It was as dark a night as any–stars dotting the sky like pinpricks through a sheet. With nary a hint of wind, a dewy aroma lay stagnant in the late-night calm.

  In the still of the hour, the sky betrayed an aberration. A ribboning light, shimmering silk threaded through fallen dusk. Despite its brevity, the night lay unsettled. Moved not by wind’s caution, the clouds vacated the light’s course, painting a clearing into the sky.

  Its glinted grace danced only a heartbeat wherever it passed, foliage trading whispers in its wake. Still air lending no competition, it cushioned itself beyond horizon’s gaze.

  Below, a lone ember flared, smoke of a pipe dispersing into a sky that had torn itself open.

  Beneath the dark of their shadow, some blades did not rise again.

  ???

  For reasons unseen, the skies held her gaze captive.

  Though a deep bruise stained the ether—a scorn, final as the sun—this no longer served to lure her eye. Yet, her gaze did not waver.

  Even so, gradually, her intention waned and she surrendered to the gentle tug of an awaiting slumber. Unbeknownst to her, what her subconscious had warned her of was now plain to see.

  Beyond her window, far into the night, a ripple of light unspooled, tacking the darkness aside and creating a void amidst clouds that seemed to avoid its presence.

  Though, the scant clouds did linger, forming a faint halo that obscured the vision of any outside its attention.

  Amid her reverie, a faint note swelled in her skull, slipping through the gaps of her perception as would a whisper of wind through an open palm.

  She could not see it––how deep the bleed of the dark bore beneath the light.

  She willed her eyes open, but the night sky did not greet her. Her fingers pined for the window, trailing an ache in its wake. Too firm a border to reach through.

  Though her form begged rest, her limbs yet curled, nails faintly tapping as though to seize what lay hidden somewhere in the confines of her head. Too dull, too deeply buried beneath the blanket of her eyelids to make sense of.

  It would not set her free.

  She shifted, breath quickening, an urgency surging in the race of her blood–in the letter of her thoughts.

  Something was slipping. Something she wanted.

  It would not set a blaze upon her ashes.

  Through the haze of her dreams, her lips moved. Shaping a question she could not voice. A note she could hear no longer.

  The silence answered nothing, but it would suffice.

  ???

  Without warning, the calm shattered.

  A strange glow cleaved through shadows that decomposed, skulking into place where they did not belong.

  Her eyes were now open, though she couldn’t recall when that happened.

  She wasn’t alone.

  “Still with us?” The voice was familiar, a sound that meandered like shifting silt. She would have asked their name, but that came naturally.

  Eron.

  His silhouette was more suggestion than form, a chill staggering beside his every stride. Lugging furled nips of ice through wetted field, his sleet-flecked irises leered over her.

  “Us?” She spat into the passing wind, more out of habit than inquiry, scanning over the vacant scape that offered no rebuttal.

  Shaking her head free of the spell she’d found herself in, she caught her stride, hurried footsteps jostling for space with his that hadn’t paused for a moment.

  “Such naivete ill-fits you.” Eron sighed, his breath nearly lost to the wind. “Lapse again, and...” Words close enough to graze–the cut of a blade she’d felt before.

  “Speak louder, would you?” she called over her shoulder, her hurried prints underfoot betraying such caution. Intent clear in the set of her jaw, she barely glanced back.

  Eron’s gaze trailed behind her, the edge in his eyes dulling as if it had lost its chance. He pushed forward, hands biting through the air–vaulting through a tangle of vines with the precision of someone used to chasing shadows. Or rather, of one whose shadows raced at their heels.

  His voice drifted after her, quieter, but creeping near. “You always knew when to keep your distance.”

  Towers of scaled bark flittered past her view, branches shearing tattered starlight that clung like sap to their trunks. The air thickened with the scent of dewed earth and pine, each breath drawing in the weight of his presence.

  “Depends,” she muttered, whispers too faint to carry far. The film of sweat on her back was cooling quicker than even hasted wind could make up for. Freezing.

  ???

  “—aline.”

  The rows of forest pulled in response to the word.

  “Maline?”

  The sound came again, sharper. Probing. Tugging threads loose.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Maline!”

  Everything fell.

  “You’re still in bed.”

  The voice sang contrasting notes–strong, but softened by worry. Her confusion began to clear as her eyelids lifted, the room brightening into familiarity: unadorned walls, a faint scent of honey. Her home.

  “Are you alright? You never…”

  The figure’s words rained yet relentlessly upon her, though now, it carried a new note. One of care—a refreshing shower.

  The voice belonged to her older brother, waking her up for the day. Or what remained of it. As she cleared her mind, she cast her gaze over to the nearest window, where its wooden frame was left tepid from retreating light. The sun was already on its due course toward dusk.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, taking care to order her words, “I must have overslept.” Her voice was slightly fatigued, deepening the burrows between her brother’s brows.

  Clad in a weathered cotton shirt and loosely fitted brown trousers, he seemed exhausted. The fabric of his shirt strained against his shoulders, damp with the day’s wear as if molded by the sun. His clothes looked to have been washed repeatedly, yet a hint of grime remained in their creases.

  Concern cloaked his face, his lips weighed further with every moment. He reached out, brushing the back of his hand against her forehead.

  “You’re pale,” his voice held genuine worry, each word measured–hand lingering as if trying to reassure himself. “Did you dream of something? A night terror?”

  "Pale." She pinched her cheek with a faint smile, though her fingers quivered from the exertion. "I suppose I could pass for parchment these days, hm?" The quip was brittle, thinner than she'd hoped, but it gave her something to say.

  He didn’t return her smile. His eyes, dull blue—clouded with exhaustion, studied her as if she were a riddle.

  Unnerved, she let her fingers fall from her face, meeting his gaze with a weak smirk. “With that look, I would guess you were ill in my stead.”

  She bit her lip, her eyes wandering as if searching for the right words to ease his concern. “I’m fine. Just… a bit tired.” She gently removed his calloused hand from her forehead, her bed letting out a weary creak as she sat up. “I wouldn’t pay any mind to it, Gabe. I don’t feel terrible.”

  Rubbing her eyes and taking in her brother’s condition, she strained from speaking further.

  His skin bore the forced hue of sun exposure, a pale bronze sitting in contrast with his facial features. He had stark black hair which, despite its untamed strands, held evident signs of care along with his hands. Marred by toil, but meticulously scrubbed clean.

  “You missed work,” he said quietly.

  Maline stiffened. “I missed–”

  “Don’t fret,” he interrupted, raising a hand. After a short pause, he sat down on her bed and began to explain, ignoring the groaning of her bed frame. “Well,” he started, “Yes, you did.”

  “I was a bit confused when you didn’t show, but you needn’t worry. There wasn’t much punishment–”

  “What do you mean, ‘wasn’t much’?” she interrupted, her voice cutting through his explanation in haste. “What happened?”

  Another pause stretched between them. Gabe’s jaw clenched, his lips pressed thin. His gaze met with his sister’s, though he didn’t speak.

  “It’s better that you don’t know,” he spoke, his cadence uneven.

  “That I don’t know what?” Her gaze hardened, scanning him over with narrowed eyes and a tilted head.

  The words landed heavy between them, Gabe’s shoulders slacking. “Alright,” he relented, but his voice faltered. Slowly, as though weighed down by the act, he peeled the shirt from his back.

  Maline’s breath hitched, the sight tightening a knot of dread in her chest. Minutes elapsed, her hands faltering, tracing a maze of patterns along her brother’s skin as if a cushion of air repelled her fingers.

  As if twine, haphazardly strewn about atop a field, thin lash marks cabled in and out of his skin, warped flesh peeling back into scabs.

  “Who was it?” Maline uttered, the weight in her chest pressing harder than her voice let on.

  Sighing, Gabe lamented, “Again. It’s better that...” He stammered, reordering his words, “It’s the way things are. You know how absence is rewarded at the Count. It’s the way things are.” He said it again, as though repeating the words might make them easier to accept. “What more is there to tell?”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “It’s done,” he said firmly, reaching for his shirt. His movements were deliberate. Haste would only invite more pain. “Better me than you.”

  Maline’s gaze dropped to her hands, which sat still in her lap. Her eyes wandered, searching for words to say. Words that meant something. “Am I really so feeble?” Her voice was weaker than she intended, her hands sitting idle. She opened one, then the other, as though testing their strength.

  "Surely, there’s something I—" Her breath faltered, the words slipping away. A part of her already had an answer.

  Gabe watched her in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his posture was telling. At last, he began putting on his shirt.

  “In that condition?” he said, pulling the fabric over his shoulders, “I doubt those mitts of yours would do any damage.” His lip twitched, a smirk nearly prevailing over the scowl that had taken up residence on his face. Nearly. “Besides,” he continued, “mind your manners.”

  “I’m tougher than you care to admit,” she insisted, crossing her arms. But Gabe was already moving, tucking her further into bed.

  “Tell me,” he said, his voice softening under a weight he rarely let show, “what does it matter? We barely have enough to get by. We can’t afford another slip.”

  He paused, pulling his hands together as he adjusted his collar, stalling for breath that had briefly caught in his throat. “You remember, yes? As do I, as do they. Our Lords aren’t prized for forgiveness.”

  He knelt by her bedside, his hand resting lightly atop her head. His calloused fingers smoothing down her disheveled hair. “You don’t win these battles, sister. Not here. Not like that.”

  Their eyes caught, but Gabe’s stare did not relent. “Survival is victory enough.”

  “I was only saying–” Maline stammered, trying to explain herself.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Gabe interrupted, letting the verdict linger in the air before continuing. “What could you have done? Fought? Earned a matching set of lashes? You’d have done no one any favors.“

  Maline hugged her knees, her chin resting on the curve of her arms. "I should have…" The thought trailed off, her body nearly sinking into the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, but no solace came in the dark.

  “I know,” Gabe said. “Just… be realistic.”

  "Maybe it’s time I saved up for a saber, then," she muttered, the words half-hearted. Her hands clenched the blankets tighter over her knees, focus drifting along their threads.

  Standing and clearing his throat, Gabe resumed. “You've always been stubborn."

  “Says you,” she shot back, though her tone lacked bite.

  Clicking his shoe on the ground a few times in silent thought, Gabe swiftly changed topics. “You’ve already slept half the day away. You’ll need rest, strange as it is.

  "Now, I’ve still got a few things to do outside.”

  “Be well,” he said, reaching out to tweak a stubborn tuft of her hair that refused to lie flat.

  “Be well,” Maline mimed mockingly after him. Her fingers laid the hairs down with practiced care as her stare clung to his every move. Her tone tapered off as the door closed.

  She had already fallen into a slumber before his footsteps could fully recede.

  The forest came again, though it did not stir.

  It loomed. Watchful.