Amara awoke to a sharp pain, like a hot iron rod barreling through her calf. The smell of blood, pungent and metallic. Her eyes shot open as a memory burst into her mind—her mother embraced her frail body. Blood spilled onto the kitchen floor.

  She ignored the images flooding her mind.

  The ceiling, plastered with carvings—swirling and pulsating—radiated a deep red glow. Violet steam seeped from the markings and danced like the aurora. Looking at similar carvings covering the walls, Amara’s head throbbed.

  She parted her lips, “Where–”, but a flash of searing heat from her throat commanded them shut.

  She looked down, searching for the source of the pain traveling up her leg, only to find her limbs bound to a cold stone slab adorned with markings identical to the ceiling and walls.

  The pain let up for a moment.

  “Put her back under,” a familiar voice commanded, “the runes must be perfect.”

  Pressure swelled somewhere in her upper thigh, and her vision blurred.

  She awoke next, not from the dull ache that now permeated her entire being, but from the chanting that filled the room. It churned like a rumbling storm.

  She couldn’t make out a single word; it was like an entire sentence spoken at once. Whispered in one ear and out the other.

  Entire conversations screamed and cried.

  Laughter. Cheering.

  A secret to take to the grave.

  She couldn’t understand—but she could see.

  The carvings swam off the walls and congealed into a single, recognizable word hovering above Amara’s helpless body. Its blood-red hue reflected in her eyes.

  SACRIFICE

  A maelstrom of thoughts raged through her mind. What is this? A memory shone through the chaos. Why is this happening to me? She remembered the night of her thirteenth birthday. Who are these people? Flashes of blood. A soft giggle. A knife in her hand. Laughter.

  She whimpered. Another flash of pain. She wanted to get out of her head. She had to stop thinking—give her pain, give her death. Anything to make it stop.

  She croaked out, “No…” Pain, like a knife in her throat. Like hot wax—hot oil flooding her veins. “Stop!”

  It burned.

  SACRIFICE

  The word burned brighter. It relished in her suffering.

  The room was quiet. Maybe the chanting had stopped. Maybe the sound of the blood rushing to her head had drowned it out. Maybe the laughter and mocking weren’t only in her head.

  “Something’s wrong.” Someone said, but to Amara, it was another strike of thunder in the tempest of sound that now assaulted her mind.

  Wails and cries spewed from her mouth as an inferno ravaged her insides and raged to get out. The pain bubbled through the surface of her skin, leaked from her eyes, and oozed from her nose—ready to burst.

  She squealed as robed figures approached her. She burned as they surrounded her.

  “Get out of my head!” She thrashed against her bindings until her wrists and ankles bled.

  “Hold her down—dammit get the sedative!”

  It was like all she had ever known was fire, and all she had ever been was fuel. “Get out!”

  SACRIFICE

  The word burst into flames. The robes paid it no mind.

  “Please!”

  My pleasure

  Amara’s world erupted into a sea of crimson.

  Amara awoke to the echoes of madness. Shrill laughter rang in her head.

  The smell of metal—suffocating. All-consuming.

  Warmth, not painful but comfortable, like a heated blanket, enveloped her body.

  Her eyes fluttered open and, after adjusting to the dim scarlet light of the room, dread coiled in her stomach. Finding herself able to move—albeit with great effort—she grunted and pushed herself up; liquid splattered between her fingers and the dread tightened.

  The red liquid flowed down her sore body and dripped from her hair. She forced chunks back down her throat and turned away.

  A thought that she had locked away in the back of her mind broke free. The blood had to have come from somewhere; it had to have come from someone. And there, splayed open, pinned to the wall by an unknown force—a man. A large black hood obscured his face, but below that, a black robe in tatters. The man’s heart thumped and his lungs expanded and his guts spilled onto the floor.

  Amara reeled back; her left hand hit something soft, not at all like the smooth, wet concrete ground that should have been there.

  She flinched and brought her hand to her chest. She felt her heartbeat. Faster and faster. Her breathing quickened until it felt like she couldn’t breathe anymore. Her heart raced like an engine firing on all cylinders. Something ran down her face and spilled into the blood pooling on the floor. A cry escaped her lips, but a pang of white-hot pain forced it back down.

  This had to be a dream. She hunched over, trying and failing to slow her labored breathing. Or another hallucination. Her tears fell silently in the blood-soaked room. It couldn’t be real.

  “Amara.” A voice called.

  The sound pulled Amara out of her panic, hope battling with the dread that it was a figment of her shattered mind. “Who–” she flinched and rubbed her neck. She squinted, looking around the room—the first time she’d gotten a real, good look at it—and only one word came to mind. Devastation.

  Bodies. Bodies. Bodies. Some lay motionless on the floor, others stuck to the walls—it was as if they had hit the wall with such force their bodies exploded on impact, binding their remains to it. They all wore the same black robe that covered up the worst of the carnage. Amara’s heart skipped a beat, her entire body stiffened. She closed her eyes and concentrated on controlling her breathing—like her mother taught her.

  After a while, she stood up, careful not to slip in the blood, and staggered—only now realizing how drained she had been. Opening her eyes, she noticed a slight purple haze hanging in the air.

  Amara almost called out to the voice. Instead, she looked around—making an effort to avoid making direct eye contact with the bodies.

  The stone slab she had been tied to before was right behind her. The remains of whatever kept her bound nowhere in sight.

  She directed her gaze higher, behind the stone, and squinted. There, on the other side of the room, a person—one not painted onto the walls or resting in a pool of blood.

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  Amara could only make out the shape of their body and a blur of their face, but she knew who it was. She would recognize that cold, dark skin and hair, curly and gray, like a storm cloud anywhere.

  Flashes of a knife in her hand, red and blue lights flashing through the kitchen window. Amara’s heart thundered. Laughter rang in her head.

  How could she ever forget the look of the one she’d killed?

  How could she ever forget the face of her mother?

  “Mom?” she winced, tightening the grip on her neck. Confusion surged within her, a storm of disbelief and terror as she grappled with the impossibility—it had to be a hallucination, a trick of the light, a conjuration to ease her fractured mind. “How?”

  The figure, her mother, stood motionless—staring at the girl. This was a moment she had always dreamed of. She had thought about what she might say or do if she ever saw her mother again, but now, the moment had come. And Amara was lost.

  She took a few careful steps around the stone slab, closer to her mother.

  The figure twitched in response, raising its hand. Amara stopped and blinked a few times. She could see something dangling: a bag? She heard a rattle, like charms jingling against each other, and hanging from the side of the bag, Amara could make them out: the charms her mother had gifted her before she died.

  “W–why?” More memories poured into her mind. A blue notebook. How could she have her bag? Empty pages. How could she have anything?

  She should be dead.

  The room itself seemed to grow smaller, and Amara’s vision distorted. A sound like the death throes of a beast filled the room. Behind the figure, a swirling red circle appeared from nothing. The circle grew, in seconds, to match the height of the figure.

  “Amara.” Her mother reached into the bag and pulled out a rectangular object; she took a step back and her leg merged with the red disc.

  Amara’s eyes widened, “No, wait!” The pain still assaulted her, but she didn’t have time to think about that. She had made her way past the stone slab, and only a few steps separated her from her mother.

  “Find me.” She turned and walked away, disappearing through the portal.

  “No!” Amara lunged after her. A wave of dread rolled through her body, and darkness enveloped the world.

  Sam ran. Frigid winds whipped against his skin. Snow assaulted his lightly clothed form from all sides. The cold bit at his fingers and bare feet.

  Each grueling step against the hurricane-force winds brought him that little bit further from his pursuers—imperceptible among the roaring blizzard. They would never stop chasing him, not with the amount of time and resources poured into his creation. More than anything, he might become an example—a message to his brethren that they too could escape; they too could be free.

  With each labored breath, he fought against the icy grip of exhaustion, whispering to himself: I can make it. I’m not tired. I can make it.

  As he ran, the winds that hindered him became little more than an occasional gust caught between his feathers, and the empty white that obscured him faded into drifting snow. Eden’s spirit loomed overhead, shining a spotlight on the young boy through a hole in its hazy form.

  Sam glanced back for a moment. His pursuers, their ghastly purple glow casting eerie shadows that danced like phantoms in the snow, shouted, “This way, he’s still on foot!”

  Terror gripped his hearts, blood rushing through his body and booming in his ears. Dread gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake the thought of what they might do to him when they caught him—what they might be doing to his siblings at this moment.

  Taking a deep breath, he whispered: I can make it. His legs, on the verge of giving out, surged with newfound energy. I’m not tired. A sudden influx of air revitalized his lungs, which screamed for oxygen. They won’t catch me. They can’t. His pursuers, eager to recapture him, were closing in.

  He ran, wings tucked tightly, weaving through the dense hemolith forest—his steps light to avoid sinking in the powder snow. They wouldn’t be able to catch him in the air, but the towering crystals overhead formed a deathly sharp, ready to tear him apart, and he couldn’t seem to escape the thicket no matter how far he ran. He couldn’t afford to be caught here; he couldn’t afford to be caught now; he refused to let his siblings’ sacrifice go to waste.

  Mustering what little energy he had left, he whispered: I will escape. His body lurched to the side, pulled by an invisible force, as if the very wind were snatching him up, propelling him through the air like an arrow.

  Sam groaned, his bare skin stung by the snow that cushioned his fall. His vision blurred and obscured; he struggled to make out the cliff face—a white stain leading into a black void—mere strides away.

  “There!” He glanced back at the cultists draped in blank cloth, their faces obscured by a darkness contained within their hoods. Purple fire blazed to life and danced in their palms, a scorching reminder of the danger, allowing him to push past his exhaustion to escape the growing heat of their pursuit.

  He struggled to his feet. If I make it over this cliff, he whispered, I’ll be free.

  “Samael! No!”

  Sam didn’t look back—he spread his wings and leapt into the abyss.

  Di looked out her window. A harsh, red light illuminated her lithe figure. The Third Storm had once again descended upon her kingdom.

  Glowing runes danced among the violet clouds like a swarm of buzzing, red insects; hazy figures flew within the storm. It hummed and cackled like a living thing—Di hummed along. She pushed against the window and twirled, gracefully landing in her bed, squealing in excitement before letting out a long sigh. She laid in her bed entertaining dreams of glory. Dreams of battle. Dreams of respect.

  Clink, clank, clunk—the sound of armor making its way up the steps to her room spurred the girl into action.

  Within moments, she stood in front of a large mirror. Donning a full set of armor, radiant and pristine—shining like gold—she admired the imposing figure in the mirror. Her pauldrons jutted upwards, forming outward-facing crescents. Smooth golden metal encased her form with such precision it could be mistaken for skin. Di huffed and raised her fist, beating it twice against her breastplate. Blinding light filled the room, then dimmed to reveal two shining spheres cradled in the crescent moons—they were small for now, but Di hoped that after today they would blaze like miniature suns.

  A knock at the door snapped the girl’s attention away from herself; she sprinted to the door and came to a grinding stop in front of it.

  “Di,” a voice called, “I assume you’re decent.” It sighed loud enough for the girl to hear, before opening the door.

  “Mother!” Di couldn’t contain her excitement and performed a salute. She put her feet together. Rested her left hand at her side. And raised her right, pounding it against her chest twice; the spheres flickered out of existence.

  “Di,” her mother crossed her arms, “why must we go through this time after time?”

  Di’s expression morphed into confusion, “What? No–no, I’m ready. I’m ready Mother! I promise! I–I…”

  “You will be ready when I will it! A Shatterstorm isn’t your ticket to becoming queen, girl! It isn’t anything but death as you are.” Her mother snapped and turned away, “You are to stay here, in your room. Rayat and Lorel will stand guard outside your door. Feel free to play with your Sunskin. It’s my job to ensure it won’t see bloodshed until you are ready.” Without waiting to hear Di’s protest, she walked away, the guards silently closing the door behind her.

  Di stood alone in her room, ready for a battle that wouldn’t come.

  Di looked out her window. Demons rained from the clouds, flames blazed from below, far into the storm.

  She gazed at the battles taking place across the kingdom. She imagined herself taking part in—no—leading those battles. She dreamed of her triumphant return to the castle, her subjects staring in awe.

  She sighed and plopped into her bed. The next storm wouldn’t arrive for another eight months—by then she would be sixteen. The girl tossed and turned before screaming into her pillow. “You’ll be ready when I say so.” She mocked.

  The sound of armor shuffling around interrupted her, then a knock at the door. “I’m fine!” she shouted. What was the point of having guards stationed outside her door if the demons wouldn’t make it that far in the first place?

  Another knock at the door. “I said I’m fine!”

  The guards burst into her room. “Princess!” Rayat cried, “Put on your Skin, hurry!”

  Di stared at the guards, “What–” Ignoring the disrespect they had shown her, unease and worry oozed from their actions. Lorel stomped to the window and shut the curtains; light sputtered into existence around the room. Rayat ran to draw the screen of the changing room.

  “Come, now! We must make haste!” Rayat gestured to the dressing room, “Y–your highness.”

  “Why? What is going on?”

  Lorel walked to the foot of the bed and kneeled, “An unidentified force is using the storm as a distraction to mount an assault on the mines. We have been ordered to escort you to the war chamber.”

  …

  Di laughed, “I thought you two knew better than to joke at such a time.” They had to be joking—who would dare attack them?

  It couldn’t be the Marronites to the west; they were pacifists—as passive as one could be in a world ravaged by monsters. It couldn’t be the Saluvians to the south; they only ever left their precious libraries to defend against Shatterstorms. The Kikko to the east had their own issues to deal with lately, and they would have seen the Nomads coming from miles away, so it couldn’t be either. And the royal bloodlines of those nations could never match up to the raw power of the Light bloodline. The only bloodline Di could think of with power rivaling her own was that of the warriors of the Last Bastion, but they had a sworn duty to the world, and they were resolute in that if nothing else.

  She cleared her throat and straightened her posture in an attempt to project an air befitting royalty. “Still, I have to thank you two for trying to cheer me up. You may return to your posts.”

  Rayat stamped her foot; Di and Lorel flinched at the outburst. “Princess! Please,” she begged, “this is not a joke. You must put on the Skin and you must follow us to the war chamber, the queen and prince are on the way there as we speak.”

  Di opened her mouth, but a thundering boom forced it shut. The castle shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Di looked back and forth between the two guards after the rumbling stopped before jumping into action.

  In moments, she’d donned a full suit of armor and together, they flew down the steps leading away from Di’s bedchamber.

  Lorel spoke as they moved, “The attackers are currently being held at the gates, but a group broke off, choosing to make their way down the rift directly. The third and fourth Sunseekers are fighting them as we speak. Their main objective seems to be securing a large amount of hemolith.”

  Before Di could comprehend the situation, the group had made their way to a large hallway, a few turns away from the war chamber. But behind them, a staircase leading down to the dungeon and providing access to the mines.

  Di looked at the backs of her guards, their measured steps echoing through the hall. She stopped.

  Rayat and Lorel kept walking forward as Di turned around.

  Dreams of glory—dreams of respect flooded her mind.