VIAstra

  The monster consumes her.

  Thin arms scrape against the floor, fingers cwing desperately until a nail catches on a sharp edge. It snaps back, taking the fingernail with it. That’s the end of the cwing.

  Pain fades, repced by cold detachment, pleasureable almost, as skin peels from her back, exposing ribs, muscle. Each bone, broken backward, made ready for the monster’s teeth to strip away every shred of tissue, crafting grotesque, skeletal wings. Its iron grip on her neck drives her face into the carpet, silencing her. Its other hand digs into her back, fingers coiled around her heart.

  She thought, at first, that it held her heart to end her quickly—but no. She learned it gripped her heart only to savor the moments she couldn’t keep quiet, or the rare occasion that she surged with guilty pleasure. He would hurt her just to feel it race in his grasp, listen to her fail.

  But the monster’s favorite part? The release. Letting go of her heart, leaving behind an aching reminder. Then, it would bend her ribs back, smooth her skin to its proper pce, lick away the tears on her face for being so quiet. So good. Even when he pushed every boundary to breaking.

  Of course, she would be good. It was her fault, after all.

  ?

  Astra jolted awake, daylight flooded the hall, blinding, merciless. A shiver wracked, nearly toppling her from the narrow bench. Edges of panic pressed in—half-formed, unfamiliar. She’d slipped into sleep, somehow, despite the storm raging beyond these walls. She pressed her fingers to her temples to clear her mind. Memory cwed back, to that moment when Rubi’s conjured light had flickered, then died, leaving her terrified in the howling dark.

  The terrible night had passed with nothing but dark and the screaming storm outside. Sightless panic that the winged Umbra would return. That in the darkness Rubi would slip away unnoticed, discovered only hours ter when the storm had gone and the terrible morning revealed a face frozen in death.

  Astra had pressed herself close on the narrow bench beside Rubi, arms clinging to him, holding tight—careful not to disturb the wound. She thought if she stayed close, if she wrapped herself around him, she could keep his spirit tethered to his body. Keep him from slipping away and leaving her here.

  Thoughts drifted in like fragments from another mind. Astra felt herself float back, watching from a distance, as though she had become a stranger. She shifted up from the bench in a daze, her eyes trailing mechanically over the hallway, lingering on the rows of tall windows and the double doors further down. Her gaze dropped, sluggish, one arm hanging at her side, dark with dried blood. It stung as she moved, the burn sharp and real, but this too was another distant thing.

  Would it have been easier, she wondered, if they both had succumbed in the cold night?

  The thought is alien. Someone else is thinking that. Not Astra. Some stranger facing a horror in a strange world.

  She pulled her focus back to Rubi, adjusting so her ear hovered over his lips, straining to catch even a whisper of breath. Her chest tightened as seconds crawled, each a fresh agony. He had to still be breathing—she refused to believe otherwise. Then, finally, he drew a slow, quiet breath, and she nearly colpsed, relieved..

  Straightening, her own pain seared bright again, pulling her from the numbness as she choked back a cry. Astra curled each fingertip to her thumb in rapid succession to test her nerves. Each of her digits obeyed perfectly, though every movement burned her forearm until she sank to her knees, gasping, clinging to the bench.

  All she can do is wait for several long breaths, in and out slowly, willing the burning agony to subside. When the pain becomes bearable she cradles her injured arm with care and finds the remains of her dress. The sleeves had been sacrificed in her haste to pack Rubi’s wound. It’s a sad excuse for a garment now, but at least she's mostly covered.

  What now?

  Astra rubbed her chest, fingers reddened from the cold, as if that small warmth could stave off the fevered wheeze she knew was coming. It would be on her soon, she could feel it. Either Rubi lived to help her or she would die shortly after him.

  She considers; Rubi has lost a lot of blood; dehydration is likely the only complication she has any power to remedy. It isn’t much to hold onto, but hold she will.

  Astra gathers up their patchwork satchel. It takes her three tries to actually descend the stairs. Each time it becomes impossible to look back and see that Rubi is still lying on the bench is a moment of panic and swift return to his side, as if simply being there can prevent his expiration. She chastens herself. It’s stupid, she’s wasting time being scared.

  Her chest thuds with anxiety as she descends. Surely there will be water to soak up with a scrap of fabric, to drip into Rubi’s mouth. A coughing spell wracks her so badly that she has to lean against the wall. Thankfully she has the presence of mind to not use her injured arm to do it.

  The remainder of the descent is lost to her, a gap in memory. She comes to herself on the open floor, air cool and sharp, the sound of doves loud in the still. Before her, thick moss carpets the floor, birds flit and hop among bushes den with red berries, a lone tree rising from cracks in ancient stone, roots tangled in windswept dirt. Details missed in the night, now a sight that would marvel if she were not clouded with worry.

  A pool spans a broad stretch of floor, cradled by patches of windblown greenery taken root in the cracks. She stumbles toward its edge by the bushes, disturbing birds, who take to the air with fring wings, a few berries dropping from their beaks as they flee from the sudden threat.

  Scabs on Astra’s knees tear open as she kneels, hands braced against the gritty stone. Her cracked lips cast ripples across the water’s surface. Astra feels herself a wary creature—a doe, perhaps, edging to the waterline, vulnerable but too thirsty to care. Grit drifts in, earthy, coating her tongue, but she drinks heedless, until her strength gives out and she drops back hard, a sharp breath escaping as pain fres through her arm and chest. She sits there, dizzy, breath ragged, for a spell.

  The handkerchief from their satchel isn’t enough, so she tears another length from her dress. It’s here she realizes her mistake; she could have torn Rubi’s sleeve instead. She soaks what she can. Her climb back up the stairs drags, each step heavy, her body faltering as a cough seizes her once, then again, forcing her to stop, doubled over, breathless. A strange thought slips in—a bitter amusement at the idea that she might die before Rubi. The thought tugs a ugh from her, brittle and half-mad, still echoing in her ears as she crests the final step.

  Rubi is the same as when she left him. She tilts his head back, all the while trying to keep her wounded arm still. It takes her a long minute, but she wrings every possible drop from the soaked cloth, her patience rewarded as Rubi’s breath stirs and he swallows reflexively. A small sound of relief escapes her. The sleeve is another battle entirely. It takes the better part of half an hour, her hand too weak to tear the fabric, injured arm fring with each movement. She works at it slowly, doggedly, leaning her weight against the cloth, coaxing it loose through sheer persistence. Bit by bit, using body and grit more than strength, she finally manages to tear it free. Hope renewed, she ys the sleeve beside Rubi and carefully folds the strip she tore from her dress into it.

  Astra is mouthing to herself as she descends again; a mantra that he’ll be ok. This time she doesn’t force herself to hurry and instead keeps a slow pace to avoid aggravating her cough, though even that careful consideration doesn’t spare her entirely. Thankfully the attack is brief and she is able to stifle it quickly.

  This time she cannot help but be moved by the beauty of the view. The breeze coming in at this height makes it too chilly, but the sky, for once free of any clouds whatsoever, is a breathtaking backdrop for the tree. She is possessed by the desire to sit beneath it. Astra shuffles into the water, the loud spshing seems almost offensive in this serenity but she can’t help herself. Perhaps it’s her child-brain, or she simply wants an excuse to rest now rather than ter.

  A wide root at the base of the tree makes a perfect seat, so she leans back and props her arm very carefully on her bony knee. To her left is open air, the city skyline and streets below beg for attention that she gdly provides. It makes her heart ache for the earlier days when Rubi was teaching her words and her greatest discomfort was the chill night. Wincing, Astra shifts to slip the comb from the satchel. She holds it up against the blue of the sky. It’s transparent and perfectly smooth. Not a scratch on it. Will they ever enjoy another evening taking turns combing out each other’s knots?

  Her eyes roam to the berry-den bushes, stomach growling. The comb is restored to its rightful pce in the satchel, then she huffs as she carefully pushes off from her seat for the bushes, careful to avoid the spts of white bird-shit.

  The berries are bright red, some of them so fat from the rains that they seem like they might burst. She pulls at one experimentally and finds it comes off readily. That the birds eat them suggests they are safe. Though she can’t know for sure, she needs what strength she can get. Tentatively the berry is pced in her mouth, then she chews, ready to spit. It doesn’t taste like much. Overly watery with a very slightly sweet, slightly tart fvor. She waits without swallowing for some sign that it’s unsafe, like a tingle or a burn, but there’s nothing. No guarantee they wouldn’t make her sick ter, but if she ate some and felt alright then she could crush them up for Rubi.

  Swallowing it spurs the hunger in her, she eats several more ravenously, some are sweeter than others, some are more tart. In her haste the juice covers her chin and stains her dress, bloody-like. She’s far from sated when she stops herself to gather as many as she can carry. Astra works her way around the edge of the bushes picking all that she can reach without risking the razor edge of the leaves, eventually she’s forced to make a cradle for them in her dress.

  A sound. The distinctiveness of it freezes. She looks to the stair, where the two of them arrived in the horrible night. Did she imagine voices just now? She waits, anxiety screaming a rush of blood in her ears.

  There it was again, voices, footsteps, echoes of people climbing the stairs. She wasn’t imagining it. She couldn’t make out exactly what was being said or how many there were. Other people. Were they saved? Rubi had been leading her around the ruins of this city during the daylight hours without fear. It couldn’t be an Umbra.

  Astra held her breath. It didn’t have to be an Umbra to be a danger to them.

  They were closer now, she’d lost too much time deliberating and listening. The stairs that would take her back to Rubi seem so far, and she feels so tired. She’s in pin sight, so she allows the berries to spill freely— heedless of her agonized arm— and plunges into the bushes. They tangle and tear at her hair, scratch her back and catch in her dress and skin painfully. She hears herself as awfully loud in the frantic crawl. She’s three bushes deep before she stops to stretch herself ft, face turned to the noise.

  Four spill out onto the floor where they slow to take in the sight. All of them are dressed dark, for the road. A taller, dark-skinned, dark-haired woman rests a hand on the hilt of a sword hanging on her hip, a barrel-shaped man with a hard-looking face peers around, assessing. Behind those two are a taller, sandy-blond haired woman with a scar on her chin, she looks around, but her eyes linger on the st person, a shorter, petite framed girl with green eyes. The petite girl’s eyes fix on the tree as she moves in for a look, but the taller woman grabs her shoulder and pulls her back. Words she doesn’t understand follow, then the barrel-shaped man and the dark-haired woman lead, crossing the floor her way.

  A cough threatens, she cmps a hand over her mouth and stays very still, breathing slow and shallow. The four talk in low voices as they approach, the dark-haired woman—the obvious leader—rexes when nothing jumps out of the bushes to attack them. More words from the petite girl, though she can’t see her anymore, they sound excited. A low ugh from the sandy-blond one.

  Then they find the berries she’d dropped and go quiet. The leader shushes them all and speaks quietly, the barrel-shaped man responds as well, there’s quiet shuffling and suddenly she can see the leader again, she’s drawn her sword. It’s not that long, but the bde is thick, pointed, and crowded with engravings, as is the cruciform hilt.

  Astra shifts, meaning to turn, but the motion causes her to inhale dirt and a cough escapes, impossible to miss. Silence. She strains to look again.

  Someone calls out, the barrel-shaped man maybe? His tone is alert.

  The leader is looking her way, closer now, Astra can see a triangle shaped tattoo of gold under her left eye. A brown fingertip taps the shape and the woman’s eye glows bright orange-gold.

  Those eyes, one an ember, fixate on her so directly that she is sure their eyes meet. Astra flinches.

  Whatever magic the woman worked passes, then she points and says something Astra doesn’t understand. The petite girl’s voice lilts up in surprise, then the barrel-shaped man comes her way. She’s been seen.

  Asta resigns herself to discovery as she crawls again. It’s painful and slow going, and she loses sight of all four of them. Surprisingly her fear passes into exhausted relief. No matter what happens to her now this scary, cozy, mysterious life alone with Rubi was coming to an end. She feels lighter.

  Spshing sounds. Then there’s a strong grip on her bony ankle. She squeaks with surprise as the barrel-shaped man pulls her out from under the bushes unceremoniously. Her arm catches on a branch, it digs into the wound before snapping free. The agony is so sharp that her eyes flood with tears and she cries out despite her best efforts. Half of her is soaked from the pool as she’s pulled onto the mossy grass. Then she’s released to sit cradling her arm close, tears streaming down her face, blurring the sight of the four people who stand around her, gaping in obvious shock.

  Then the cough overtakes her.

  Adina

  It was a child.

  A child in rags, malnourished, with stick thin limbs and bony knees. They were cd in a mockery of a dress, or gown perhaps. The sleeves had been torn off with a precision that suggested they’d been sacrificed for another purpose. The rest of the garment was dark with old blood here and there, with the brighter fresh berry juice down the front a shock. At first Adina thought it was blood

  Anyone running into a child out here would be shocked, of course, but this just wasn’t any child. Their long hair, though tangled had not yet been neglected long enough to have gone matted, was shining white, and their skin wasn’t just pale or fair, it was outright colorless, but Paraffin.

  She, at least Adina took the child as a girl, took in the sight of them, then went fetal, enduring a cough so wracking that for a moment she worried the pathetic thing would outright expel one of her lungs. Bryn and Forge looked at her, stunned into silence, for the moment at a total loss with how to address this. Tan however kept her eyes locked on the child. Amazement? Shock?

  Adina slid her artavus back into its sheath.

  “Who are you girl?”

  The girl mustered herself through the cough and made signs of struggling to sit again, Bryn shot forward before Adina could decide whether or not she wanted to stop her. The former medic went on her knees in the mossy wet to help the girl sit up.

  "Let me have a look at that arm, love... you seeing this, boss?" Bryn murmured as the girl yielded her injured arm to Bryn. She spoke soft reassurance as she turned it over gently, id bare, a line of seeping bck tracing from elbow to thumb, edges glistening like wet ink. The mark of a shade, unmistakable. The girl stared at Bryn, lips parted, unblinking eyes, piercing blue streaked with flecks of silver that seemed to defy the rest of her; the only color that wasn’t that unsettling paraffin-white. Behind Bryn, Tan shook herself free from shock, stepping closer, gaze fixed on the wound. Forge, meanwhile, stood rooted, eyes flicking between them, compartmentalizing, ever wary.

  “Forge, ensure that we’re alone,” Adina murmured, her tone all quiet command. He moved instantly, gd to be spared from idleness. His steps, soft as he tried to keep them, still sent ripples through the puddles, each spsh echoing back from the walls.

  “Adina,” Tan began softly as she kneeled next to Bryn, who was busy pulling antiseptics from her kit with steadied, practiced hands. The strange girl spoke, voice a thread, thin and rough from coughing, Tan gasped. Adina’s brow knit, having caught a word she thought she understood—hurt, but the sound of it was strange, oddly formal, like dialogue lifted from an old stage py, something ancient, stuffy.

  The child hissed a breath through clenched teeth as Bryn cleaned her wound. She ceased her soothing babble to address Adina without turning. “Arm’s infected, too early to say if we can save it.” Adina wondered, if they had to amputate, that the girl would survive. It was a problem for another day.

  Tan, expression mired by disbelief, looked up at Adina. The sigild’s mouth was so dry that she had to swallow before she spoke, “Adina ahm… she’s speaking old Odrysian, I’m… I’m sure of it.”

  A half-starved little girl out here, wearing nothing but rags, covered in hurts, alive despite the shades and the barren city, beggared belief. Nevermind one with colorless white hair and skin, that spoke the tongue of the old nobility? Impossible. Adina rejected the premise.

  “The hell she is,” Adina snapped, startling a flinch out of both Tan and the girl, Bryn looked over her shoulder with a ‘what’s your problem’ look. She huffed, “apologies, Tan, can you speak to her?”

  “Ah… no one really speaks it now, and it’s not common even among us sigild, I only know it because…” Tan trailed off mid sentence as she realized by Adina’s look that she need not expin, only obey, “I’ll try.”

  Bryn was wrapping the wounded arm in a clean bandage now, she murmured to Tan as she kneeled, “too te to stitch her up, she’ll need sigildrie ter.”

  The girl, quiet, vivid eyes—unnatural, piercing blue—stayed fixed on Bryn, watching her work with a kind of precocious intensity as she carefully cradled her wounded arm. But then, her gaze shifted, settling on Tan.

  Tan began to speak, a bit unsure at first, stumbling over the initial words. Whatever she said seemed to nd, as the girl’s face lit up, a spark of recognition in her eyes. She stretched out her uninjured arm, hand csping Tan’s with a cautious hope, her words spilling forth, halting and trembling, each one edged with something between a stutter and a chill-induced shiver.

  Bryn rose as the two continued. Adina closed to Bryn, head bowed slightly. Tone almost conspiratorial as she whispered, “What do you think?”

  “Folk have tried to fake a long lost pure-blood before, they’ve become real clever-like about it with sigildrie, but out here of all pces, and a child? If this is a trap I can’t figure it,” she scratched at her scar, gaze settling into an unfamiliar expression on Tan. It wasn’t the sort Adina had ever seen on her face; something like doting.

  “What’s that look about?” She asked with a crooked lilt, it struck Bryn like an accusation.

  Bryn’s face held the look of a thief, caught. She couldn’t match Adina’s gaze as she sheepishly admitted, “Tal’s just good with kids is all.”

  Adina almost feels bad about her snort. Almost.

  “No matter what idea about her you’ve got stewing I need you to stay away you hear? We can’t have a mess in the middle of all this.”

  The scowl on Bryn’s face is just as uncharacteristic, and bitter enough that Adina finds herself drawing back. She retorts, “Lay off it, I’m not going to treat her like...” she trails off, a memory blunting the edge of anger.

  “The twins?” Adina supplies, “you thought you loved Sadie.”

  Bryn inhales, sharp and hissing through her teeth, “… that was two summers ago. I’m not that girl anymore.”

  Adina has doubts. Bryn has walked this path before, though admittedly not as respectfully as she had with Tan. She sighs, “Just… careful alright? I’d like you two to remain able to work together.”

  Bryn’s nod is dead serious. Adina wants to believe it. Then her ears catch Forge’s return. “Girl’s been up and down th’ stairs,” he reports as Adina turns. He stops short of the group to watch Tan absorb the halting words before continuing, “could see the blood on the steps. Didn’t go all the way to the top though.”

  Adina turns the girl's voice breaks into a pleading sob. “Tan,” Adina’s cuts through the sound of it as she straightens, “what’s wrong with her?”

  “It’s difficult, I—” her words are cut off as the girl repeats herself, louder. Tan is forced to spend a moment reassuring her before she can continue, but it takes drawing the girl into her p completely to calm her.

  “She says there’s someone above, her brother maybe? I can’t… I think she has a speaking impediment? She seems to have trouble with some—”

  Adina cuts her off, “Above? Another like her?”