trained paramedic in the area.”

His jaw shakes violently.

“It may be uncomfortable, but please comply. Whatever harm you may think you’re causing by locating him is far less than the harm you will cause if you don’t. All we’ll do is temporarily take him into our custody.” Silence. Her tone grows sour. “Citizens of Adise Dire Dawa, this should be a simple exchange. Don’t complicate it.”

Donavin moves to a corner of the room with a view out a window and the front door. I follow. Magnus Crusader is surrounded by the other Crusaders, and- strangely- troops. They aren’t using Omegas- I can’t even recognize the model. The only thing I can recognize are the slings of Slearic grenades.

She looks at the troops impatiently, nods her head, and they break off. She remains, along with the handful of other Crusaders. Their visors remain fixed on the crowds. “This is just a house search. We’ll work our way through the streets, if need be. Please don’t interfere with the soldiers.” Her head moves ever so slightly. “If any of you want to tell us where he is, we can stop the searches here.” She walks toward the people, as if their fear of approaching her is their deterrent. The crowds part, avoiding her. “Or we can go at this all day, if you insist.”

Donavin starts climbing onto the windowsill, slow enough to not break the crowd’s silence. I follow him, knowing this is the most we can do.

Magnus Crusader taps her foot amply, kicking up dust on the parched earth. “This Donavin- is he an unknown man? Or a beloved one?” She observes the change in expression on the people’s faces. “Ah… I see. So he’s the kind of man whose missing smile makes frowns. Who brings joy to a friend…” She eyes Kia. “And fulfillment to a partner…” 

He rests on the windowsill, hands bracing the frame, ready to jump and run. Even if fleeing will be difficult and surely painful, we can’t fight. Certainly not that many. I hope there’s a first aid kit in his bag. 

I wish there were some way for one of us to stay, and from his pained expression, I can tell he wishes the same. But he can’t leave me here with his family, nor could I leave him. Both options would leave us in far more than just Echo custody. I don’t know whether or not to believe the details of the bunkside tales, but they do make one thing clear: the Echoes will get the information they want. I feel my bandages once more, clutching them anxiously.

Behind his eyes, I can see these thoughts swirl like a sandstorm. His movements are not just careful but hesitant. Wordlessly, we both know what we have to do, and how soon we have to do it. We wish the burden wasn’t ours.

Outside the window, Magnus Crusader relinquishes her gaze from Kia. She comes to a conclusion, “Yes, it seems like this is a man whose absence will make faces fall for as long as it persists.”

He bites his lip as if it will hold back the tears. He slams his eyes shut and swallows, doing the best he can to sturdy his expression. “Are you ready?” he quivers.

“As ready as I can be,” I tell him. “This isn’t the first time.” I stare out the window, at Adise Dire Dawa, at the Fervorous off in the distance, and at the leader of the Crusaders.  “And I’m beginning to get the feeling that it won’t be the last.”

He stares off into the distance. “The feeling is mutual.” Before he leaps, he holds still, clearly waiting for something. I soon realize he’s listening.

Kia begins to speak. “Magnus Crusader?”

The woman turns to face her.

“I do not know where Donavin Eshe-”

“Your husband,” she interrupts.

“I- yes.” Kia scowls and her voice deepens. “You shouldn’t know that.”

Her accusation is received with a slight frown. “Continue.”

After a spiteful pause, she does, speaking with speed and accuracy that almost sound practiced. “I do not know where he is or where he has gone, but I know that he has left.”

As Donavin demonstrates, that’s our cue. We don’t wait for her to continue.

“He left without mention of destination or motive, but told us th-”

Magnus Crusader stops listening, turning sharply to face the two fugitives. “They’re over there,” she tells them. She signals for the Crusaders to chase us, and she stays behind.

In my mind, I say my farewells to the city and to the family. Wind and heat. Parched earth beneath our feet. Furied shouts fly behind, marred by the grip of rushing wind. Our speed rends their seething words past comprehension. They grow desperate, realizing they can’t catch us just by running. Laser bolts connect with burns and shocks. Reality is buried in adrenaline and pain. 

I jump through the broken window to the fanfare of shattering glass and blaring alarms. The clock starts ticking down. I have exactly one minute to reach the mudbrick city in the distance, and no more. All Echoes practice drills to ensure they can neutralize runaways in only a minute. If I can cross the rocky plain in time, I can hide there. I can throw them off my trail. I can keep going, just like I planned.

But until then, the arid expanse still separates me from it. The distance is 50 meters- all Echoes training facilities are located exactly 50 meters from the nearest urban center.

I can already hear soldiers rushing to the window.

I need to run.

Wind and heat. Parched earth beneath my feet. Laser bolts connect with burns and shocks. The whole world is buried in flashes of lightning. My feet stamp on the ground in quick, blunt pulses. Through blurry eyes fighting against darkness, I can see the buildings shaking closer. Closer. Furied shouts fly behind, marred by the grip of rushing wind. My speed tears their seething words past comprehension. Reality is buried in adrenaline and pain. I run.

50 meters becomes 30. Then 10. With less distance, the details of the city become visible. Sprawling, rocky streets are dotted by the occasional passerby. I knew there would be few witnesses at this hour. Rough sand brick buildings create dusty alleyways, just as I’d hoped. That’s where I’ll hide. A worn sign recalls the humble city’s name: Adisi Dire Dawa. I have arrived.

I have no time to celebrate before another bolt unleashes a raging burn on my back. I keep running, darting into an alleyway and then out into a new street. I see what looks like a bunker a couple meters away, with its shutter door wide open and a lean, dark-skinned man inside. That’s my only hope. 

I dive into the bunker, much to the surprise of the man. I point an aching finger toward the door and blurt out my panicked questions before he gets the chance to stammer his. “Is this military-grade?” My Amharic is heavily accented, but still intelligible.

“It… is,” he replies, slowly. His voice is light but imbued with purpose. “It’s an M.G.E.D.”

“That’ll hold them,” I mumble, briefly slipping into Greek. He leans in to hear me better, confused. “Close it!” I shout.

“Wait, wait- who are you?!”

“Fugitive. That’s all you need to know.” I dart to the control panel, my eyes wildly scanning across the buttons. “Which one closes it?”

The man puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hold on- This is a storm shelter. You can’t hide from them here.”

I’m still focusing on the buttons as he speaks. Emergency Lockdown, Door Timer, Secure Mode… Close Door! There it is! I break free from his grasp and throw my hand on the button. Immediately, the door crashes onto the ground with a hefty thunk.

I’m safe. I’m finally safe. My hand drops from the control panel as I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. I slide down to the metal floor, slumping my back against the wall. I did it. I’m… safe…

The man turns his head to look at me, shocked and confused. “What… what did you just do?”

I smile, well aware of the achievement. “Escaped boot camp,” I reply. My breath is still heavy and fast, but is gradually slowing.

“Oh- the Echo training facility? The F-”

“Fervorous,” I completed, continuing to recite the Fervorous pledge. Each training facility has a unique pledge, each in English. The Fervorous makes their recruits recite theirs at every meal. The words were burned into my brain. “‘Where the recruited become rec-”

“Recruiters, I know, I know,” he finishes. “We hear it every parade.” He eyes the door, worried. “So they’re coming after you?”

Suddenly, there’s furious banging from the other side of the door. We both turn our heads in surprise. “Yes,” I confirm, meekly.

I put my hand on the floor to support me in an attempt to stand up, but the immediate searing pain makes me lurch back to my spot with a yelp.

The man rushes to my side, concerned and hands ready. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Burns,” I tell him, showing him my open hand. “I got hit a lot.”

He gently brings my hand closer to inspect it. The flesh is pinkish-red and thin. “Bad burns,” he comments. He uses a local phrase the Echoes didn’t teach us. I can make out “very bad.” He pauses, but eventually looks into my eyes with a conflicted stare. He decides, “Do you want me to help?”

“Please,” I groan through gritted teeth. 

He dashes to the wall to fetch a first aid kit from a supply bin, and places it by my side. His hands swim through its contents with practiced speed, returning carrying a roll of bandages. “I’d put your burns in cool water if we had any. Light bandage wrappings will do for now.”

He kneels down and begins gently circling the bandages around my hand. They sting against my skin, but he keeps his pressure light to reduce the pain. He works as fast as he can without hurting me. “I’m Donavin,” he announces. “And you- you are very lucky I had volunteered to patrol the storm shelter today.”

“I’m also named Xavier,” I inform him. “What makes me so lucky?”

“I happen to be the only trained paramedic in the area. Besides, well…” He pauses to look at the rattling door, his gaze shaky. “Maybe some of them.”After an uncomfortable silence, he slowly lowers his head and returns to work. He hints at a small smile. “You’re far from the first Echo runaway we’ve had to deal with.”

“Deal with?”

He chuckles, meek. “Hey, hey, I don’t mean it- we don’t mind you guys. There’s plenty of you, after all- I think for every 10 people who go there, we end up getting 2 of them back after a couple of months. So, I’ll give you the same offer I give to the rest of them: you can hide in my house for a night or two, until you can find somewhere to go. We try to be accommodating, and my wife is only slightly tired of me bringing strangers home. She’ll warm up to you, though- she sympathizes. All you need to do is prepare yourself for two talkative little tikes.” He looks at me, grinning. “Think you can handle that?”

“Of course. I’d like to think they’re a bit easier to handle than escaping armed soldiers…”

Donavin laughs. “You’d think. But, hey- me and Kia thought we could handle them too.” He pauses, smiling. “Kids can be really good at proving you wrong…” A fond memory washes over him, but the tide soon recedes. He returns to his work, finishing the last wrapping. “That’s all I can do for now. I bet you have burns in other places, but we don’t have the supplies or the time to help them.”

He gets up and walks to a screen beside the control panel. After a couple quick inputs, it lights up to show security camera feed from outside. Concern shadows his face as his eyes study the footage. I join him and immediately see familiar faces.

“Oh, look at that- it’s my platoon.” I kick myself. “Was,” I correct.

His eyes widen as his face dawns surprise. “Your old platoon is hunting you down? I didn’t know the Echoes were so eager to betray each other.”

“I wouldn’t call it betrayal- they never liked me very much to begin with,” I explain. “I never gave them much to like. But, hey, I can’t be too mad at them, they did teach me a lot. How to fake a smile, how to escape a chokehold- not that those two usually had any overlap…”

He pragmatically interrupts me. “The door isn’t going to hold them forever- we need a plan for when they find a way in.”

I pause to think. “Are there weapons in here?”

“On the lower levels, yeah- take the elevator. They should be in any of the bins on floors lower than 2. Oh, and the password is Menelik!”

“Menelik? That’s not very hard to guess.”

“Oh, it is- it is for foreigners.” His eyes spark as he grins. “The ones who aren’t well-versed in history, anyway.”

I offer him a shrug in apology. “I’m Greek,” I concede, jokingly. “We have history books burned into our brains.”

He snickers until he regains his sense of urgency. He flaps his hand at me. “Go, go- run.”

I dive into the elevator. He doesn’t need to tell me twice.

With the press of a dim green light, the metal box starts to descend, and the noise it produces reveals it’s seen better days. As it slides down the deep metal shaft, it creates an industrial ambience that cuts away from the outside world, leaving me to my thoughts. What I’m doing now stands in stark contrast to the days before. I’d been planning my escape for months, gathering as much information as I could. Everything up to the moment I jumped out of that window was premeditated, but everything after was unplanned. I never imagined that this is where I’d be all those weeks ago. No one could have ever imagined that studious little Xavier Vandus would be breaking out on the day of his graduation. I was supposed to receive my implants today- two little metal squares placed in my chin to show my rank. I could receive more, greater ones, if I’d continued. If I’d become a pilot, like I aspired to when I joined. This isn’t where I pictured I’d be all those years ago, back when I thought this was my ticket to seeing the world. Back when I thought this was a good idea. But it’s where I am now. 

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and sealing my thoughts. Just keep moving forward, right?

While I don’t dwell on them for long, my mind sees that the events of today will make for an exciting journal entry. Without a moment to spare, my thoughts diverge into the entertaining questions of writing it all down, lifting myself from my surroundings.

There’s no use for me to explain this to myself, but I leave occasional explanations of the Greek journal tradition in the hopes that my journal has fallen into the hands of someone else, as I intend for it to. Besides, even if you’re familiar with the tradition, I should know best of all that our memory will fail us from time to time. So, in the case you fell to that, I’ll help you up the way I do with all the information I find: writing it down.

There are tales from before that speak of the old Greeks as legendary figures of humanity’s past. But, since those details have since been lost to time with all the histories of the rest of the peoples, one of those old Greek’s descendants in the new galaxy decided to prevent such a thing from happening again. They began to write down every event of every day into a journal, a journal they kept and filled with information until it was a comprehensive history. And when that journal was full, they started another. They wrote three journals in their lifetime, each of which we call a Chronoepistimi- time knowledge (our names are quite broad, no?)- coming together to form the Chronoepistimia. Inspired, their descendants began to write journals of their own, a tradition they then passed on to their descendants. And so it continued, until all the followers of that tradition- those who had claimed the name of “Greek” in memory of those forgotten ancestors- were a people of their own. A people my brother and I were born into.

 In the Vandus family, you receive your journal on the day of your thirteenth birthday. That was a very happy day for me. But for my brother Phineus… Phineus never made it that far.

Right, the present. It helps to stay in the present.

The doors open, releasing the dusty air that rushes into the elevator, shocking my unprepared senses. On the other end of the room, I can see another elevator entrance. Strewn throughout the metal box are storage containers, one with its lid open, revealing weapons and Slearic batteries. I grab two pistols and a generous handful of batteries- enough to have some to last me after the incursion. Standard-quality Slearic batteries can overheat roughly 15 times before being depleted. As long as I stay out of trouble, that should last me a good while.

With our armaments in hand, I begin walking toward the elevator I came from, but stop when I hear noises from behind. The other elevator door opens to reveal Donavin, panic burning in his eyes. His jaw is quaking, as I realize it had been doing since the moment I arrived, though much softer.

“They’re firing grenades now,” he mutters, brow furrowed. “They’re going to break through.” 

There’s a somber pause. 

He says, “I see you found the weapons. Were you trained with these?”

I step away from the elevator, looking at the pistol in my hand. “Are these P-Shots?” I assume the shelter would opt for the budget brand.

“Psi Models, thanks to a generous donation.”

“We trained with Omegas every day.” Omega Models were the least powerful, and the cheapest. The Fervorous had lots of them. I smirk. “Will I have to worry about this one falling apart, too?”

He tries to laugh, but he lacks a lying heart. “Hopefully not…”

I walk over to him and hand him a Psi, as well as a couple of batteries. “Have you used one of these before?”

“Once, to test if they worked.” His fingers fumble around the handle. “But only once.” His eyes rest on the pistol uneasily. “We bought these for a worst case scenario. We never thought… that…”

“I understand,” I finish, relinquishing the burden. I look at a dusty metal door a few feet away. “Are those fire escape stairs?”

“Yeah. They connect to every floor.”

“They don’t know the elevator password. They’ll be coming from there,” I realize.

A booming thud reverberates down the floors, startling us. There’s the unmistakable, grinding screech of metal falling on metal. “Coming soon,” Donavin observes.

“You said they had grenades?” I ask.

“That’s what it sounded like. Is that… plausible?”

“The only Echoes who are allowed to use grenades are people with the grenadier rank, which I don’t remember any of them having. I guess there were some promotions I missed at the graduation ceremony.” There’s another thud. “Although… they could just be throwing out their Slearic batteries. Low-quality ones explode on impact.”

Donavin stares at the batteries in his hand. “Noted.”

“It isn’t recommended,” I tell him. “With good aim, we shouldn’t even need them. Right?”

The door bursts open before he can answer. Startled, we both jump back, and Donavin aims his Psi. His grip is controlled but his trigger finger is wild, and he quickly overheats his battery and misses most of his shots. As the searing heat reaches his hands, he yelps and drops the pistol. In a panic, I grab however many Slearic batteries fit through my fingers and chuck them at the charging soldiers. Blinding blue flashes of light freeze time. Then the heat reaches me. I shield my eyes, and back away, just as the sound begins. Frantic, unrestrained energy thrashes around, zipping and fizzing while humming loudly. And of course, they scream. With a crackle and a boom, the blue thorns dissipate, revealing a platoon of dazed, burned, men. Some cough and groan in pain. Some don’t move. I killed them.

My eyes well up. I didn’t mean to. Donavin carefully tiptoes closer. I fall to my knees, my hands wavering over them. I never liked my platoon, and I still don’t. But I didn’t want them to die. I don’t want anyone to die. I didn’t mean to.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter through quivering lips.

Donavin inspects the soldiers. Those who are alive have a dazed look on their face. Their eyes aren’t staring at anything they can see. He grabs a first aid kit from a cabinet and opens it, taking out the materials needed for treating burns. He takes out a pen and paper and writes a note. I get up and kneel down beside him to see. It instructs them on how to treat their burns and tells them to get cool water when they can. Once he’s done writing, he moves his hand to put the pen away, but I reach for it. I want to add something. He hands it to me. On the note, I write:

I’m sorry.

I place the pen in his open hand, but instead of putting it back, he adds something too.

There are burial dunes a kilometer east.

Finally, he puts the pen away. He looks at me, reading my eyes. “It hurts,” he says, knowingly. “I hope they’ll come to forgive you.”

I sniffle. “In time, I bet.”

He puts a welcome hand on my shoulder. “If anything, in time.”

A small smile sprouts as a tear drips off my face. “Well… they’ll have to forgive me for all the other stupid things I’ve done first.”

“Like what?”

“Jumping out a window, first of all,” I chuckle. “And if you had the misfortune of being around me for that long, the list would go on and on.”

“Hardly misfortune,” he argues. “From what I’ve seen, at least. You remind me of a local saying: a worrisome butterfly sees itself a moth.”

“What does that mean?”

“People with good qualities often worry they’re less than they are. I think that fits you well.”

The smile becomes a little more confident. “Thank you.” I take a deep breath and look at the platoon again. “Forgive me,” I whisper. “Forgive me someday.”

A buzz came from one of the soldiers. It was from one of his facial implants, this one on his ear. It functions like a headset. The higher in rank an Echo is, the more implants they receive. Softly, I can hear a voice coming from it. “Platoon 237, please respond. Have you found the runaway?”

Donavin stands up. “We’d best go someplace else; I don’t think you’ll be safe here forever.” He runs fingers through his hair. “This is not where I imagined I’d be the day before Huletineti…”

“Is that a holiday?”

“A festival, yeah. We celebrate every year when Guren’s two moons align. The name itself is Amharic for duality. It starts tomorrow.”

“Is harboring fugitives part of the festivities?”

He laughs. “No, but that doesn’t stop our family from making it a tradition.”

The Eshe home is much like the others in Adise Dire Dawa: quaint, cramped, and colorful. As Donavin explained, one of the traditions for the Huletineti Festival is gathering daisies and decorating your home with them. As I’d later see, there were many bouquets of daisies gathered inside, and as we arrive, we find his wife Kia building a banner of daisies above their doorway.

“Yene nefse, my soul, we’re home,” he calls.

“Yene nefse!” She puts down the basket of flowers and rushes to embrace him. She kisses him on the cheek and smiles. “You’ve come just in time to help.”

He places a hand on her face. “We’d best introduce our guest first.” He uses more local words as he speaks with her.

Her eyes widen in confusion. “Guest?” She pulls away from his arms to look for me.

Donavin moves to try and block me from view. “My soul, it’s just one this time,” he assures. “We won’t keep him for lo-”

Despite his efforts, she finds me. “Who is this?” Kia asks, pointing. She knows the red uniform.

“I’m Xavier,” I interrupt. “I’m an Echo runaway.”

She sighs, familiar. “Yes, and there are two moons in the sky…”

“This one’s unique, though,” Donavin promises. “I didn’t ask to save this one. He just kinda…”

“Dove into the storm shelter,” I finish.

“Yeah,” he nods. “That.” He bears a moment of nervous silence before adding, “His Amharic is quite good for an Echo.”

Kia stands there, arms folded, looking back and forth at us. “With rain or not, the farmer still reaps…” she mutters. Her chin jolts upward. “You! Xavier!” she calls, her voice strong and sharp. She waves her hand. “Come, come.”

I approach, hesitant.

Her posture loosens, and her lips curl into a warm smile. “Really, come. You don’t have to be afraid of me. Respect me, yes. But only my children-” she pauses to look at her husband, “-and my very tall child have any reason to be afraid of me.”

“You’re really letting me inside?” I ask, unsure.

She nods. “If my husband is going to keep bringing strangers into our house, the least I can do is make them dinner.” Her gaze turns to Donavin. “Speaking of, you’ll be finishing the banner.” She grins. “Yene nefse.”

She leads me through the front door, dodging her children and averting her eyes to the waves of dust that trail behind their lively feet. She kicks off her sandals to match her barefoot children. She waves an open hand towards the dinner table, instructing, “Take a seat.” Her hands find bronze pots, plates decorated with intricate floral patterns, but no utensils. All food is eaten with spongy and fermented injera. “Careful, little ones!” she calls. “Your house is made of sturdy brick- don’t learn the hard way.” She shakes her head lovingly. “Dinner won’t be long for you, Xavier. You won’t be disappointed.”

I smile, knowing that’s true. Good food tastes best from good people. “Does Donaivn cook?”

“He does. Better than me, truly.” She eyes the doorway and raises her voice to make sure he hears. “But not faster than me!” She giggles cheerfully. “I make sure to stoke the flames of friendly competition every now and again. It helps us both- we cook best when we’re trying to prove ourselves best.” She looks me up and down. “Take off those boots. They won’t do you any good out here where the dust is. And keep your head up. Keeps it out of your eyes.”

She doesn’t need to watch me to see if I listened.

She was right about her cooking. The evening was spent merrily, with much talk of me and the children. After learning about their son Negasi’s day at school and their daughter Mariam’s favorite color, someone eventually asks of my homeworld.

“Thalassa,” I say, preparing to explain the distance. Donavin interjects before I do.

“You must miss the sea.”

“Hardly,” I snort. “No matter where you live there, you grow up beside it. I’m no different. There’s so much of it it’s impossible not to.” I refill my spoon with another mouthful of cold stew, combatting my sweat.

Kia placed her spoon down beside her empty bowl. “Its name even means ‘sea,’ yes?”

“Correct. The air is so humid there- nothing like Guren.”

Donavin nodded understandingly, before a playful smile arose. “And here, you can go five steps without your toes getting wet.”

“Far more than five,” Kia adds. “Too many.”

I roll my eyes. “The islands aren’t as small as everyone says.” I break apart a piece of injera. “To us, anyway.”

Donavin asks, “So I take it you wanted to get as far away from the water as possible? If so, you chose a good place.”

I stop. My smile wavers. “Not… exactly.” There’s an explanation that leaves out the details: “Some people just want to see the galaxy.”

Donavin “ahs” in understanding. “I can see the appeal. I only ask because some do enjoy- or would enjoy- getting as far away from their homeworld as possible.” He smiles, guiltily and jokingly.

If there was one thing that any person could agree on, regardless of homeworld, it’s that their own planet was the worst one.

Kia had finished her meal by now and was already up collecting the dishes. Donavin wolfed down his last few bites and then came to help. The kids had ran off. They say this happens often. 

I am told where the guest room is and that there were several cots to accommodate me. In the corner is a vase full of large linen cloths, one of which remained on a cot. These were my blankets. It was clear people had been here before me. How many, I wonder? How long did they stay? As I felt my hands on the cot, I tried to imagine myself as someone else: the person before me. What were they like? Their homeworld, their reason for leaving. I pulled the mental image one person back; the person before that one. How far did it go? I scan the room. Each of the cots was set up in a different way. Some were clearly only used for one night. Others had boxes put beside them for use as nightstands, or bags underneath them. I can even make out two little metal squares- now crushed and crumpled- hiding under a cot in the corner, just big enough to fit in someone’s chin.

I am not alone, but I don’t know by how much. The Echoes are too responsible to tell you, but the recruits know stories. Stories like mine. They were never told in broad daylight- almost always the opposite. Stories like that were best heard underneath the unpainted roof of your dorm when your lights were off. That was the picture of many nights.

Underneath the rocky roof, with the last glimpses of daylight being swallowed by that of two very close, almost united moons, I try to hear those stories again. It helps to think of the people in them being with me. Any history is easier as a familiar one. I think of them, gearing up to go where all of the runaways go: Stoya, a city on Hintite. They say there’s enough crime there that you’re the least priority. I’ll follow. 

Even if the cots around me are empty, I like to imagine them full. Not full of the people who used to fill my dorm bunks, but full of the people whose bunkmates were also no longer their friends. People whose bunkmates were also on their first mission. First kill mission.

I recognized that face on the one I killed, even if I didn’t recognize it when they were charging at me and firing their weapon. I clench the bandages on my wrist. I didn’t recognize the person but I did recognize the face.

The Eye of All Suits: Chapter 1

He closed his eyes, pulling himself closer to the wall. He focused his breathing and emptied his thoughts, letting the sensation fill his mind. Inhale. He remembered his mother’s advice- connect yourself. Connect every part of yourself from your fingers and your palms to your back. Feel the surface and feel past it. Exhale. His fingers splayed out, losing all shape and definition. He kept his body balanced, so as to not lean forward or backward and break the link.

He inhaled. The link was close, but he still felt the stones against his back. Exhale. He loosened his posture and pulled himself even closer to the wall, pulling the touch with it. The feeling of the stones fell away, and from the numbness came hints of a new feeling. He reached for it, mind and body grasping with an open palm. Inhale.

The stone disappeared. He became flush with the wall. Exhale. He and the shadow were one.

It had been years since Corrupt had seen his mother, but her voice still felt like it was coming from right above his shoulder. He remembered all of her advice perfectly. Every time he used his powers, he thought of the techniques she’d shown him. Keep the back of your hand level with your wrist, fingers out. Fully extend your arm and line up your body with it. Let go of all of your other senses- just focus on feeling the shadows. All of it had never stopped being useful. 

He missed his mom and his home, but there were some things he liked about living out here. Back in Brinelette, he never got to use his powers much. Both of them had to keep their shadow bending a secret. But now, he could use it all the time, free of worry. There was no one out here to judge him for it, except for… it.

Suddenly, a deafening sound began ringing in his mind, bouncing in his skull. Come. The voice mimicked that of his thoughts, reflecting its own thoughts through it. Corrupt. Come.

He sighed. He lost grip on the feeling, and the shadow fell away. His body floated back to the space outside the wall, torn away. The link had broken. “Yes, Mirros,” he recited. “Where are you, my lord?”

Watching stone. That was Mirros’s name for the tower.

Corrupt began drifting towards the corkscrew stairwell at the base of it. High, he said. That meant at the top, by the battlements. It had been many years since any normal human beings had lived in this castle. In that time, it had fallen into slight disrepair, but only as slight as Mirros allowed it. Each time a loose cobblestone would fall out of the walls, he would lift it- without touching it or looking at it- and gently put it back into place. If one of his many legs ruffled a rug out of place, he would straighten it. Befitting dominion, he’d sometimes say. It has to be. When he wandered through the halls, the vines around him would tear apart and burn up. Saplings were driven back into the ground by his feet. My dominion. 

At the top of the stairs, he stood completely still. He was acknowledging the view, facing away from Corrupt. The rough, cluttered crystals crowding his back and crown glimmered in fading yellow sunlight.

Here. You’re here, he commented, not even moving to acknowledge him. He stood between what were once guards, drawing their bows at something beneath them, approaching the castle. Now they were only statues of guards. In their crystal, the same yellow light danced, splitting into color.

“I am here, my lord.” Corrupt slithered to his side. “What needs me?”

Look, Mirros said, still motionless. The large crystals and shards that made up his malformed limbs hovered in place. Looking needs. The wiry, skeletal fingers of his oversized hands were tucked behind his back, resting above the tail that folded out from his abdomen and the rows of tiny insectoid legs attached to it. His right hand made a gentle flowing motion, gesturing inhumanly toward the spot beside him. Servant. Come.

The spot was occupied by a soldier. Corrupt heaved himself against it and struggled to move it until Mirros lifted it himself. 

Weak, he scolded. Unalike monsters.

Head down, he did not say a word as he moved to fill the space.

The skeletal hands split apart, his arms stretching out as if to wrap around something infinite. Look, the voice smiled, my kingdom. Empire.

The view was near infinite. Before the castle lay vast fields, marked with overgrown paths. To the east was a glimmering white palace, adorned with gold and glass. It shined like pearl. To the west, beneath the setting sun, a dark palace, built of stone and brick and matte black. Inky like obsidian. Between them, in front of the castle on which they stood, were dozens of statues. Two armies of them. Their positions were deliberate- each side mimicked a chess board. To Mirros, it was his courtyard. Corrupt called it the Checkmate Gallery. 

Beyond the fields was an indomitable forest. Trees and vines and weeds formed walls and ceilings of green. Even beyond Brinelette, where he had first heard its name, it was called the Shadow’s Thicket. And as the trees lined up to the horizon, there were tall spires, slightly to the east. Around the spires, the tops of four distinct palaces. It looked like another kingdom, or many. Ones with people.

To Mirros, all of the view was his. “Your kingdom is vast, my lord,” Corrupt acknowledged.

The watching stones. The spires. Taller than mine. The emperor turned his head. He had to angle it far down to see his servant’s face. There must be people. He glanced at the Checkmate Gallery. But not like my subjects. He looked back at the spires. Yet.

The servant stared at the far away kingdoms against a backdrop of pinks and reds, trying to imagine what they looked like. He thought of their castles. Their lived-in, sound castles. Their people. Real people, with faces. Besides the smiling teeth, the emperor didn’t have a face.

Slowly, Mirros looked at him, as if he had heard something. The smile did not move. He turned away.

They aren’t real, he assured. Not yet. We- no- I am real. The fingers gripped on the servant’s shoulder. You will be real, the emperor promised. Not yet, but… 

There was a pause in the thoughts. It was a word he didn’t know. “Eventually?” Corrupt suggested.

He seemed to learn the word in an instant. Eventually, you will be real. We will be alike.

Corrupt could feel long shadows trailing from the two of them. “Why do you keep me like this?”

What?

“If I’m weak, and we’re unalike, and I’m not real like this, why do you keep me like this?”

The emperor directed an open hand toward him, and he felt something. Or, rather, something inside of him felt something. Not a shared… emotion, exactly, but some sort of… brotherly bond. Like there were two pairs of eyes that had just met. They recognized each other. He turned his gaze away. The eyes inside of him didn’t move with him.

I… like you. I feel a thing in you. I will keep you “like this” until it being unalike is too ugly. It feels ugly to be unalike. Ugly. Painful. You are Corrupt. But the thing in you feels stronger. For now. Only for now.

The eyes inside of him closed. Mirros’s hand flinched.

It listens. Understands. Better than you. He could not laugh inside of Corrupt’s head, but he could feel that he wanted to. It looks like me. An image of bone white teeth flashed. Smiles like me.

You have its eyes. That was true. In twilight like this, the pure white eyes on his face glowed, like those of the creature on the night it swallowed him. Not its smile, though. Not our smile.

In his reflection on Mirros’s body, he could scarcely tell if he even had a mouth.

I cannot fix you, but I can make you real. His hands were outstretched, reaching around his servant. His smile towered over him. I can do it to anyone. Thing. Body.

You can belong.

Suddenly, a bright light- a brighter white than that of Corrupt’s eyes- began to glint on the crystal around him. He looked at the moon- it was full, overflowing with shimmer, and on it lay four faint shadows. No, not shadows, he could feel those- images? Silhouettes?  They grew darker and more definite, taking shape. A heart, diamond, clover, and spade.

Card suits. What?

Ignore the moon. Look at me. His emperor moved closer, huddling around him, leaving him with nothing else to look at. Look into me. Corrupt’s reflection was there, but not full. Light was piercing through Mirros. The silhouettes burned where his eyes should have been.

Look. Looking needs.

As he looked, he noticed cracks. Bright ones, first dim, then blinding. They spread, like rushing water. Or roots. Or fingers, grasping around. The glow of his eyes was nothing now.

Look at it. Me. Emperor. Master. Lord.

His movements were shaky now- the joints of his limbs shuddered in place. Regardless, his hand found the back of one of the soldiers. His fingers hardly resembled their name.

Belong. I. Them. More. His crystal teeth shook as cracks split them smaller and smaller. MORE. His thoughts were screaming. Belong. Belong. The cracks filled his face, his whole body. Belong. Please.

In an instant, Corrupt understood. He understood his name and everything that had happened in these years. The insults, the mockery, and the laughter. The attempts at laughter. The emperor had hated his servant. He had. Now, on the brink of… something, he was only desperate. Desperate not to leave the world alone as he had started. As alone as he still was.

There would never be enough statues, enough subjects, for the ruler to have the kingdom he desired. As long as there was something corrupt, or fake, or ugly- whatever he wanted to call it- he didn’t belong. It needed to be unanimous. Complete. Everything a mirror image of himself.

Corrupt never saw Mirros- or, more specifically- that Mirros, ever again.

Honorable Princess Alessia,

We are officially seceding from the House of Caïssa under the leadership of Lady Morgana. The divide between our two houses has become impossible to ignore, and we have found that our differences are too great for us to coexist. Since your house has failed to address the recent disappearances, we have decided to take our safety into our own hands. 

Under our house, we will do everything possible to protect our people from the creature that’s been plaguing our grounds. We will mobilize scouts to keep watch around our borders. We will enclose our lands with walls. We will send out search parties to discover the whereabouts of the missing. And for those of us such as Lady Morgana who have lost loved ones or family members to the creature, we will build a commemorative graveyard and hold days of remembrance to grieve the lost.

For those whose crystalized forms have been discovered, we will claim them and relocate them to our kingdom. Our dead are ours.

Grieving, 

The Sandlers

Queen Morgana searched the castle frantically for her son, but he was nowhere to be found. Not in his bedroom, not in the game room, not in the throne room, and not even in the balcony garden, which he would frequent and gaze off into the distance from. He didn’t leave a single trace. All across the House of Obsidian, all anyone could find was that he was completely gone.

She collapsed at the table, groaning to her husband. “Doesn’t a young man 19 years of age know better than to run off before a war?”

King Mare took a sip of his coffee. “Evidently not.”

“But our young man? The one we raised so carefully, and lovingly? Shouldn’t he know better?” She grabbed her coffee, served in an obsidian goblet, like Mare’s.

“He should,” he answered. “But I’m sure he knows to come back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Well, he’ll learn soon enough, I’m sure. There’s not one person in the House of Pearl who’ll mercy him.”

“I fear that there is.” She began to mutter to herself, forlorn. “Why did I ever approve Mattia’s stupid ball?”

A knock at the door interrupted them, causing Morgana to straighten herself. She assumed her proper dignified face. 

“Your midnight?” called a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

She knew her advisor when she heard him. “Come in, Mattia.”

He strode in, his tousled brown hair bouncing from underneath his black cap. “I bear you n-”

“News,” she completed. “What is it?”

“We’ve heard word from the castle guards that Prince Arturo has been spotted heading in the direction of the House of Pearl.”

Of course, she thought. “So the guards saw him but didn’t try to stop him?”

“Um, well… I’m sure they tried to stop him, your midnight, but… one must keep in mind, they’re the new recruits.”

“Where are the regular guards?” she pressured sourly.

“You conscripted them, dear,” Mare reminded her gently.

“Right, they’re preparing for the first battle.” She noticed Mattia standing awkwardly, as he always did once he’d run out of things to say. “You may go, Mattia. Tell the guards to stay put and keep watch for Arturo. He’ll come back eventually.”

 “I will. Would you like refreshed refreshments?”

She held up her index finger as she drank from her cup, signaling for him to wait. Finally, she placed the empty cup down on the table. “Yes.”

Queen Alessia scoured the halls of the House of Pearl, roaming the palace in desperate search of her daughter. Not in her bedroom, not in the game room, not in the library, and not even in the sun room, filled with light, which she would frequent and gaze out of the magnificent window from. Not a single resident of the palace, nor Dario- her eagle-eyed advisor- said they’d even seen her since last night.

Frustrated, she took sips of candyleaf tea from her glimmering white glass, but despite the extra spoonfuls of sugar, it still tasted bitter. King Dante sat with her, eating his preferred white biscuits.

She drummed her fingers anxiously, collecting dust on her white satin gloves. “Now is not the time for a girl like her to be running away…” 

“Is there ever a good time?” Dante asked.

“Well, there’s no good time, but there are certainly better ones,” she argued, her eyes turning to the chess board battle map in front of her. “Certainly better ones than this… It’s been generations since the House of Caïssa split, years since I became queen, and many months since she first started talking about Arturo after going to that Obsidian ball. She could have left any time, but she chooses to leave now, right before we declare war.”

Dante stroked her arm. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure she’ll be safe. Adelina’s headstrong, but she’d never jump into something unprepared.”

She wove her fingers in with his and twirled a strand of platinum blonde hair with the other. “It doesn’t make me feel much better knowing she’s had a plan of her own just as long as I’ve had mine.”

“Your radiance!” called a voice from the door. “I come bearing news.”

“Speak it, Dario,” she responded, quickly brushing hair out of her face.

“Fair Princess Adelina ha-”

“Did you find her?” bubbled Alessia with hope.

Dario felt bad saying it. “Not… quite. It was the scouts who found her, but not soon enough.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with his hands. “She was, well…” He bit his lip. “Maybe I should have started with ‘they saw her off in the distance running off into the woods.’”

Alessia sighed and grabbed her tea cup. “Send them off to find her and come back with more tea.”

“Your radiance, you ordered them to survey the field and keep watch for ambushes.” He grabbed the ornate teapot. “Does this new order supersede the old?”

She paused, thinking as her eyes scanned the chessboard, following the white pieces to the black queen. She counted her pieces, and those of the enemy. White had yet to take its first move. “No,” she concluded. “No it doesn’t. Keep them on watch.”

Dante leaned in. “And then after the battle, they can go find her, surely?”

“After the war,” she decided. “After.”

Adelina watched from the tree as Arturo finally arrived, his backpack sagging, heavy. “Took you long enough.”

“Oh c’mon,” he panted. “We both know the Pearl Palace is closer.”

“Maybe so,” she teased, “but shouldn’t adventurous Arturo be able to make it to something so important in a timely manner?”

“Well it doesn’t matter what Arturo’s capable of, does it? I’ll be Mr. Sandler, soon enough,” he pointed out. “Speaking of, has… he arrived yet?”

“The officiator?” she asked, peering around. “No, not yet.”

“But we have!” came two voices from the bushes. One after the other, the twins Mattia and Dario appeared, removing their Obsidian and Pearl garb as they walked towards the makeshift pews in the clearing. “Sorry for the wait,” Mattia began.

“We both had messages for our queens to deliver first,” Dario finished. 

“But now they are filled in on the situation,” Mattia continued.

“And their drinks are filled up,” his twin added. “That should keep them preoccupied for a while. I know Alessia is already back to plotting war.”

“As is Morgana,” Mattia confirmed. “So that leaves us to sit back and watch the newlyweds.”

“Soon to be newlyweds,” corrected Adelina.

Dario rolled his eyes. He was used to the Pearl princess’s fondness for technicality. “Still, we’re just as happy as you that our little plan has finally come together.”

“As the lovebirds finally will,” versed the officiator lyrically as he appeared from the brush, carrying a book under his arm.

“There you are, Edgar!” exclaimed Arturo. “Glad you could make it.”

“Well, I just barely did. It’s potato season, so there were plenty of orders, but I got them done plenty quick. My dad should start looking for me any second now… he never vends our harvest without his assistant.”

“Let’s make this quick, then,” suggested Adelina. “I know our large audience has places they need to be.”

“Will do,” said Edgar as he placed the book on the podium and began flipping through the pages. He mumbled to himself as he searched. “Botany, botany, more botany, sales figures, maps, potato defects- ah! There it is.” He cleared his throat and readied his adult voice. “Family and- well, just friends- thank you all for coming today to share in this wonderful occasion. Today we are here together- well I’ll skip ahead, we all know what we’re here for. Do you Adelina, take this man to be your lawf- um, wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” she said, as she wove her fingers with Arturo’s.

“And do you Arturo, take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“Yeah,” he said smiling, until Adelina jokingly punched him on the shoulder. “I mean, I do. I do.”

“Good,” said Edgar, closing the book. “You two are now Mr. and Mrs… what was the name you came up with again? Oh, Sandler, right. We don’t have any rings, and I don’t have any authority vested in me, so I skipped those parts.”

“Hey, isn’t there a part where they kiss?” asked Mattia, disappointed. Everyone, including Dario, turned their head to stare.

Edgar shrugged, unsure. “I mean, maybe? Does it really matter at this point? You two are married, you can kiss each other as much as you want.”

“Like we weren’t doing that before,” lulled Mrs. Sandler as she placed a gentle hand on her new husband’s face, eyelashes fluttering ever so romantically.

Edgar and the twins exchanged awkward glances. “And on that note,” said Mattia, “we’ll be off.”

“You two have fun making out!” called the waving Dario as he began to walk away, with Mattia angrily following after. The couple watched awkwardly.

“I’ll be taking my leave too,” announced Edgar. He tipped his cap. “Enjoy yourselves. If you ever want some potatoes from your favorite potato vendor to relive the moment, feel free to stop by. I’ll give you an ‘I Married You’ discount.”

“Thanks, Edgar,” chuckled Arturo. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Adelina waved as he submerged into the foliage. “Goodbye!”

The two waited until they couldn’t hear his footsteps, and then joined hands. “Let’s find some scenery for this romantic evening,” suggested Mr. Sandler, a lusty fire lighting his eyes. “Someplace private.”

Mrs. Sandler took a step closer, the fire spreading. “There’s plenty of those in the middle of the forest, dear.”

“Perfect.” His lips formed a devious smile.

“You always said you wanted us to go on adventures together,” recalled Mrs. Sandler as she wrapped her hands around his neck. “Will this be the first?”

He leaned in. “The first of many.”

Her lips imitated his. “Oh, many indeed.”

She held the nest of blankets close to her chest, shielding it and the note inside from the rain. Carefully, she climbed the wall, keeping her grip tight against the slippery stones. Peering over the wall, she found the house, with the same beat-up wagon leaning against it. The order board beside it was empty, the faded lettering still remembering when it used to read “William and Son’s.”

Hopping down from the wall and into the cobbled street, she dashed to the door. She knew she didn’t have much time; this village wasn’t fond of outsiders. Neither of them were welcome there, but she was the only one of the two who could leave. She hoped he’d be accepted eventually, at least at Edgar’s house. She hated to leave a burden like this on him, but she knew this was a better home. She dropped the bundle at the doorstep, keeping the note facing up. Then she knocked and left.

He got up from the desk and opened the door. No one was there, but he heard a baby crying. He looked down, and saw a child wrapped in blankets. He picked him up and read the note:

Nathan Sandler

He took the child inside.

Author's Notes:

The House of Caïssa is named after Caïssa- a "goddess of chess" invented by an Italian poet.

All characters except Queen Morgana, Edgar, and Nathan have Italian names, as such.

King Mare of the House of Obsidian- Mare (pronounced "may-ray") means "sea."

Queen Alessia of the House of Pearl- Alessia could potentially mean "defending warrior."

The twin advisors Mattia and Dario both have Italian names.

The star-crossed lovers Arturo and Adelina have amazingly alliterated Italian names.

Hey. I'm Zester and this is one of my stories. I've been working on it for years now and it is now at the point of being semi-readable. To me, anyway. You'll have to see for yourself ;)

I write from time to time but haven't found a routine for it. Don't expect an upload schedule. What you're about to read has been sitting dormant in my computer for a while lol

Anyway, enjoy.

The Eye of All Suits: Prologue

Through frantic tears and whimpering, he watched as the pale moonlight drifted in from the window, seeping into its jaws. It shook wildly, growling with pleasure, as more vantablack drool bled from its mouth. Once it had taken its full, it retreated onto the wall, satisfied, becoming a shadow once more. 

Jack was frozen. The gasping candle flickered in his trembling hands, casting blinking light into the swallowing darkness that engulfed his room. The creature’s shadow stood over his bed, its faded tentacles drifting with a low hum. It hadn’t moved far from the window it entered from. Since it came in, it hadn’t moved from the edge of his room, but it also hadn’t broken eye contact. Its eyes were these horrid things- gaping holes in its shadow or bright white orbs that seemed to glow. They were always fixated on him, pulsating. He felt its gaze push him back to the wall.

Suddenly, it tore from the wall. The candle’s flame glimmered on its many bone white teeth, casting an orange glow from ear to ear. In a cracking cacophony, the teeth began to separate, revealing an endless throat. Black ooze melted from the sides of its mouth. The candle’s light didn’t even penetrate the darkness beyond its jaws. It began to slither forward.

Jack shrunk down, taking a hand off the candle to try what his mom had taught him. He shut his teary eyes, put his hand on the wall and tried to keep himself still. He focused on the shadows, trying to feel them with his fingers, peeling them from the wall. He felt something shapeless and cold start to appear, and hot breath from his left. As the material began to solidify, he could feel the creature inch closer, sometimes even feeling droplets of drool splash on him. But he didn’t dare move- he had to see if this worked. His family bent shadows, and this creature was a shadow too- maybe objects made of shadow had an effect on it? He concentrated on the image in his mind and the forming handle between his fingers, imagining the attached blade. He had to try. It was like what mommy had told him: even if things try to stop you, march on.

Finally, the knife had fully formed, and Jack pulled it from the wall, turning to face the creature. The tip of the blade grazed it as he turned; the creature was inches from his face. Suddenly, it groaned, and a snake-like tongue began swirling in its mouth. If his mother were there, she would be very proud of him. That knife was the first item he’d successfully shadow bent. It had taken many weeks of difficult practice in secret, but he had finally done it. It was a shame he didn’t even get the chance to use it.

As Edgar Flare tucked his adopted son into bed, he heard a child’s scream off in the distance. Startled, his son shot up straight and yelped, clutching his blankets. He’d yet to take off his glasses, so they flew off his face and landed on his bed.

“What was that, Edgar?” he whispered meekly.

Edgar stared out the window for a moment. “I’m not sure, Nathan.” He grabbed the glasses with a large hand and gently placed them on the nightstand. “Probably just another kid like you, having a nightmare.”

Nathan stared out the window, his mind flooding with fear. “Are you sure? What if it’s a monster? What if it’s going to get me?!”

He grabbed Nathan’s head and pulled him close. “Hush, Nate. It’s not going to get you. You’re safe in bed, in our house.” He released him from his arms and flicked up his chin so their eyes met. “With me.” He ruffled his hair. “You’re safe here.” 

His son’s comfort shined in his smile. 

Edgar backed away from the bed. “Besides, monsters aren’t real anyhow.”

The boy’s eyes widened, filling up his glasses. “Wait… really?” he gasped, showing this was clearly news to him. “But… but what about all the heroes? Like the ones on the plaques? Like Sir Coe? Everyone tells me they killed lots of monsters.”

Edgar paused, realizing the slip of his tongue. “Well, there’s a difference. Those monsters, those ones are very real. But the ones you find in books and stories? Those are just… less real. Does that make sense?”

Nathan shook his head meekly. “No…”

“Well, it’s hard to explain…” explained Edgar. “It’ll make more sense when you’re older.”

Nathan was used to hearing that. “Oh, okay.”

“Just remember to always respect the heroes,” he reminded him. “They keep us safe from the monsters.” He jokingly flexed his muscles, which weren’t very large. “And so do I!” 

Nathan giggled, releasing a wonderful cheer of childlike glee. It always made Edgar smile when he heard it. “You’re silly, Edgar! You’re not a hero!”

He chuckled. “I know, Nate, I know.” He walked to the door and blew out the candle. “You think you’ll be alright now?”

“I… think so.”

“Are you scared anymore?”

Nathan paused. “I… don’t think I am.”

“Are you sure?” toyed Edgar.

“No.” His son was a very honest and straightforward person. 

“Aw, Nate… you’re a smart, brave boy and you’ll grow up to be a strong, brave hero.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“I am,” he said slowly, gaining confidence. “I am!”

“Yes, yes you are!” he smiled. “Have heroic dreams.”

“You, too Edgar.” He waved enthusiastically, his hand bouncing on his wrist. “Nighty night!”

He chuckled. “Good night, Nathan.”

And the door was shut.

[at the end of each chapter, there's a different related piece of in-universe writing]

~Monsters of Myth~ 

Tenebris-

(A) predatory creature(s) with an unknown appearance. Conflicting accounts debate whether it lingers in shadows and darkness or is made of them. Most accounts describe it with pure white eyes and many teeth, though the details on its body differ wildly. Some describe tentacles, others legs, and some even with wings. Most sightings of it come from the Shadow’s Thicket and one of the nearby villages, Brinelette.

The behavior of the Tenebris is also mysterious. Some harrowing accounts describe it as a predator that consumes its victims, while others argue for it being a parasite. It is commonly agreed upon that the Tenebris feasts off of light for energy, but its effect on people is unknown. Most who encounter the Tenebris do not come back to tell their story, and those who witness it are often too manic to give discernible details.

The name of the Tenebris has echoed throughout the centuries, but there is no solid evidence of there being more than one of it. Thus, if a hero were to slay this feared demon, they’d be putting to rest a millenia-old tormentor. It is recommended that- like with other demons- heroes should try to combat it using a source of light magic. The rule goes as many tales have proven: in the face of light, evil cowers.

Mirros-

Grater-