I did not love him, in the beginning. Later, I have loved him so much it hurts.

  Memoirs of Anaya

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Year six

  The Academy's forge is a thing to behold. It is carved inside a large rock formation, oversized windows at the top—no, not windows, there are no glass panes; more like...simple wide and tall openings.

  There are openings also on lower levels to bring in cooler air from the outside. The ample interior has a pleasing conical shape. And despite the chimneys and ventholes taking away most of the hearth smoke, the ceiling is pitch black.

  Design drawings and some small instruments are on the tables, often placed near a hearth.

  I'm in an iron womb furnished with chests and cases for storing tools, sharpening wheels, tables small and big, quenching troughs, firewood neatly stacked, small coal mounds, and so on. Long chimneys rise. Strange instruments and chains are on the wall and ground.

  The Forge has scores of undershot waterwheels for powering the bellows but only a few are operational at the moment. I lower my hearing. The cranking sounds coming from the beam and the wheel's rotating shaft combined with gurgling water in a way that made the ambient rather annoying to the ear.

  The number of furnaces outnumbered all the waterwheels of the smithy several times.

  The gray-black anvils are strewn across the space like metallic stumps of some long-felled iron forest. A triquetra is engraved on the side of each anvil's body, just above the base.

  The place reeks of stale sweat, smoke, and steel.

  It is in the Forge where I'm greeted by the chief blacksmith of the Academy. Needless to say, the blacksmith has biceps almost as thick as half of my waist.

  We move to a quiet space, well...quieter, away from the clanging noise.

  I sit in front of his office table. As is the way of times, I speak almost cordially, and then, pleasantries being done, I move on to why I'm here, giving him the parchment.

  Forgemaster Gofannon regards me with slight confusion. ''Your request is highly unusual. A polearm with large blades on both ends is simply not a practical weapon to use. The alamarium for the haft alone would be far better used for making a sword or a pair of axes.'' He continues looking at the parchment's specifications, shaking his head.

  For many years Father stockpiled hex. He wanted for me to have a house to my name and to marry well. The polearm will be like a birthday present from my parents.

  The weapon depicted was drawn almost entirely by Father—my small contribution focused on minor decorative elements. He has paid a small fortune for a retired Forgemaster of Lodestar's military academy to help him with the design. The weapon portrayed on the parchment has the artistic beauty distilled from Father, and there was the look of brutal practicality of an experienced blacksmith. That retired blacksmith has also made remarks similar to Gofannon's, and I'm in no mood to hear more of the same.

  ''Not to mention you want phoenixash blades,'' Forgemaster Gofannon continues. ''You must understand---''

  ''Forgive my interruption Forgemaster but my father is willing to pay a substantial sum for the phoenixash to be made. And I've already completed much of my training specializing in this type of weapon. With impeccable grades. Also, there is a good chance I will never need to even use it, depending on my affinity upon graduation, of course.'' I've improved on my sword, and all things bladecraft. And these days I pretend to sleep for about five hours. Chronos is plenty.

  ''Yes...Blade Grandmaster Cariocecus spoke well of your skill. And that man is cheaper with praises than my grandfather was with hex.''

  I smile warmly, with my lips and eyes. ''So there is no problem then. How soon can---''

  ''Girl, there are less than fifty people in existence who know how to forge phoenixash. And more than half of them believe the metal is cursed. Some of the clergy even believe that the blacksmiths who make it give their souls to the Void. Without a special dispensation---''

  ''Oh!'' My hand brushes the cozy and gentle lambswool. Out of my coat's inner pocket I pull out a letter. Signed and sealed by Aleera. His worry is not without merit. Historically, phoenixash was used by many false religions and cults in their rituals. The metal is often seen with disdain by most of the populace.

  ''Apologies, Forgemaster.'' I blink rapidly while trying to look all innocent-like and slightly lost. ''I should have given you this sooner.'' I throw a gentle smile at him. A warm memory flashes through my mind: me as a little girl, jumping off a large, six-winged snake. You'll sprain your ankle like that.

  With slight hesitation, he reaches to take the letter from my outstretched hand. He breaks the triquetra wax seal, and after barely a heartbeat or two of reading passes, his fat eyebrows go skyward.

  ''You are very deceiving, Mistress Bolormaa,'' he finally states. Looking at me like I pissed in his soup.

  I ignore his words and the face he makes. ''Besides a hefty payment my father offers to decorate half a dozen weapons or items of your choosing with beautifully carved crystal. After our...project is finished, and if the result is satisfactory. And if half of what I've heard of your aptitude is true, no other outcome is possible.'' I choose him not only for his skill but also...he is the type that loves a challenge, a type that prides himself in his work. Forgemaster Gofannon is similar to my father in this regard. I did my research, of course.

  He regards me for a few moments while stroking his jutting chin.

  I look back at him, unflinching. My countenance is the same as the one my mother had on that day, a lifetime ago, when the Genesis test was positive. Stoic and marble-like.

  ''It will require a strong forge fire and good refractory bricks,'' he states. Speaking more to himself than to me. ''A lot of coal, sweat, and some more coal.'' He looks deeply at the large parchment, highly elaborate drawing reflecting across his eyes. For a moment I wonder if he forgot I'm sitting across. His fingers caress the surface of the parchment, dancing across the meticulously drawn dimension lines that surround the polearm on almost all sides.

  At last, he looks at me for a breath or two, and then says, ''If my final work is half as good as this drawing is, and if Allmother wills it, I'll make you a weapon fit for an emperor of old.''

  ***

  Year 421 since Upheaval, first month - Garn, day - 39th

  The room offers generous space and, like many others at the Academy, it features a dome-shaped ceiling. Located within the eastern cliff of the canyon, this chamber is made for banquets and carousals. Long tables are aligned around the ends of the spherical room, outlining a spacious floor for dancing. A good-sized podium for musicians is in the middle, and the entire space is well-lit by crystal light.

  The chamber also has a hydraulis but it is rarely used as it can overpower the space with its sound. The musical instrument is perhaps more suited for bigger crowds.

  Each student chooses if they want a celebration to be made for their turning of majority. Hebe had hers last year. Considering we are not allowed to get drunk it can hardly be called a proper bacchanal. But we are at least allowed to dance.

  I have spoken with Gabriel on occasion, but rarely are we alone. He grew tall. Seven feet of muscle crowned with two dark azure gems. Despite him being a year older, my height is almost a match to his.

  When opportunity allows his ink-black hair—the black of the night sky furthest from Sol's comforting light—ends up being twirled by my fingers. Despite chastisements from our teachers, and unlike most of our classmates, he grew it almost shoulder long. His prowess at wrestling and swordplay put an end to any more serious protests.

  Most of my classmates are here. Some are also dancing. The Academy provided us with decent food. And drinks of a more placid variety. This place wishes to portray this type of gathering as an act of kindness but like with everything, there is a hidden purpose. They know that in the future some of us will go Harvesting together; therefore, the Academy wishes to foster deep friendly bonds between the students. Also, I assume these gatherings are designed to placate our minds and ease our nerves at the, well, relative nearing of the Final Test. That's just a dramatic name for when a student performs its first Genesis. If you fail, you wasted seven years of your life and you go home in shame. Well, maybe not too dramatic of a name, I guess.

  Over the past year or so, a lot of Gabriel's and my conversations were about home and our families. He is from the eastern part of the city. Gabriel comes from a family of rich merchants. They were less than thrilled at learning that their only heir was blessed with Genesis, and will never father sons. As it turned out they almost shunned him, rarely sending letters and treating him like a deceased person. And what I believe hurts him the most: his own mother stopped speaking to him. Only rarely does he visit home.

  I did want to comfort him though we couldn't do much. Sometimes a hand would go where it shouldn't or lips would go a little too neckward, but that's about it.

  At this moment cithara dominates. Notes made by the elaborate lyra shimmer through the air. The eight-stringed instrument gives a tranquil melody most suitable for slow swaying. The girl that plays it can't be much older than me yet her mastery is that of a performer several times her age. Her mahogany skin is immaculate. If my mother were here she would no doubt inquire about her skin routine in order to chastise me with more skill for the supposed lack of mine.

  White chiton of fine wool with a purple outline falls over her graceful features. She sits and moves her hands with poise often seen in people of prominence. Her right one is striking the strings while the other muffles unwanted sounds, her delicate fingers fondle across the taught ordered lines. The girl must belong to some wealthy mercantile family or is perhaps even related to a senator.

  The song is a sweet and mellow, but ultimately a tragic melody. No one sings now, but the well-known honeyed harmony speaks for itself about unreturned love:

  I cast my heart at thee, and thou dost not even see;

  No blade of the enemy could take what thou did from me.

  May eternity consume the pain;

  For it is verity, thy love I will never gain.

  My darling, my darling, mine only light,

  Adored sparkling taken by the night.

  Ages short and endless may flow,

  Natheless, our divine sparks shall glow.

  And after the sun turns to dust,

  We will find one another in the dark.

  A man from an almost forgotten age gives his heart to a woman who doesn't share his affections. For decades he fruitlessly waits for her and seeks glorious death on many battlefields of old. Where foes' blades and arrows failed, his own does not.

  Only after he is gone does his never-to-be-sweetheart realize, far too late, that she loved him. Predictably, she ends up following him to the Void.

  Perfect tune for celebrating one's date of birth.

  Despite the music I can hear Gabriel's heartbeat(if I focus hard enough). I like how it speeds up whenever I touch him. On the outside he seems cold and calm and in total control, but I hear the firestorm coming, and yearn for the day it will engulf us both.

  Now, a public show of affection is not tolerated among the students, however, we obviously have to hold each other to dance properly.

  Like two leaves, bound tightly with spider's web, we let the winds take us; it doesn't matter where.

  ''Age of majority. You know what that means?'' Gabriel whispers while holding me gently. The music shrouds his soft-sounding words.

  I raise my eyebrows then narrow my eyes a little. ''No. What does it mean?''

  ''It means you're old now. Grandmother, really.''

  ''Fuck you. You're a year older than me.''

  ''Well, I'm still young at heart.'' We sway together, his lead poised.

  We get real quiet for a short while, him looking at me as though he wants to kiss me for days. Or maybe that's just me?

  I kill the quiet. ''Speaking of fucking---''

  ''Yes. The word you're so fond of.''

  ''Speaking of fucking I think I'm ready,'' my voice a shadow.

  ''Sure you don't want to wait until after we graduate. Even if caught, they probably won't punish us then.''

  ''What if I don't graduate?''

  ''You will,'' his eyes confident, his voice certainty.

  ''Do you want to wait?''

  ''No, Ann. Not for a heartbeat more. We will talk later about it. Even the walls of this place have ears.''

  I nod, quietly drowning in his gut-churning blue eyes.

  I hear my name mentioned and my ears focus toward the source instinctively.

  ''...Her eyes are weird, her hair is weird. Even the way she moves is weird. What does he see in her?'' Lana seethes.

  Her best friend Ariana snickers. ''Maybe that is the answer. He sees a lot in her. My mother told me all men are the same. Spread your legs often enough and a man will follow you like a pup.''

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  ''And she has no shame, she looks at him like a cat looks at a baby chick.''

  I look toward Lana—pretty face framed by long, bright-yellow locks—and give her a I-heard-that-you-bitch look.

  Holding the smile her reaction gave me, I look around the room.

  Even here the Crimson Guard is present, no doubt ready to report or intervene in case of any transgression. About three months prior, an age of majority celebration was disbanded after Tomoe and Michael were caught using their lips for more than just talking. He took the blame and was held in a pitch-black cell for three days with no food or water. This fucking place.

  This abstinence expected of us is as archaic as it is hypocritical. During the sixth month of Lapul, when celebrating the Second Daughter, there are sections of Lodestar where Seventhday, Eighthday, and Ninthday of Lapul's third week descend into drinking, dancing, and eating festivities that erupt into orgies. Some flat roofs and street corners become scenes of debauchery. And even this pales to the stories about what happens in many senatorial villas during carousals.

  Obviously we were never allowed to go to the city during such times because we are holy and pure, touched by Allmother herself. Of course it's all bullshit fed to hoi polloi. In reality, Breakers drink and fuck and do whatever they want. And Black Breakers practically run this place.

  Upon the song's ending, I move away from Gabriel and toward the cithara-girl.

  Soon I'm back.

  ''Why are you smiling like that?'' Gabriel asks. Himself also smiling.

  ''Apparently, she can play the drums too.'' I nod toward the girl preparing to do just that.

  The song I told her to play is pure rhythm. Provoking, demanding clapping from its listeners.

  I bring attention to myself by clapping the known rhythm just before the song truly starts.

  I dance and clap. Little girl loose free across the dance floor. I'm soon joined by a few others, and it is not long until almost the entire class is clapping, and dancing mostly with their feet.

  I spin effortlessly around Gabriel who laughs and claps with me. Red spills around me.

  I laugh when Tomoe hooks my arm, and we spin away.

  Hebe jumps onto one of the tables, her legs are things possessed. She is all smiling green eyes; long hair of gold jumping about her.

  Janna, Katerina, and Melina all jump harmonically, as though of one mind.

  I notice Peter is moving fluidly—surprisingly agile, for a boy of his size.

  Michael steals Tomoe away from me.

  Gabriel takes my hand.

  We dance until dawn.

  ***

  Sublime.

  That is the first thought that blazes through my mind after Gofannon carefully lifts and pulls away the glistening emerald cloth, uncovering the polearm of alamarium and phoenixash. It lies upon a long marble block.

  The double-bladed polearm has sleek, curved blades.

  Phoenixash. Hepatizon and alamarium make an alloy: pale gray with purple-gray and dark black lines. The captivating surface of phoenixash has a folded steel pattern to it. Long swirling bands of black, gray, and purple shades are like wisps of smoke locked forever inside the metal. The wavy pattern is striking, with wavy lines traveling the length of the blade.

  I've read from some dusty old tome in the Great Library—I think it was old, although...the gilt letters were so crisp and nice—that the strength of the metal almost rivals that of bloodsteel.

  And as a bonus, phoenixash can heal itself. If the metal is slightly scratched or damaged, it can renew itself back into its original form. This may take months, though.

  Many believe phoenixash to be cursed. I do not.

  I gently grasp the weapon around the middle, lifting it up for closer inspection.

  It feels so light.

  I casually swing the polearm about. It is but a feather, a twig weight in my arms. Unsurprising. The shaft is forged out of alamarium, metal stronger and lighter than steel; and engraved intricately with radiant patterns spreading and thinning from half-sun motifs. Fitting, for I've settled on the name Twilight.

  Masterful. The polearm looks made for Theia herself to wield. I think I forgot to breathe for a few moments.

  I focus my eyes on one of the phoenixash blades. Searching for a flaw, for scratches. There is none, there are none. My powerful eyes feast, unaccustomed to things truly flawless.

  ''Immaculate,'' I whisper.

  ''I took my time with the finishing process. With proper maintenance the weapon will stay such as it is now. You will never need to sharpen the blades. But the haft will need regular cleaning.''

  I instinctively move to create a whirlwind of blades, stopping myself at the last moment. ''You don't mind?''

  ''Please.'' The blacksmith nods at the clearing to my right. ''I'm curious if the heft is to your liking.'' His arms are crossed and the stance of his body seems tense, guarded somehow.

  In graceful silver arcs, I spin my polearm, feeling the weight of it—a thing negligible. I slash with vigor and slice with precision at my imaginary foes. The blades at each end of the shaft are my fists. Again and again, I make the air cry with a swishing sound.

  My feet are water: flexible and flowing, my hands the wind: fast and unforgiving. Strange. I almost wish for Twilight to feel heavier in my hands.

  An image of hurt Zuri, lying in the sand, flashes through my mind. The old memory kills the growing urge in me: to unrein myself, to lose control.

  I finish with an elegant flourish. My hands lock, one below the other, holding the polearm vertically.

  ''The heft suits me fine,'' I note.

  Forgemaster Gofannon says nothing. He just looks at me for a few moments, eyes slightly narrowed. I was careful to hold back.

  I focus my eyes on the blade's flawless surface. You must understand, my eyes are used to seeing flaws, small or big, in all things. Phoenixash is very pleasing to look at. Not the tiniest scratch is there to be found.

  After I-don’t-know-how-much time passes, during which I stupidly also said nothing, the blacksmith clears his throat. ''I believe the result is satisfactory?''

  I look at him. Respect for his great skill and labor evident in my eyes. ''It is. My faith in you was well-justified.'' I hand him the robust, huge, fat sack bristling with hex. The second half of his payment. Together with the first half, it is enough money to buy about four thousand loaves of bread.

  I notice he doesn't open the sack to count the hexagonal crystal coins.

  ''Follow me, please. Our business is not yet concluded,'' Forgemaster Gofannon says.

  We enter a nearby small office with two parchments on the table. Both are identical and with exquisite calligraphy; the text framed by ornate borders depicting interlocking iron rings. The black ink smells fresh. Each parchment has a wax seal—bearing a symbol of anvil—and the blacksmith's signature near the bottom.

  Proof of ownership. ''Proof of ownership,'' Forgemaster gives voice to my thoughts. ''Sign both. One is yours to take, the other stays with me.''

  My excitement had not yet waned and my right hand trembles slightly as it reaches for the quill. I pause to scan both texts. I trust him but I trust myself the most.

  After my caution is sated by the formality of the charter, I sign it. That's that, Twilight is legally mine.

  I firmly grasp Forgemaster Gofannon's outstretched forearm, noticing the many scattered burns on it.

  He grunts.

  Shit!

  He hides it well but I can see it in his eyes: I hurt him. In my excitement I squeezed his thick forearm a little too tightly. The blacksmith now looks at me like I just grew horns. Luckily, the surprised look is gone quickly as I praise his skill, speaking with him about this and that. I really don't wish to stay here for long, lest I might trip and break his leg or something.

  After not long I'm outside. The welcome burst of wind flapping my coat.

  I look at my right hand and smile. Knowing the dimensions in advance, my mother made a special leather sheath for the polearm.

  After throwing my eyes at the Academy facade and its giant triquetra I rush forward, feeling faster than the wind or a thrown spear. I jump across the uneven terrain with ease, avoiding the main paths. There are interior gymnasiums that are almost always deserted. With no prying eyes I will free myself, truly free myself, testing Twilight properly.

  Sands of the palaestra await!

  ***

  We are in the Academy's decently-sized arena. My class is divided into two groups. A phoenix banner is placed at the end of a long pole positioned vertically onto the back of the battle familiar we face: a creature with rhino-shaped body and thick, armor-like, charcoal-black skin. The pole is greased and the warbeast is always moving, always restless.

  On the other side of the oval-shaped arena, I can see the huge boy Peter, Lana, the graceful Ariana, Michael, Katerina and Melina, all standing in good order with a few others from our class.

  Gabriel, Zuri, Hebe, Janna, Tomoe, Cassius, and the rest of the students are in my group.

  They told us whichever group gets the banner first will be rewarded with a whole wheel of cheese. And a good-sized chunk of cured bacon too, for each member of the winning group.

  When I was little, and before the Academy, my mother would make me breakfast with bacon, once a week. Forced me to eat it. She'd say how most people would kill to be as fortunate as me. Initially it was something overwhelmingly salty. A too vile thing for my tongue. But over time it became less and less salty. It's delicious now. As a welcome escape from meals of rice, once every ten days they serve thinly sliced bacon with sweet apples in the Hall for breakfast. Just like home.

  The Academy has allowed for the arena to be partly filled with some city folk who came to watch the students compete. There are a few hundred spectators I'd say. Plebeians mostly. But there are others. Soldiers, Breakers—some without limb or scarred badly.

  At the given signal, pandemonium ensues. Students and the arena crowd yelling, the warbeast roaring, the two groups rushing toward one another, soon clashing with practice spears. This continues for a while, students from neither side nowhere close to getting on top of that crystalborn.

  The fighting spreads into multiple clusters, few of my classmates on the ground.

  The big crystalborn moves through the arena unpredictably; its movements are controlled by a nearby Breaker.

  Peter pushes the much smaller Cassius into Zuri. They both collapse. Branches under a tempest.

  ''Gabriel!'' I yell. ''Take Peter.''

  He raises his eyebrows and smiles quick. In no time he moves to clash with the biggest student in our class.

  My body jerks to the side when Lana slams the blunt top of her spear against my shoulder.

  For a few moments I pretend the impact is worse than it actually is.

  I straighten my back. ''You want him, don't you?'' I nod toward Gabriel's disappearing form. ''A shame. He is mine. I ride him every night,'' an obvious lie, but I doubt she cares.

  ''Whore,'' Lana says, her pale brown eyes fury.

  I smile.

  She soon retreats from my onslaught of jabs and slashes, parrying most.

  A faraway animalistic scream reaches me, gets under my skin. A woman wailing, I think. It came from beyond the arena.

  I scream when Lana slams her spear against my knee. The top part breaks. Lana stares at the stump stupidly.

  Too late does she register my fist slamming into her stomach. The punch powerful, but controlled.

  She drops to the ground, won't be getting up any soon. Her move would've probably crippled any of the other students.

  She is all sand and no wheat. Some devious sellers at the markets put sand in sacks of wheat so that they would measure heavier on a scale. It's a saying that is used when something appears strong, rich, or nice but really is a scam.

  I look to the side.

  I smile upon seeing Peter retreating from Gabriel's relentless attacks. There is no smugness on Gabriel's face. Only cold, calm calculation. A tinge of fierceness to his eyes. His long spear hard at work.

  I move at a run to get that banner, ignoring everything else.

  The large crystalborn veers, avoids a group of students running toward it, loses balance, about to crush Janna against the wall of the arena. I drop my spear, move next to her, arms front.

  The spectators shout at our supposed flattening.

  My back and the back of my head slam into the wall behind me, dazing me a bit. I hear shouting from the distant crowd.

  My long arms and body dulled the large beast's impact just enough to spare Janna any major injury. She fused herself to the wall of white limestone, terrified, looking at my hands with confusion, her eyes wide. She is somehow even more pale than usual.

  ''Ann!'' I hear Gabriel roaring.

  Michael and Hebe shouting my name as well, sounds joined by similar shouts made by Janna's friends.

  ''Are you unhurt?'' I ask.

  She nods many times.

  After confirming Janna is unharmed, I climb onto the already moving large beast, holding to it easily. The back of my head is a throbbing sensation.

  Relief on Gabriel's face when he sees I'm well.

  Peter uses Gabriel's distraction, slamming savagely the butt of the practice spear into Gabriel's stomach. ''Your woman is granite, brother,'' Peter growls as Gabriel drops to the ground.

  ''You have...no idea...'' Gabriel murmurs.

  I give up my pursuit of the banner, jumping long toward Peter, my body no longer my own.

  As I run toward him, he jabs his spear at my chest, I sway to the side, dodging easily.

  I'm far faster and stronger than the giant, far more agile, I'm behind him and on his back, my arms soon choking the life out of him.

  ''Smile now,'' I whisper.

  His elbows wildly pummel into my rib cage. Unpleasant, very unpleasant, but manageable.

  He drops to his knees, face flushed, veins bulging. My class and the hundreds of people watching, all are quiet, me and Peter the focus of their world.

  A distant wail reaches my ears, coming from beyond the arena. It's almost inhuman in its grief. Lightning passes through my chest. A tiny piece of my soul is torn from me. Fear. I let go of Peter who drops on all fours, coughing. The red mist over my mind dispersing.

  I stumble, making it seem as though his powerful punches did real damage, made me let him go.

  Someone runs into the arena. One of the Academy caretakers.

  ''Clades!'' he screams.

  ***

  The cemetery is old, belonging to the time of our holy ancestors. It is a macabre city of sculptures and tombstones. Only those who were somebody or died for something get the privilege to rot here. Alldora's watery abyss for most of us.

  A large and elaborate mausoleum towers in the distance; its sculptures high, their paint bright. It is owned by the Alcmaeonidae. Senatorial family. Wealthy. Potent. Some say the family has distant blood ties with the Prophet, the man who led our ancestors toward Lodestar. Rumors no doubt propagated for centuries by the members of this very family.

  The smell of spent incense shrouds the Necropolis.

  Regardless of this place being the opposite of Lodestar—you know, death and life—it still has its myriad of colors. Although most have faded away; especially on some of the grandest and oldest of tombs. Statues of winged familiars erupt from stone. Almost all the sculptures here represent people in the prime of their lives.

  It is an art collection of polished stone; with mostly human figures clad in chest armor, chiton, and himation. The garments are often painted in green, blue, and red; and every hairsbreadth of skin is painted beige, peach, brown, tan, russet, olive, black, pale pink, and every tone between.

  Strangely the thing that impresses me most is not the detailed, determined, and slightly smug faces of painted marble, but how garments and mantles...I don't know...the fabric itself just looks so real, with every tiny fold, nook, and sway petrified for eternity. I could capture this on papyrus quite well, but not on stone.

  Due to some tombs being rumored to have treasure troves of carved crystals and many shiny decorations embedded richly by them, the Necropolis is always guarded by almost a full centuria of Lodestar's Cobalt Guard. Needless to say, anyone caught trying to steal from the chosen ones is very publicly executed by Throwing.

  Lodestar's cemetery is located away from the city itself, with tall black-leafed trees growing around it. There are some artificial ones too, with their violet leaves lush, and crooked trunks. Scantly dotting the interior of the large graveyard are dark red and black leaves fallen from natural plant life. Black-leafed ginkgo trees stand eternal watch over the dead.

  Hundreds of people are around me. Students, grandmasters...loved ones of the fallen.

  Fitful blasts of air mow at my hair. Oddly, these winds—gushing from west to east—feel sickly and unnatural somehow. I assume that because we are gathered in a place of death, the mind plays tricks.

  I rub the tender, reddish-purple patch of skin. Amaranthine color stains the side of my knee. That bitch tried to maim me.

  I look at the ground.

  Libation of wine and some rice are poured by the priestesses from Allmother's temple. It is hoped this may shorten the fallen ones' stay in the Void. All the while a chantress sings for their souls.

  A young priest named Jayson Janus speaks at the gathering, offering words of comfort that mean nothing to anyone. He dribbles about duty and sacrifice. Talking's all the clergy are good for. Well...most of them.

  ''May their eternal souls reach the undying halls of Empyrean,'' the green-eyed priest concludes.

  Brother Jayson looks familiar. Most priests look the same, I guess.

  He places three fingers upon the brow and then the heart, outstretches his arms, bows his head piously, his three fingers of both hands pointing upwards.

  Following his lead, all of us gathered repeat the same sacred gesture.

  Cenotaph is a monument erected in honor of a person or group of people whose remains are elsewhere. For example, if a substantial number of soldiers or Black Breakers die, and the bodies are not retrieved, the Academy or the city may pay a substantial sum for a cenotaph in the memory of those fallen heroes. But this is rare. The arable soil is too precious.

  I've read the report. A disaster. More than fifty soldiers slaughtered and, what I'm sure hurts the Chairwoman far more, six Black Breakers are lost, and two will never walk again. Luckily, the nearest outpost to the massacre remained untouched.

  We lost many crystalborn too, some had to be destroyed after going feral.

  Shit...this...

  This all could have been avoided if Black Breakers were allowed to have more than three battle familiars. If the Senate wasn't filled with fearful old men and women. Not one senator is here today. No elections nearby I'd assume.

  Ground forces took the bulk of the losses.

  During Harvesting, mounted lancers charge straight toward the Wraith. Each of these brave riders wields a long and deadly lance whose top pointy part breaks upon impact, requiring the riders to retreat and take another. The speartips are often coated with the poison mercybane. Very quick and lethal for a human, barely dazes a Wraith.

  Defending is pointless, a soldier's plate armor does not help much, if at all.

  Even the famed nanilu—iron-strong black cloth light as silk, worn by Black Breakers—is of course useless if a Wraith slams you directly.

  Everything is.

  I've read that sometimes they can be surprisingly intelligent. Throwing rocks and debris or hurling themselves directly toward a Black Breaker.

  A shiver goes through my lower back because I know. Because I've seen plenty of illustrations depicting them with notations about potential weak points. Usually neck and joints. Each Wraith is different and none are pretty.

  Wearing their ceremonial, black linothorax armor, soldiers of Lodestar line up in front of the cenotaph. Their blue cloaks rippling in the wind, bronze helmets gleaming.

  ''One with the city,'' the soldiers begin chanting, thrusting their spears at the sky. ''One with the canyon,'' their spear butts slam at the ground.

  Gabriel stands next to me. We are just two ants lost in the crowd. His hand clasps mine as we both keep looking forward, pretending not to notice each other. His thumb tickles my wrist. I look him in the eye and realize he must have known one or a few of those now gone. He never said anything. Later I'll rip his face off for not speaking to me about this. Usually we tell each other everything.

  Except...

  No matter how much I wanted I could never bring myself to tell him about my—I never know how to call it—my...enhanced abilities. I don't think he would be intimidated by me being far stronger and faster than anyone. He is not easily intimidated—let's put it like that. But what if he sees a monster, a freak. The warmth given by his eyes each time he looks at me is Sol's own: blazing at me deliciously. Were that warmth ever to become ice or anything else I would break apart.

  After the graveyard ceremony is over and people begin slowly dispersing, I take his hand comfortingly.

  At the graveyard's center is the Void's Eye. An open-air circular peristyle of white-veined black marble. A row of black columns forms a covered walkway that surrounds a circular open space.

  I guide him to the ''pupil''. The red slash of my long hair cuts through the black of the place.

  I give him the portrait I've made. ''A small gift.'' I smile.

  A few weeks ago, Father sent me some high-quality papyrus. The portrait is of Gabriel looking into the distance. Just black ink on white papyrus.

  ''I had no idea...'' Gabriel looks at me, thoughtful.

  I'm decent at drawing, able to put anyone's likeness onto parchment. Same goes for buildings or landscapes; I can draw anything with good fidelity. It's a gift I mostly neglected, to the laments of my father, who believes I should pursue and develop my drawing skills.

  ''Do you like it?'' I ask him.

  He is quiet. Says nothing for eternity or two. ''Ann...'' He looks at me. He wants to kiss me, I can tell. ''It is a mirror. You should draw more often.''

  ''Can't kill a Wraith with a drawing. Well, maybe one of my initial sketches absolutely could.''

  He smiles, looks at my lips.

  Our short kiss is life in a place of death.

  ***