Awakening (3rd month of Autumn, 2nd day, 2nd hour, night)

  Aya awoke to brilliant moonlight. The moon hung low, unusually large and bright, flooding the ruins with its bluish glow. She sat on the pavement, propped against a block of stone. Judging by the moon's position, it was three past midnight.

  Her body felt numb and weightless. A light-headed joy overflowed her soul. Hadn't she died tonight? She remembered being stabbed, crawling away from the battlefield. She remembered sitting here, clutching her wound, desperately praying for the bleeding to stop.

  Aya pressed a hand to her side — it was dry. She looked down. Shadows swallowed most of her body, obscuring the details, but she could make out the dark stain marring her clothes and the large, shapeless blot of blackness by her side. It must have been the pool of her blood. Barely visible in the dark, it resembled a lump of black fur — a creature from a child's imagination, the embodiment of fear. She lifted her hand into the light. There was no pain, the movement felt smooth. Her palm was caked with dried blood — unsurprising, since it was her right hand. Everything made sense except for one thing: why was she still alive?

  Despite the strangeness of it all, a deep calm settled over her, as if the battle from hours ago had been nothing but a bad dream. Something unnatural had happened. She needed to find Master Mink. Could she stand? Aya focused on her magic. She used a tiny sliver of it to strengthen her body. A familiar rush ran through her — a tingling current from her toes to the tips of her ears.

  Something stirred in the shadows.

  Aya leapt to her feet, backing away frantically. The movement came from her right. The blot of darkness there began to shift. It was not just a pool of blood anymore — it was something black stirring in the shadows. Slowly, pale limbs unfolded from the mass: spindly arms, thin legs, and finally a small, ghostly face. A little elf child sat in the shadows, dressed in black rags. It couldn't have been older than five — just the age when elves began to speak. A child, here of all places? She crouched low, extending a hand.

  "Who are you?" she asked gently. "Come here, little one."

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  She wanted it to come out to the light, but the child didn't react. Cautiously, she reached out with her magic, its invisible tendrils gliding through the air, searching for the child's magical core. The very moment she felt it — small and icy cold — the child perked up and looked at her. Startled, she lost control of her magic and it dissipated, but it didn't stop the child. Slowly, it pushed itself upright and tottered toward her. The sight was unsettling, and it became worse as the child stepped into the light. It wasn't an elf. Its eyes were solid black, without irises. Instead of nails, its fingers ended in tiny black talons. Translucent, dragonfly-like wings shimmered behind its back. It was a grave fairy.

  Aya suppressed the momentary panic, the urge to retreat. The rational part of her mind told her to back away, to zap the nasty thing with sparks — but she didn't. Instead, she thought: What would happen if I touch it? This morbid curiosity, this uninvited madness, rooted her in place. The fairy drew closer and stopped. Slowly, Aya reached out and touched its chest. In that instant, she felt its core again — hungry and cold — and without thinking, poured magic into it. The child gasped softly. A timid smile crept across its face, revealing the glint of sharp, triangular teeth.

  "Oh," Aya breathed, "aren't you a little cutie..."

  The toothy grin intensified. Aya recalled the stories: grave fairies haunted battlefields, feeding on the blood and magic of the fallen. No one knew where they came from or where they lived at other times. No one cared, either. Despite their eerie nature, grave fairies weren't particularly dangerous. Their only weapon was their sharp teeth, and any elf in these parts could easily zap them with sparks. That was, of course, if the elf was rested and healthy. A wounded, exhausted soldier abandoned on the battlefield risked being eaten alive. A bad way to go — but the vultures were worse.

  "I wonder if I can keep you," Aya mused aloud.

  The creature stared at her attentively. Was it even intelligent? It had to be, at least to some extent. For some reason, she also wondered if it was a girl. Do fairies have gender?

  "I'll call you Ixi," Aya decided.

  The name had come unbidden — the name of the doll she had as a child. The doll had perished in a mansion fire a month ago, so the name could be reused. Dead things passed their names, such was the law.

  "Let's find the exit," she said, rising to her feet.

  Ixi buzzed into the air, wings flitting so quietly it was eerie. Her expression twisted into a comical mask of agitation.

  Aya smiled faintly. "Don't worry, I won't leave you. Come."

  She took her small hand and gave a gentle tug. The fairy responded, gliding alongside her, hovering at eye level.

  "Your wings are so quiet," Aya murmured. "A little stealthy hunter, aren't you?"

  The fairy made no reply, simply following her through the ruins.