New Amazing Nightmare: Symmetry of Sins

By Ariane Vai

When people learned to use magical energies to create harmful afflictions – curses – others had to learn how to cure them. Amondire is one of the latter – a medic specializing in cleansing souls. Now, together with a small group he's working on a research project that could give an alternative to at least some of the destructive magical experiments carried out on humans in his country. Things get complicated when a member of the team is murdered just weeks before the night on which the project could be finalized. They have to ask help from an old friend, a prophetess named Asantra.

Looking into the future is forbidden almost everywhere, for it's said that it can only bring a tragedy. But as Asantra leaves the serene Sanctuary to come assist with the research project, bits of her suppressed visions begin to surface. And what she starts to see is a horrifying disaster already.

In the future seen by the prophets, Amondire becomes the Sinhail, a feared man who broke the biggest taboo and learned how to destroy immortal human souls. And Asantra becomes his first victim, the Half-gone, stuck between life and death, trapped by her own wounded soul.

The question is - is that future the reality, or merely visions of possibilities that can be changed and prevented?

The problem is - sometimes the nightmare of one man is the salvation of another.

In the face of an unimaginable crisis, where the only resource making magical medicine possible is about to run out, the lines between evil and necessary are becoming more blurred than ever.

The New Amazing Nightmare is a story about generally good people in a generally bad world.

And skeletons stuffed into closets with wacky doors...

Creek.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ariane Vai
• Release date: Jul 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310667091

Ariane Vai

My name is Ariane, I'm 25 years old. I work as a freelance translator and I write for an esoteric magazine. Sometimes I draw, but my true passion is - you guessed it - writing books. I'm an avid gamer - lately mostly League of Legends. In my free time I sometimes also do a little voice acting. And try to learn to sing with very mediocre results ;)

Book preview

Symmetry of Sins

FIRST EDITION, JULY 2015

Distributed by Smashwords

© Copyright 2015 Ariane Vai

All rights reserved.

Content editing:

Ewa Siarkiewicz

Line editing:

Debra Doyle

Cover design, illustrations:

Ariane Vai

:o:

Official website:

http://newamazingnightmare.com

:o:O:o:

dedicated to my mom

who made it possible for me

to not only lie down and dream my dreams

but also to get up and chase them

:o:O:o:

TABLE OF CONTENTS

home & copyright

1. CROUCHED IN THE DARKNESS

2. BATHED IN LIGHT

-99. MID OF A DAY

-98 AND DEPTHS OF NIGHT

-97. I AM THE REASON

-96. OF YOUR GRIEF

-95. I AM A DEATH

-94. THAT COMES TOO SWIFT

-93. I DON’T CARE A BIT

-92. FOR ONE THING FAIR

-91. EQUALITY, LOVE

-90. NO MEANING BEAR

-89. I AM THE VICE

-88. THAT TRAPS YOUR HEAD

-87. I AM THE SHADOW

-86. WHICH YOU DREAD

-85. I JEER AT THE WEAK

-84. I MAKE THEM CRY

-83. THOUGH IF THEY WERE GONE

-82. I’D BE A LIE

-81. I DON’T ALWAYS KILL

3. HOW DULL THAT’D BE

-80. I WATCH YOU IN STRAIN

-79. AND NEVER FREE

-78. I AM THE HAND

-77. THAT GRIPS YOUR NECK

-76. I AM THE FORCE

-75. THAT LEAVES YOU WRECKED

-74. FIGHT ME YOU MAY

-73. YES, YOU CAN TRY

-72. BUT IT’S WHAT YOU ARE

-71. THAT MAKES YOU DIE

-70. FOR IF YOU ARE MINE

4. YOU’RE WHAT I AM

-69. AND IT DOESN’T MATTER

-68. WHO’S TO BLAME

##. WHAT AM I?

endnotes & acknowledgements

dictionary & map

1. CROUCHED IN THE DARKNESS

…cozy, isn’t it…

~ Age of Ashes, year 301 ~

~ New Amazing Nightmare, year 1 ~

~ Aharra, Arm of Katharyaga ~

All his life he believed that colors had their meanings. It was a given.

Willay was shouting: Lock the doors! Shut the blinds! Ragan, get inside! Quick!

Who did it? Ragan glared around Ifhedde, their home village, ignoring his wife’s cries. Who summoned Him?

People were sprinting to their homes; slushy snow splashing under their feet. Old Lila grabbed her son and fled to the forest. Pointless. If He were after her, He’d get her. He always got what He wanted.

I asked: who did it?

All those familiar faces Ragan had seen every day since he’d been born; one of them belonged to a traitor.

Yellow for joy and new beginnings.

As He emerged from the forest, all shreds of doubt were gone. It was the Sinhail, and He was headed for Ifhedde.

Wooden doors, all alike, shut one after the other. Windows got covered by blinds, leaving only small cracks through which peeked frightened eyes.

Yet one door stood slightly ajar, untouched.

Ragan had lived his entire life in Ifhedde. There was not a crevice in the walls of those yellow houses that wasn’t etched in his memory. There was not a person living behind these walls whom he didn’t know like the back of his own hand.

Behind the open door that invited the nightmare lived his childhood friends.

A delicate white frill tied around the door handle was swaying gently in the wind. Ragan couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before. That others hadn’t either. It was easy to miss treachery when you expected none.

Black for death and darkness.

As the sound of amecycles whirring reached his ears, Ragan felt rooted to the ground.

Ragan! Willay called. She was scared. She had seen Him before, she had seen what He could do. Come on!

Ragan should’ve listened and he knew that. He stood by the road looking towards the gate in a mixture of fear and anger; an unpleasant shiver ran through him as gusts of icy wind pierced his jacket. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him back towards his house. His legs barely obeyed.

Two men rode through the gate. Were the Sinhail in His right mind, He would be traveling with a small army. But He was fearless, and that, Ragan hoped, would soon become His undoing.

Purple for soul and eternity.

The amecycles sizzled and stopped. One of the riders jumped down – a boy, maybe fifteen years of age, no older. His claws betrayed his origin. Samedals were a savage race whom some believed hadn’t been created with the world, but had evolved later from wild animals.

The boy menacingly revealed his sharp fangs – or maybe he just smiled – at the few villagers who hadn’t made it to the cover of their homes. He took out the amethyst core from the vehicle and the headlights went out. And I almost got to actually ride and actual horse, he said, sounding discontented.

Its deep shades though, for evil, said to lurk inside every man.

The Sinhail turned his vehicle off. Chattair, he said to the boy, who nodded and handed him something.

The man’s feet met the ground with an unpleasant clink, as the silver soles of his high, gray boots hit the stones. A quiet, unnerving jingle filled the air. Ragan’s eyes travelled up His silhouette: white trousers, white shirt, white, fur-laced cloak. Tattered blood-tinted ribbon tied around His chest and up around His shoulder, from whence it fell down, tormented by the blowing wind. Its bottom edge seemed burnt. Ragan stopped right before his eyes reached the man’s face – he dared himself to look, but he couldn’t. He only just glimpsed the source of the sound – there was a strange metallic structure twining behind the Sinhail’s head.

Ragan stood with his head bowed down, like a pathetic coward, a lackey, ready to fawn at His feet, as all the others did - all the bravado and fury quashed by His proximity.

Tanidala’s house? the Sinhail asked nobody in particular.

Ragan twitched at the sound of His voice, as if each word spoken by Him was a curse spit into the air, ready to latch onto Ragan’s soul the moment he took the tainted air into his lungs.

Amongst the few who hadn’t made it into their homes and had frozen motionless outside, hoping His gaze wouldn’t fall on them, was Havi, their watchmaker. Havi fell onto one knee, and with head almost to the ground he pointed towards the half-open door. T-that way, my lord, he told the Sinhail.

Clink, clink, the stones sung under the silver, the sound of a recurring nightmare. Willay would wake up in the middle of the night to the faintest of metallic sounds, and rush to the windows to draw the curtains. And now, when she had to truly meet Him again, she could not hide – Ragan realized that it was her dragging him away. She had stayed outside because of him.

Red for love and healing.

Ragan grabbed Willay’s hands and freed himself from her grip. Go home, he said. He’s not looking, go.

What are you doing?

I will watch over Tani and Leveru, Ragan whispered. Go! He pushed her towards their home.

Willay threw him a desperate glance, then gave into her fright, and ran to the house. She would never convince him to come with, she surely knew it. Not when his dearest friends could be in danger.

But were they in danger? What could Sinhail possibly want from them? And, more importantly, what could they want from Him? He had not wandered into Ifhedde by accident. He had been summoned.

It made no sense.

The fanged boy suddenly turned towards Willay, and Ragan’s heart skipped a beat. He was ready to jump to her defense, but Chattair lost interest in her as soon as she disappeared behind the closed door.

There was a sound, an almost melodic buzz. The boy took out his encome and brought the communication device to his ear. Coming, sir, I was just making sure everything was… in order, he said, then looked around in a leisurely manner, pausing, for just a moment, on every person remaining outside. To frighten. To control.

Green for cathartic grief and rising from ashes.

Then he was on his way to the house and Ragan, against all reason, followed him.

You got a death wish or something? Chattair didn’t bother to stop or even look at him. I can hear your wheezing behind me.

What do you want from Tanidala and Leveru? Ragan asked.

Chattair turned to face him, cocking his head to the side. Straight brown hair swayed with the movement and fell onto his eyes. A curious one, are you?

Have they done something to offend the Sinhail? Please, I’m sure we can… find a way to talk? The weakness of his own voice disgusted Ragan. He was talking to a damned lackey, a kid.

Why, of course not. The boy showed his teeth. They’ve got a deal to strike.

Ragan took a step back, uneasy. A deal?

Chattair snorted.

Wasn’t that you who screamed about the summons just now? How daft are you exactly? Anyway, none of your business, really. The samedal waved a hand at him. Do I look like a peasant proxy? With a huff he turned to follow his master.

I need to see them.

The boy shrugged. Watch me care. But if you make a mess, you’ll become a mess yourself.

Ragan grabbed him by the sleeve.

Chattair turned and caught Ragan’s arm, squeezing it painfully. What? Surprise mixed with amusement on his face.

With a tug, Ragan freed his arm and took a step back, raising his hands up. He didn’t want to provoke a fight; those claws could rip his throat out in one swipe. Does He force you to follow Him? he asked the boy. Do you need help?

Chattair laughed. I am his servant, not his slave, you fool. Just get out of the way like the rest of your peasant friends. He turned to go, but then looked back and added: And don’t, for a second, think that there’s anything you can do if he doesn’t allow it.

Blue for sorrow, but also freedom and peace of mind.

It was not really a choice, Ragan couldn’t just ignore the situation and go home, no matter how strange is was getting. He followed the Sinhail’s servant into the house, trying his hardest not to make another sound.

Though he’d dined here just yesterday, the place suddenly felt foreign. The walls painted in bright shade of orange, the old flowery carpet on the floor. Four windows that normally let in plenty of light, were all closed now, and the low-hanging ceiling lamp, alongside the open door, was the only source of light.

Tanidala sat on the floor in the living room, with her back pressed against the wall, her knees up to her chin and encircled defensively by her arms. She was chewing at a strand of her long bright hair.

The Sinhail stood a few steps away looking a book case.

He’s in the basement, Tani said quietly. Her voice quivered, but she didn’t stutter once. I drugged him, but I wasn’t strong enough to bring him out. Do you wish to do it there, my lord?

No, the Sinhail said. Chattair, bring him upstairs.

Yes, sir.

What is he doing here? The Sinhail’s eyes hadn’t landed on Ragan once, but He seemed well aware of the unrequested presence.

The samedal shrugged again. He wanted to see this woman and I thought it might be entertaining. Wish me to remove him?

Whatever.

Ragan felt his heart jump to his throat, unsure of how the wild servant would interpret that answer, but Chattair nodded and moved towards the basement. I’ll be right back then, he said. Though he had that savagery about him, his accent and eloquence spoke of education. Which was odd, as most of his race were lucky to be slaves nowadays, especially since an Arena B had been built on the isle.

The moment the boy disappeared down the staircase, Ragan looked at Tanidala, but she refused to look up at him. With one hand she started to trace winding patterns on her long skirt. The green fabric, sprawled across the floor, contrasted with the dark wood.

Green. Why was she wearing green?

Tani, what’s going on? Ragan asked her.

He tried hard to pretend the Sinhail was not here, just to keep his thoughts focused. What if he just pulled out a gun and shot Him right now? The man wasn’t looking. Why wasn’t he looking? Did He believe that everyone was too scared to ever try to oppose Him? Could He be that arrogant?

Maybe.

But Ragan didn’t have a gun at hand, so first things first, he had to understand what was going on here, and he could swear it was nothing good. What are you doing? he asked Tanidala. What do you mean drugged him, Tani? Who did you drug?

Tanidala’s head twitched to the side in a tic.

Sounds of struggle and a grunt of pain came from the stairway. The Sinhail turned from the bookshelf and scratched His eyebrow.

You are sure, then, he said to Tanidala.

Yes, my lord. I am certain.

For the first time her eyes fell on Ragan, and she seemed to bite her tongue before saying something more. Ragan’s stomach twisted. What was he missing? Had someone forced her to summon Him? Something was very wrong here.

How do you know where Demera is? the Sinhail asked, and Tanidala turned away, her eyes again finding the patterns on her clothes.

I’ve heard of it from a dear friend of mine… she said. "I… I know I’m betraying his trust, I know, but I can’t live like this anymore, I can’t… I can’t die like this! It’s an item, right? He said it… looked…"

Human.

Y-yes… she said. So it doesn’t feel? It won’t know what you do with it… it won’t understand it, right?

It is an item. Nothing, but an illusion of humanity.

She nodded. But s-he… i-it talked to my friend. Asked for directions… Had a purpose… It seemed to be frightened, he told me, how can it work like this? I don’t understand…

It was created by a brilliant woman, one of the greatest mages walking this world. The illusion is stunning, but it is still just a creation of magic, the Sinhail said. Do you know where it is now?

Ragan was surprised that He would answer Tanidala’s questions. His voice was calm, collected, a sharp contrast to expectations. This was not how a nightmare ought to sound.

Tanidala was trying to compose herself, her head twitched a few times as if she wanted to look at Him when she spoke, but she never did. So He had come here for this Demera thing then. What was it? What could He possibly want?

Yes, I know where it is, Tani said.

The sounds of struggle got louder, and Tanidala squeaked as her husband sprawled to the top of the stairs, falling down, and getting kicked forward again by Chattair.

Move it! the boy said and huffed, or I’ll have to drag you again! His claws were bloodied and one glance at Leveru’s upper arms told the story. His yellow shirt had been torn, and the flesh underneath cut in gashes; the sleeves were soaking. Leveru himself looked drugged and was not cooperative. Completely bewildered, he didn’t seem to be understanding what was happening to him.

Tanidala looked like she was trying to become one with the wall, tried to get as far away from them all as she could. Ragan got queasy at the sight of red draining from Leveru’s open wounds.

The Sinhail waved His hand and Chattair dropped the drugged man to the floor, then crouched down panting – Leveru was a big man.

The Sinhail stepped closer to the curled up Tani; his white cloak rustled as he crouched down before her. With his left hand he rose her face up, and that’s when she lost it. Her body started shuddering and she began taking quick gasps of air, trying to stop her sobs from coming out.

Tell me. Quietly, He said, and leant in closer. The metallic structure that twined over His shoulder and behind His head, reminiscent of a thorn vine with a crescent-shaped piece between the branches, rang like a small wind chime. Ragan couldn’t keep his eyes off the sight Sinhail’s slender fingers as they rested on his friend’s chin. Tanidala’s lips moved, but Ragan didn’t hear the whispered words.

The Sinhail let go of her and stood up. Good, He said. Hold him, He told Chattair, and walked over to Leveru.

Tani! Ragan screamed in realization. This was a part of the Sinhail’s deal? Tani, what are you doing!

Chattair snarled at Ragan in caricature of a grin. His claws dug deeper into Leveru’s arms and the man cried out in pain.

You can’t reverse it! Ever! Ragan couldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t do it. There was no way. There couldn’t be. Tanidala?

The Sinhail looked straight at him for the first time and Ragan’s gaze instinctively darted down. His legs felt like jelly, but he found no anger in the man’s eyes – boredom, slight annoyance if any, that was all. Ragan scurried away and Sinhail turned back to Leveru. He raised his right hand – the Phantom, made not of flesh but raw, crimson energy. He closed his eyes and the Phantom’s hue darkened, then faded into purple.

No! No, please! Don’t do this! Leveru seemed to be coming back to his wits. No drug could hold his mind captive in the face of what was about to happen. He tried struggling out of Chattair’s grasp, but the more Leveru moved the more the claws cut his skin. Tani! Tani, help me! Tanidala? He’s going to wreck my soul, this isn’t a fucking joke! Tanidala! He thrashed about, fear getting the better of pain.

No, she said back to Leveru, her voice suddenly filled with power. Do you think what you were doing to me was a joke? It’s wasn’t. It wasn’t! You get what you deserve now. She spat her words with venom, then her voice broke again, and she slouched down. All these years, no more, she whispered. "You don’t have the power to hurt me anymore… You won’t have the eternity to scare me with. You won’t torment me forever, because I… I’m not yours anymore. He’s breaking the bond! He’s breaking it, and I will be free of you!"

You– Leveru’s words died in his throat as the Phantom nested in his chest.

Ragan backed into the wall with a thump. Tanidala whimpered and closed her eyes.

This was it.

The Sinhail’s hand was inside Leveru’s chest, touching the core of his soul. It was happening. To Leveru. A man Ragan had known for so long.

The deal.

Tani… Ragan whispered in shock.

Not even a whimper, a shadow of a scream, left Leveru’s lips as they twitched spasmodically. Chattair was holding Leveru’s body still, his face contorted in effort to keep the heavy man steady. Blood was dripping to the ground.

Leveru was the first of the three of them to look the Sinhail right in the eye.

The Sinhail bent his head down. His arm twisted and a swirl of purple energy surrounded it, then surged right into Leveru.

For a long moment, everything, but the reflection of light flickering over the metallic surface of the bizarre structure Sinhail wore, was still.

Ragan wanted to move, to do something, but he simply couldn’t.

Then the Sinhail jerked the Phantom out of His victim, straightened up, and turned to Tanidala. Done. Finish him off.

W-what? she asked.

Chattair let go of the man and shook the blood off his hands, then wiped them on the wall. Leveru fell down on his arms. He was looking somewhere ahead, his gaze unfocused, his features twisted in a grimace that reflected agonizing shock more than pain.

The bond is broken. Chattair walked over to Tanidala. You are free, your souls are connected no more, and his took the damage. Now, you know the rules. He took a gun from his belt, then handed it to her.

Tanidala looked at it blinking, but not moving an inch. I-I… I understand, but…

He’s your responsibility now.

Her eyes were hazed, she was barely keeping conscious, she tried to stand up but crumpled back onto the ground, grasping her head.

She’s hyperventilating. Chattair frowned, watching her struggle. I don’t think she’ll be able to do it.

The Sinhail sighed and reached for the long bronze sword resting on his back. He pressed a hand to the blade and a delicate stream of energy slithered alongside its edge. Then He made one, swift move.

Blood splattered all over the floor and walls. A quiet thump was heard as the head rolled to the floor, followed by the body sliding down the wall.

Ragan gagged.

That was it. The lump that blocked his throat and the stone that kept him in place were gone. W-what have you done! he screamed, his voice screeching with shock, his eyes following in morbid disbelief what remained of the man he’d played cards with just yesterday.

Rules. The Sinhail held the blade in front of Himself. From His hand came another swirl of energy, and as it enfolded the blade, blood seemed to fall off of it. He put the sword back in the sheath, dark and lifeless the moment he released it.

A broken soul cannot stay in this world, Chattair said. She knew the rules. You all do.

Fuck you and your rules! Ragan cried out. You killed him! You– you! You cut off his head!

Ragan, stop! Tanidala said. It’s my fault! I couldn’t…

No, no, no! It’s enough! Enough of your tyranny, enough of the fear and terror! Ragan pointed towards the Sinhail. Enough of my wife fearing the mere jingle of metal because of you!

The Sinhail brushed the corner of His lips in slight amusement, otherwise unfazed by Ragan’s outburst. This man looked no more than thirty. The moment Ragan realized it, he felt a surge of power inside – he had brought his eyes up. He was facing the Sinhail.

Go, the man said. I have things to take care of.

Don’t belittle me, you evil bastard, don’t ignore me, Ragan said. You think you’re so high and mighty? You think you can rule us all forever? Have us obey your every bidding? he ended with a yell.

The Sinhail shrugged as if the question of people’s obedience didn’t concern him at all. Anything else? Or will you step aside now?

Ragan, stop this! This time it was Havi, who ran up to him and dragged him outside. Forgive him, my lord, please I beg of you, he has a fever! He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he never saw blood in his life, it’s gone to his head! Please, forgive him and forgive us for letting him bother you! Please, my lord…

I’ll go fire up my amec. Chattair pushed through the commotion.

The Sinhail stepped outside, following his servant.

But Ragan wasn’t done. He would not be ignored and treated like a fussing child. Maybe nobody had had the courage to stand up to this monster before, but someone had to now. For Willay and her sister, for… for Leveru. Ragan squeezed his eyes shut and held back an urge to vomit as the sight of beheading assaulted his mind again.

The Sinhail could’ve shot Leveru, but He chose to decapitate him. He chose to. Why?

He. Was. My. Friend! He was a human being! And you slaughtered him like a pig! Ragan yelled. "How dare you come to my home and play god! He freed his arms from Havi’s grasp, then turned and ripped the gun out of Tanidala’s hands. The Sinhail was stupid after all. Stay still!"

The man turned around slowly, still amused. He was at gunpoint and he was smiling. He was fucking insane.

Ragan didn’t wait; he aimed, pressed the trigger, and prayed to gods he wouldn’t miss. He had one chance. One.

Clink, sizzle.

The bullet fell to the ground. What? Ragan squeezed his eyes shut and shot again. And again. This couldn’t be happening.

Clink, sizzle, clink.

Why isn’t it working? What are you!

Human, only smart, came a simple answer from right before him.

Ragan opened his eyes and saw the Sinhail standing right in front of him. He took a step back and bumped into the doorframe.

Next second he found himself paralyzed, but not from fear or panic. He really couldn’t move. He willed himself to, but he just couldn’t. His legs shook under him. The useless gun fell out of his numb fingers, and landed in the wet snow. The Phantom was barely touching the skin on Ragan’s neck, but he felt the energy spread inside him, frying his nerves, devouring his body.

Silence. All that surrounded the two of them was this terrible, dragging silence.

Until He spoke, voice like ice: Twenty-three hours. Use them to say your goodbyes, for the only healer able to heal this curse is… how did dear Asantra put it? He looked up as if trying to remember something, but a corner of his lips rose up playfully. "Oh yes, dead." He laughed, and it was a bitter laugh.

The moment the warlock’s hand left Ragan’s skin, his body collapsed to the ground. He gasped for the air he’d been denied.

Farewell, people of Ifhedde, the Sinhail said.

Curse..? Ragan asked. You couldn’t have cursed me by a mere touch. It’s physically impossible!

The nightmare in white did not reply. Instead he turned towards his amecycle, followed by the frightened gazes of people peeking from behind the window blinds.

Soon, the whirring of the vehicles died in the distance.

They were gone, as quickly as they’d come.

Thank gods. Ragan heard a quiet, wistful whisper from one of the elder villagers. He wasn’t even sure whose voice it was. All sounds seemed muffled and distant. Thank gods, he chose to be merciful. Thank gods he chose to just kill you.

And white, white was the color of purity and prevailing hope.

That is, until He’d come.

In the world post Madram Quor Efiere, redefined by the Sinhail, where a man’s soul – once eternal – could be broken to bits, white had changed its meaning like no other color could.

In this age, so perversely named the New Amazing Nightmare, white had become the color of Fear.

2. BATHED IN LIGHT

…can’t. resist. the shiny…

"Do you still remember this moment? Asantra asked. The sun that morn, so bright."

"I cannot see Today in a day gone by. I would not know," he replied then.

She leaned down and brushed the sparkling morning glory drops off the grass. Gently, she raised her hand to Amondire’s face. Fingers, wet a little, left a shining smudge on his cheek.

"I remember, she whispered. This light in your eyes, sometimes I miss it so…"

He tilted his head. What had befallen you, I cannot imagine.

A faint smile appeared on her lips. You wouldn’t understand… yet. You wouldn’t believe.

"Had you seen it?"

Unsure, she didn’t answer.

"In this past Today. Had you seen it then?"

She shook her head no. I had never looked far enough, where I should not look at all. Yet today…

A pause.

"Yet today?"

"I cry because of that. For if I had, we could still… be."

"Are we not?" Amondire asked.

"Are we?"

"I would not know. After all, I am not even here."

:o:O:o:

Asantra woke up with face wet from tears. She could almost feel that morning breeze brush over her skin, fresh grass touching her fingers. There were smells too, so different from the stench of this dead underground city. She palmed her eyes to bring back the darkness, desperately trying to cling to the dream, to keep the images from fading.

Hile would call this masochistic, and in a way, she was right. No dream, no vision, and no memory hurt Asantra as much as this one. An imaginary scene, based on something that maybe happened a long time ago. This, this was hers. This was not a gift, not a vision, not a punishment. It had nothing to do with being a prophet, nothing to do with Madram. It was a simple dream. The last one that still came to her, when all others were dead.

Alas, the law of dreams was that they were fleeting, delicate like snow under the summer’s sun.

First went the image of his face, so quickly she wasn’t sure she had seen it at all.

Then followed the light of day, the green of the trees, the azure of the sky.

Don’t leave! she cried out in anger, but neither her dream companion nor the beautiful trees cared to obey her command.

It’d been two years since Amondire had destroyed half of her soul.

Asantra was awake. She opened her eyes to face the Crown. Looking at the place now, it was difficult to believe that a few decades ago it had been a thriving city of locari. Through the open gate of the church she lived in, Asantra could see the town spreading underneath. Outside, the lamplight was not needed – everything was bathed in a delicate light from colorful rocks embedded in the stone walls around. A passerby would have been halted by their astonishing beauty, but to Asantra they became a mockery – pulsating with light, as if promising her more, but never delivering. Like an eternal dawn, that kept the sun trapped just below the horizon.

When Amondire dumped her here, he threw out the last few people still living in the Crown. Some of them came back soon after, though he warned them not to. That time, it was not a threat, it was but a fair advice, and it was through the people’s folly and stubbornness that they would not listen. At first, Asantra worried what would happen to them. She could sometimes hear a voice echoing in the cave, signaling that someone was still alive and around. Now, she didn’t think much about it anymore, and she had ceased asking Hile about it too. Maybe everyone was dead, maybe they had moved out. Asantra didn’t want to know.

Waking up after long periods of the Dream wasn’t pleasant. Asantra’s numb body hurt, but at the same time demanded movement. She kicked off the covers and scrambled out of the bedding set on the floor. Quiet whispering coming from the corner, and the barely audible buzz of the colorful rocks outside were the only sounds around. Asantra crawled towards the balcony on all fours, afraid of falling; she couldn’t trust her muscles anymore.

The thump of her hand hitting the wooden floor of the terrace echoed in her mind with the memory of the last words Amondire had ever said to her: ‘I did’.

Always, always they rang through her mind whenever she woke up; the persistence of the memory, the clarity of it, they were maddening, so different from the dream she longed to keep. Shaking her head, she began to hum to herself in an attempt to muffle it all. She crawled a few more steps to the wall and groped for a loose brick. When she found it, she began trying to take it out. Hile kept Asantra’s nails short, which made it quite difficult, but eventually the wall yielded, and the brick came out. Asantra put her hand into the warm crevice, and took out the amulet nested inside. On a thin platinum chain hung a drop-shaped translucent red stone, enchanted to forever be warm. An artifact like that was worth a fortune, but to her, money had long since lost its worth.

This was a memento. Something priceless to the one she had taken it from. To give it back would mean the beginning of her redemption.

If only he would come.

Milady, please, not this again. Asantra suddenly heard Hile’s warm voice. Her maiden walked up the last few steps and came over to crouch by the wall. I swear on my parents’ graves that I will return it to him, Hile said. Don’t torment yourself with it, let me help you.

Asantra shook her head and put the necklace back behind the brick. "It’s my apology, Hile. But today that’s not what concerns me."

The maiden’s eyebrows rose in surprise. It isn’t?

After Asantra’s soul had been broken, her gift that once had allowed her to see the future began to trap her in the past. The Dream came in cycles, and each cycle led her through the past – her own, and the past of those whose fates were tied to her.

At least that was what Amondire had told her.

Once the cycle caught up to the present, she would wake up for several days or weeks, and then begin a new one. In the middle of the cycle, she would sometimes wake up for moments like this one. Clinging to reality, she would try to stay awake and wait by the amulet. It never worked. Once the Dream wanted to claim her again, her mind had to obey. Asantra hated it, while Hile couldn’t understand why going over to the better past could be worse than staying in this horrific reality; Hile said it was a merciful blessing, no less. But Hile had never felt the feelings that filled those visions. A man knowing he must jump to his death would have a hard time enjoying the view from the cliff.

There was a thought, however, an idea that just wouldn’t leave.

What if Amondire lied to me? Asantra looked at her friend. He said that I was revisiting the past, but the past is something that cannot be changed, isn’t it?

Yes, Hile said. "What do you mean the Sinhail lied, my lady?" She would always persistently stress the name.

What if this– Asantra waved her hand around –what if this isn’t the present at all? What if this is actually a vision of the future? What if each time I wake up, I am actually asleep?

I’m not sure I understand. Hile frowned and took Asantra’s hand to measure the temperature, then placed her own palm on Asantra’s forehead. When the Dream was getting closer her fever would rise, but Asantra felt fine. Lucid, for a moment longer.

The cycles, Hile, they change. They are different, just by a little detail, but things change, I’m sure, I felt it. That means that they cannot be the past, right? Because the past cannot change.

My lady, I’m sorry, but this is not a dream, this is reality. This is the present, Hile said quietly. You can’t remember everything perfectly. Please, don’t start to torment yourself with another delusion.

Of course you’d say that! And of course he would too. I mean, if this is just a vision, a dream, a nightmare? Neither of you exists, not the way I saw you, not the way I see you. Suddenly Asantra felt invigorated. This, this was what she felt, this was what made her so calm this time when she woke up. In the cycle, she felt like something was different, and when she awoke there wasn’t that misery filling her. This could all be just a nightmare, she had a reason to believe it now.

The cycle is changing, Hile. This isn’t the present. This is just another vision, so different, so long, and contrived, that I got tangled in it. Got cheated, tricked to believe that it was a reality. Can you see it? Asantra asked, then waved her hand. Of course not, you’re just a–possibility. I, me, here, the Half-gone, I am just a possibility too. Ugh… A sharp pain exploded in Asantra’s mind, a migraine. Just one of the many pains a broken soul brought upon the body. "If this is a dream, then I will have a memory of this. And if this is the moment I free myself of this awful premonition, then the cycle I’m in the middle of now is the present. I will have dreamed of this moment, Hile, when I awake in the morning. And I have seen what follows, there’s…"

The thoughts were beginning to scramble, Asantra’s mind was starting to give into the Dream – or the wake up – and she had to acknowledge that this wasn’t true. She had to help herself see through the visions within visions.

My lady…

No! Shut up. Not much has to change to prevent all of this. If just one of us had understood, if one of us had just done what they wanted to do, ignored the rules, just done it… If just one of us would stay… there would be no Sinhail. Stay! Asantra shouted with all she had. Stay! Stay.

She was forbidden to look into the future. She will have blocked these dreams in the morning, will have tried to forget them the moment she woke up, just as she had been taught. But if she could remember just some bit, if she could listen and change this little thing before it was too late, then the real present and the real future wouldn’t follow the visions from the cycles of the Dream.

Stay. Stay. Stay, Asantra kept repeating, in hopes that the word would break through the walls she built against the visions. Relentless and loud, some things were impossible to block out.

One of them had to stay. She could stay. If she wouldn’t stay, another must.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

My lady, please, you’re getting feverish, come, let’s get you to bed.

Someone has to stay.

I’ll stay with you, Asantra, I promise. I won’t go anywhere.

Not you, Hile. Me. Or… others… One. Just one. Stay.

Where are you in the cycle, my lady?

Asantra realized she had been somehow moved to her bedding, the soft fur felt so good on her parched skin. Hile began to rub a flowery ointment over her body. It brought relief.

Where I… Asantra tried to reply. She repeated Hile’s question in her mind to make sense of it. Ah. The beginning of it all. The murder.

-99. MID OF A DAY

…meh…

~ Age of Ashes, year 298 ~

~ Caratana, Arm of Katharyaga ~

Izzalea didn’t want to die. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t really afford to die right now. This was just seriously bad timing.

You know, said the man standing before her. You truly are a sick, sick person.

Wasn’t that lovely, coming from a psycho?

Izza had stopped to struggle against her bonds when the ropes began to burn her skin. With her hands tied behind her back, her torso fastened to the chair rest, and her legs bound together, she found it quite impossible to do anything. Of course, at first her instincts had her fight it, but then logic took the reins: she was in a true damsel in distress kind of pickle, and if nobody came to save her, that would be it. Unless her captor wimped out before the last blow. Fat chance, though; he hadn’t thought twice about cutting her finger off.

It was quite disappointing how she didn’t really feel furious about any of it. She had always viewed herself as that fiery, unstoppable force to be reckoned with, and yet, in the time when her spirit should truly shine, she turned into a sad pile of defeat.

What is it that fascinates a woman in a sadistic killer, hm? Tell me, Izzy. Her tormentor strolled around her like a pathetic rat that suddenly found itself in power. He must’ve felt so strong, so in control, unmovable, untouchable. Were she free and able to fight back, he would reverse to his quivering ways, afraid to squeak louder lest someone might notice him and take offense. Izzalea? I asked you a question, he said.

Gods, there was less than a month left before the Glass Senight, and next one would come in five years. Or a damned decade, if energies chose to get fickle. They had worked on the Unliving for so long, and now all of it could be ruined because of this cretin. To dream of seeing your work actually change the lives of people, and then die right before it was finished, was beyond frustrating.

And then this babbling of his: Is it the mystery of the Magai Killer that you crave so? Or the fact that he slaughtered a powerful family, disappeared, proved that he stood above the power and the law? What is it, Izzalea? What did you have him whisper to your ear, he asked, leaning in, burying his nose in her hair, when you fucked him in your fantasies?

But maybe the rest of their group would find a way to make the Unliving happen anyway. Izzalea was important, but now that most of the research had been done, she wasn’t irreplaceable. And since Khel was incapable of dropping anything midway, it wasn’t all doomed yet. Puny little death of one friend would not stop that man, please.

Izzalea smiled to herself. It still amused her how resistant Khel had been to the idea of the Unliving at first. So busy, so disinterested, so immersed in another field. Not to mention him having to work with other people? Outrageous. It had taken the knowledge of just one secret to have him hopping right onboard. Of course, it wouldn’t even cross the mind of the great Mr. Lorne that he had been manipulated, but that’s how men were. Easy. Just one of the reasons Izza loved them so.

Poor bastard though. As far as she knew, only two people had ever known about Khel’s shit, and one of them was about to bite the dirt. The other, well, was probably long after the chomp. So now Khel would be left alone with his dilemmas with no one to talk to at all. Maybe he’d finally slip, and all hell would break loose? But what good would the wonderful drama do if Izza wouldn’t be here to see it?

Fuck this, she wasn’t ready to die.

Even now? The soon-to-be-killer aimed a strong slap at her cheek. Even now you won’t pay me attention? Even now you have to be such a self-absorbed bitch?

On the opposite wall hung three gray photos of her son. She focused her attention on the young man’s eyes. She had parted with Lichem in anger, he couldn’t understand what she was doing to Teli, why she had no choice.

Teli.

Gods. Izzalea’s heart skipped a bit. Blood loss and shock made her mind wander over various things, but suddenly she was right back to her wits. Teli. They were supposed to meet tomorrow morning. What would Teli do now? The whole sacrifice could be for naught. No, that could not happen. Fuck Unliving, fuck Khel, they would be fine, but Teli wouldn’t, and without her help, neither would the freed rebels. With nowhere to hide, they’d get hunted and slaughtered like hogs. If Izza died now… That was it. The shelter would not be created. Against all reason she began to struggle again.

Help! she cried out.

Oh, now you start to care.

Fuck you! Help me! Someone! Anyone!

Nobody could hear her from here. The man laughed and reached for the bloodied knife. Now, I’m sure you’re familiar with the modus operandi of your dearest. The other finger has to go as well.

Izza’s eyes widened, and despite wishing to remain strong, she looked at the man in terror. Not again, she couldn’t go through that excruciating pain again. When he had threatened her at first, she had thought he was joking. Now she knew he wasn’t.

The man walked around her and she felt the chill of the blade touch her middle finger. Holding in a whimper, she closed her eyes. There was this technique Amon taught her once when she refused to take pain numbing meds – it allowed her to pull her focus away from the part of the body experiencing pain. Izzalea roused some of her energy and began to channel the flow into her neck, then nose, ears, eyes, anything on the head. It was a strange sensation, both cold and hot at the same time, unpleasant, but not painful. Her face seemed to pulsate, and it was hard to concentrate on anything else. Aware of what was happening outside of her trance, she focused on summoning more and more energy, until the rest of her body started to seem less relevant, distant, and the pain shooting through her hand was dimmed by the other sensations closer to her brain. It became bearable.

Everything stopped when she felt the blade move to her neck.

Of course she knew the Magai Killer’s M.O. She was obsessed with him, after all.

Three cuts left.

You had this coming, you conceited whore. I’d tell you to learn some respect, but hey, guess what? Too late.

And everything went black.

:o:O:o:

Bang, bang, bang.

Someone was going to die.

I groaned, turned around in bed and knocked the lampshade off to light the room. When I opened my eyes, the world was black and tingly. The pillow was at it again, getting my hair all staticky and sticking over my face. The covers hadn’t even gotten warm yet, but I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that they would get the chance. Whoever came to my door in the middle of the night wouldn’t just turn around and go away. Right? Or maybe…

Amondire? Come on, man! It’s one of the Deadly Six, have mercy! Wrong. The visitor shouted and kept knocking desperately. My mom said you could help me. Pause. And you owe her one, so come on!

The sweet, if evil, pillow tried to hold me back with the help of blankets, but with all of my willpower I dragged myself out of bed. Deadly Six, huh?

Don’t you wanna know which one it is?

I snorted at the visitor’s efforts to tempt me. Not bad, really. Got me a little bit curious. This didn’t sound like either the Song of Depths or Sneeze & Sleaze. The victim could shout entire sentences just fine.

Squinting at the light of the topaz lamps I uncovered in the living room, I walked over to the front door. Didn’t bother to change out of my pajama pants – this was not the hour for etiquette – but having tripped over a t-shirt, I took it as a sign, and put it on. Fine, a little decency I could do.

Are you seriously that evil? the guest continued.

The Deadly Six curses didn’t get their name for killing people.

They got it for making people want to kill themselves.

"Why did you come here of all places? I unlocked the door to let the poor guy in. Unless he got the AR. Then no way in hell – he was staying out. There are dozens of decursers in the city, and I bet not all of them are asleep. I was." A fact that should not go unnoticed.

The young man on the other side was Joame, a son of my old academy classmate. You and mom go way back, no? he said. I didn’t really want to go and bother some stranger, you know! That’d be rude. He yawned.

I yawned back at him. You think?

This was really a text-book example of how the academy friendships worked. You met a ton of people, you graduated, you never spoke to them again. But they knew where you lived, and they could send their kids with itchy butts to you for help in the middle of the night.

Then again, the curse didn’t seem to be the Persistitch either. The PI was without doubt one of the worst of the Deadly Six. If you ever thought a mosquito bite could be frustrating, imagine being one. That was the closest analogy I could think of, and having fallen victim to a Persistitch prank in the academy once, I could say that being skinned alive seemed like a lovely alternative. Even though its name came from ‘persistent’ and ‘itch’, the sneaky presence of ‘stitch’ in it was very much on-point. A point well-proven by my attempt to scratch myself with a steak knife.

Joame gave me a pitiful look. I’m getting dizzy. Yawn. And my jaw is going to fall off. Yawn.

Ah, the Face Ripper it was.

Cursing people was outlawed in every civilized country, and punished with anything from a fine, through incarceration, to death – like any other crime. The Deadly Six were the exception to the rule though, because they somehow managed to become a part of our culture instead. In their defense, they caused no permanent harm to the victim.

Unless the victim killed themselves, that is.

In all honesty though, it was difficult to take these curses seriously. Whoever found a way to make them so easy to learn and cast was, in my book, the true genius of evil. Sure you could kill a guy or ten with your evil scheme… or, you could make thousands suffer while their own loved ones laughed at their misery.

Come in. I ushered Joame into my living room and reciprocated another yawn. Anyone saying that there had yet to be born a warlock capable of creating a contagious curse had apparently never met anyone afflicted with the Face Ripper.

So I uh. Yawn. Heard that the Unliving is almost done, yeah?

I am not engaging in small talk right now. Sit down, let me lift it, and get out, I said.

So grumpy! Come on. Yawn. I’m bored.

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and so, like his mother, Joame couldn’t bear to sit a few moments in silence with only his mind to entertain him. Tough luck. I gestured at the boy to get down on the couch and then sat opposite him on the glass coffee table. A cup rolled off and fell face-down on the carpet. Here’s to hoping it was empty. I observed it for a moment, but when no wet circle appeared around the edges, I nodded in gratitude and looked back, with a yawn, at my yawning patient. I put my fingers to Joame’s neck, felt for his tonsils, and pushed a little bit of energy in to get to know his channels.

FR isn’t so bad, he said. "Cheer up! I could’ve come here with the AR, you know?"

You would not be sitting on my couch with the AR.

Yes I would. I have the best puppy eyes ever seen. You wouldn’t refuse a sad puppy, stinky or not, would you? Only someone without a soul could do that. Joame laughed in between yawns.

AR officially stood for the Avid Reek, but everyone knew where the letters truly came from.

I’m really curious about the Unliving, you know. Joame was relentless in his chatter attempts. What if the thing comes alive and attacks everyone, huh? How will you stop a monster without a soul? He grinned broadly and tried to yawn again, but my energies were already working around the necessary muscles, and it came out as an awkward choke instead.

Ah, yes, how would we ever handle the wimpy, unarmed body of a malnourished farmer? I stood up and walked around the couch. I pushed Joame’s head down and pressed my thumb to the base of his neck.

That hurts!

I ignored him and kept on channeling the energy. Mind requires soul to produce a thought or a feeling. A soulless body might only act on the most basic instincts. Like an insect, I said. You may sleep in peace, there will not be a rabid bloodthirsty abomination unleashed into the world.

No chance at all?

Nope.

Life just can’t ever get awesome, can it? No zombies, no monsters, no nothing. Just the boring. Joame pouted. I think I will take the bio course after I’m done with the basics.

To create a monster?

Obviously, duh. Someone has to. Hey, I don’t feel like yawning anymore.

Aha. I let go of his neck, and walked over to the counter to pour myself some goodnight wine. I had to go over to Khel’s in the morning, and if I wasted any more time being awake, tomorrow was going to be hell.

Thanks a ton. Gods, what a relief! Joame laughed and rubbed his jaw. How much do I owe you?

Sixty two. I pointed to the table.

Joame rummaged for his wallet and dropped the payment into