Dawn: The Scarlet Huntress, #1

By Clair Gardenwell

She'll be a flash of red in a world of grey 

 

Kyri Dekote is just your average commoner class sixteen year old girl, except for one thing. She was born with magic, an outlawed substance punishable by death in her home kingdom of Althea. One night she sneaks out of her kingdom in search of a magical substance that might very well save her family's business only to nearly becoming prey of the vicious magical beasts of the forest herself if it hadn't been for the timely intervention of a handsome stranger. Her life spirals further into a world of glitter and secrets as her home goes up in flames and everything she thought she knew about her family turns on its head. She soon finds out that evil is not confined to the beasts that wander the forest, it's at the heart of the very kingdom itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clair Gardenwell
• Release date: Apr 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393641858

Clair Gardenwell

Hi! I'm Clair and thanks for reading my work! I'm a total book nerd and awkward introvert. My favorite things are fairy tales, suspenseful fantasy, steamy slow burn romances, and fluffy dogs and cats. If you would like to keep up to date on all my newest works, please don't hesitate to sign up for the email newsletter. I hope to see you again soon! 

Book preview

My name is Kyri Dekote. Only child and daughter of the fallen Lead Huntsman Mikoff Dekote and Master Seamstress Leona Dekote. I just turned sixteen three weeks ago and after graduation from what passes as school, I was apprenticed fully at the ladies dress shop that my mother owns, The Femme Mystique, but I’m not very good at it. In truth, I hate it. I hate the musty, eye burning smell of the fabrics, the ache in my back from hunching over to embroider a tiny decal on the train of a dress, and I absolutely loath the prick of the needle when I stab my finger trying to sew a seam. It could be worse, I guess.

I could be dead.

That alternative doesn’t sound the most inspiring, so I make it work with what I have. Of course there are always other options that I could have been apprenticed at, like the butcher or the undertaker. But I spend day after day in a dull life, sitting in a corner and embroidering tiny flowers and sparkles on a scrap of cloth or leaping to the command of some old rich bitch to modify her dress so that it looks like she still has a waist after binging on sweets for the last six months. It’s a life, one that allows me to venture anywhere I want in my dreams. One dream does stand out in particular, I want to be the captain of the King’s prized huntsmen like my father. A title that holds great respect as it is the pinnacle of achievement that a commoner like me could achieve. That is, if I wasn’t a girl.

By order of the king himself, no females are allowed to join in the ranks of the army, and as such are the Huntsmen that are his loyal protective guard. That hasn’t stopped me from trying, I practiced every night with my father’s sword till I could slice a potato into quarters while it’s still in the air and I can shoot a bow and arrow and strike the bullseyes every time. I will admit that I am not as strong as I would like to be in a close combat skills, but I can safely admit to being able to defend myself if the need should arise. Unfortunately, it frequently does.

Do you think if we wish hard enough, they’ll disappear?

With our heads lowered in an expression of humility, hands tightly clasped together, and our backs pressed against the wall, Mama’s lips twitch slightly in humor as we quietly awaited the command for our attention to be resumed. I’m afraid that only happens in fairy tales, darling, she whispered, and I sighed, turning my attention back to the two she-bitches currently occupying the majority of the room with their supposed activity of trying on our stock of dresses.

Ooo, Sharon! Look at this one! The gravelly voice of Milasy screeched out as she eagerly snatched a mint green silk dress with a full layered skirt off the hanger and held it up to her noodle-like body, modeling it for the view of her shorter, stouter companion. It’s just perfect for the party!

The red headed female named Sharon nodded vehemently in approval, her springy orange curls twisting and bobbing through the air like thrashing coiled serpents in smoldering ash.

Today was, unfortunately for us, the day that Milasy and Sharon Ghro – the dreary daughters of magistrate Ghro—had chosen to descend upon our shop in search of a gown for the Summer Solstice Gala. Also, as we are the only full service ladies dress shop in the Lentiqua marketplace, we were the only ones who could perfectly tailor a gown to their... well, ‘unique’ measurements.

Of the duo, Milasy was the slightly easier to fit. With her milky pale complexion, skinny bird-like frame, and pale blonde hair that reached straight down to her bony shoulders, she would look much better in a dress with a hidden belted waist – providing her with more of an hourglass figure – versus the full overarching skirt that she currently held. The fluffy layered skirt and high bodice of the mint green gown caused her to appear like a fat cupcake iced tall with frosting.

Sharon was far more troublesome to dress. With her curly carrot colored hair, masses of tanned freckles across the same pale skin, and hefty pear shaped figure, she was a complete opposite from her older sister in every shape and fashion. The black velvet mermaid style gown she had chosen only heavily accented her squat figure, making her resemble one of those popular gnome figurine that so many of the older ladies liked to place on the doorstep outside of their houses

. Heaps of discarded gowns – the unlucky victims of their swift disapproval – were scattered around the room, crumpled like discarded dreams that were no longer valued for their original purpose atop the scarred wooden floor. Racks and racks of empty displays stood around like lifeless skeletons, their polished wooden bones gleaming in the dull light emitted by the gas lanterns on the walls. This was one of the parts that infuriated me so, the way the richer citizens of would come in the shop and treat the gowns that we worked so hard on like they were nothing, disposable trash to be worn and discarded on a moments whim. A groan was just barely suppressed in my throat when Sharon’s doughy hand plucked a floor length, empire waisted, strapless gown in a soothing shade of creamy butter yellow and embroidered with tiny baby pink and periwinkle flowers from its hanger. That dress was the first one that I completed all on my own and was actually sound enough to sell, but Sharon’s squinty eyed gaze quickly scanned over the dress before snorting loudly and flinging it over her shoulder. Apparently it didn’t meet her high standards as those piggy eyes bounced around the room in search of another target while Milasy looked on in devilish approval. It’s like these two were just begging to be punched with all their sly little remarks and obnoxious actions prickling my skin like the needles that I so hate. Who would blame me if I just gave a little tap to their chins with my fist while assisting them with a dress? Accidents happen all the time, right?

A subtle burning began to make itself known on the edges of my fingertips, and I clenched my digits tighter into my palms, my fingernails pressing painfully into the meaty skin just on the verge of painfully drawing blood. I couldn’t lose control. Not here. Not in front of them.

My sigh comes out in a harsh huff as I see Milasy beckon me forward with one curled finger as she flings another gown to the floor. Too bad I’m not the courageous sort, or I could stop her behavior right there. Mama said that I was born quiet, that even as a baby I didn’t cry, instead making soft whimpering sounds more like a puppy would. I like being quiet, you learn more by listening to what is being said rather than talking. I guess that’s why I graduated at the top of my class in school. I listened to the teacher and the lessons he taught instead of running amok through the halls like my classmates did. I was in fifth grade when Thomas Martin, the butcher’s son, decided to christen me as the Mouse because I was always reading and studying – and maybe for my slight habit of hording items that I found interesting. Considering that the others called him Hamhock, I wasn’t entirely offended by the name. I mean, mice are cute and fuzzy, right? So, it could be worse. Most people have forgotten it by now, opting to call me by my given name of Kyri. Unfortunately for me, not everyone had forgotten and some seemed to take suspicious amounts of pleasure in tormenting their lesser peers.

Hey, Mouse! Don’t you have anything that’s actually appropriate for someone of our standing at the Summer Solstice Gala? It is the biggest social event of the season you know? Milasy twirled a blonde tress around one putrid green painted fingernail.

You’ve browsed through almost everything we have in stock currently, I said, spreading my hands wide to indicate the wide variety of gowns already laying on the floor before launching into the promotional speech that I had memorized by now. But if there is something special that you have in mind, we can craft it for you.

I assume your paltry skills would have it would be ready in time for the Gala? She said, casually picking at her fingers till a small scratch of blood appeared before wiping them off on a lacey pink gown, leaving a trail of red on the fragile fabric that would be nearly impossible to remove.

Correction, Milasy was not just a she-bitch, she is an evil noodle-shaped troll. I forced some kind of expression on my face, I think it was a smile or maybe it was a grimace, I’m not exactly sure at the moment. Of course. As one of our most valued customers, we would certainly make sure that your order is ready on time.

"Hmph, you better or Daddy will make sure this dinky little shop has sewed its last stich." The smile she gave held no warmth, bearing more resemblance to the gaping grin of the stuffed shark that used to hang in the butcher’s shop, the grin of a top predator in its element.

Of course we would, even if we had to work night and day and nearly kill ourselves in the process, the Femme Mystique always delivered the perfect dress to our clients. No ifs, ands, or buts. That’s what our reputation was built on ever since our doors opened twelve years ago. I don’t see how my mother raised me and ran the shop by herself till I had grown enough to help her with some of the minor shop duties, but she did. A grieving widow must do what she has to when her husband dies and leaves her with a daughter to raise as his pension from the army was miniscule at best. Especially when her daughter is a freak of nature.

I watched Milasy and Sharon began filling out the order forms for their special gowns. The sisters were jostling each other something fierce – causing their words to scrawl across the pages in unintelligible ribbons of black ink that looked like a worm had squiggled its way across the crinkled paper pages – spewing venomous curses all the while. For a moment I actually considered if Sharon had the intelligence to carry through with her threat of slowly dismembering Milasy by every one of her joints. Every rumor that I had always heard was that the elder Ghro daughter had been severely lacking in the academic department to the point that the magistrate himself had to provide her instructors with generous ‘retirement plans’ just in order for the girl to graduate.

When the verbal feud erupted into a full-fledged hair-pulling fight over the fact that both of them wanted to wear a blue gown to the Gala, Mama stepped in and pushed the girls apart. She’s not very intimating at just barely over five feet tall in her leather boots, hands gnarled and misshapen into living claws from arthritis formed from tightly grasping sewing needles for over thirty years, but her most striking feature is still her beauty. Lustrous ebony hair so dark it would make a raven jealous hangs down to her waist and shot through with streaks of silvery grey, almost looking like someone painted the veins of silver with a paintbrush stroking through her hair rather than forming with age. Underneath those impressive tresses is a complexion similar to Milasy’s, milk pale but Mama’s face is crinkled with age lines around her deep indigo eyes and lips from years of smiling despite the circumstances. She could pass for a slightly aged version of a fairy tale princess rather than one of the many commoners that lives in our kingdom. I’m not nearly as beautiful as she is, I’m taller but also ganglier, like my limbs are out of proportion with my body. I inherited her glossy tresses, but where hers’ gleams like satin in the sun, mine is dull and flat like used coal. My skin is pale like hers, but I look like a phantom no matter how much sun I take in and my eyes are the color of iron, the steely color inherited from my father rather than her indigo.

Girls, if you would be so kind as to hand Kyri those applications and follow me, we’ll get started on your dresses? Mama’s tone is gentle and she phrases the command as a question, a technique learned from experience at the shop and it usually soothes even the crankiest of customers. Both girls thrust the papers in my direction before clomping towards the private back room where Mama takes the ladies’ measurements and allows them to view our bolts of materials for their gown of choice. For the first time since flipping the small open sign on the door, I was left alone with a roomful of destruction.

My sigh of relief at their departure quickly turns into a moan of despair as I survey the trail of ruins the sisterly duo has left. Dainty hand embroidered designs of flowers and stars were severed from the delicate materials of silk and satin by talon tipped hands. Those two had left a trail of destruction since they both stepped a horse sized foot in the shop. Starting off with a slam of the door so strong that it rattled the windows nearly out of their frames, the wretched duo steadily clawed their way through the beautiful dresses and gowns that took so much time and care to make. Mound upon mound of the shimmering fabrics littered the scarred wooden floor like discarded dreams, never to see the day that they would be used for their full purpose. As I scurried about straightening and rehanging the survivors, I noticed the elaborately embroidered edge of my favorite gown tentatively peeking out from the bottom of one of the heaps.

With one well-placed swift tug, the heaping pile tumbled apart, revealing the scarlet red gown that I loved so dearly crumpled on the floor. I lifted it against my body and sighed loudly, relieved that it had not suffered the same lethal treatment as the others. A beautiful floor length gown of deep crimson, with a halter neck that framed a full bodice that turned sleeveless at the shoulders. The fabric shimmered in the light like a river of pure red, flowing from my waist and out the full skirt to puddle slightly at my feet. Tiny glittering clear crystals – no bigger than a pin head – were painstakingly hand sewn in the delicate fabric to produce a beautiful curling ivy design that curled around the entire bodice and traveled down the skirt in an arching spray of silver vines. The gown is absolutely stunning when displayed on a hanger or stuffed model but when it was held against my own body, the exquisite red fabric appeared even more rapturous against the faded grey of my old heavily patched cotton dress. A vigorous urge to try on the dress burned through my veins like open flames once again, but I’ve never been brave enough to try it on. In order to remind us of our lowly station, commoners are only allowed to wear the monotone color grey for as long as we lived under this kingdom’s rule.

By order of his Royal Highness of Althea, King Nikos Misoe, all members of society, aside from the ruling class of the royal family and the under ruling families of the magistrates, are forbidden to wear any color besides a gloomy grey the color of a lifeless stone. If a commoner – the official name for any merchant, servant, farmer, fisherman, etc. as enforce by law – is found wearing a restricted color, it is a crime punishable by a 12 year imprisonment in the Dungeon of Althea Kingdom.

No matter how beautiful it is and how much I loved the color red, it’s not worth paying the price with my life. Ever so carefully, the dress is rehung on its hanger and placed behind several other gowns of a slightly larger size and much darker fabric. This act is my own little silent rebellion. If I can’t have the dress that I love the most, then nobody else will either.

The color rule is only one of many oddities here that has astounded its subjects for many years. Althea is the only kingdom in the entire land of Murgasa that completely outlaws magic within its borders. In addition to that, A giant stone wall extends up into the air 20 feet high and encircles the entire kingdom like a massive cattle pen, protecting the honorable citizens of Althea from the dangerously corruptive magic – or so the official declaration said. Any outside travelers from neighboring kingdoms are turned away by specially selected members of the royal army stationed on top of the wall as fearsome sentries and guards. These so-called protectors are also the ones that prevent the citizens of Althea from venturing out into the forest. Only members of the King’s royal parties and the huntsmen are occasionally allowed beyond the walls in specially selected events like hunting parties.

It hasn’t always been like this, or so I’ve been told. Once upon a time, Althea was just like any other kingdom. The land was unrestricted. The air was clean. The people were happy and preforming their chosen profession of work as a farmer, a traveling carpenter, a servant to the royal family, or whatever they wanted to do. Althea was ruled only by one king and queen then, no underserving magistrates were dividing the kingdom up into tiny sectors to lord their influence over. The kingdom was fairly peaceful. Then, about 20 years ago, a tragic event occurred. Nikos Mistronavich – the frisky second son of the deceased King Thomas and Queen Revee—had just been crowned king at 18 years old upon the death of his elder brother by illness, leaving behind his young wife Maribelle and infant son Travain. Shortly after his ascension, Nikos married the royal widow and adopted his nephew as his own. The reign of piece continued for another five years before the changes mysteriously started taking place. Enchanted creatures that had lived in secret for years in the forest started viciously attacking, many times without any warning at all. .

Giant bird-like creatures with beaks lined with razor-sharp teeth and two sets of wings called Ska flew through the sky, their fiery red feathers a living blaze as they swooped and destroyed homes and shelters with their teeth and talon-tipped feet. A breed of mysterious shapeless predators emerged from the darkest shadowy depths of the forest with a penchant for shiny objects were called Bloodwraths. A giant cotton-like heaving mass of edgeless black wields two thick vine like arms like whips against its victims, the red eyes burning with an endless hunger above a gaping maw of plum colored skin and lined with jagged white fangs, the destination of anyone who is unfortunate enough to be caught in the devilish monster’s grasp. Other assorted animals – some fearsome, some not so much – also appeared with alarming regularity, but none struck more fear than the owner of the eerie howls that drifted through the night for miles. Werewolves.

Yes, I said werewolves. A nightmarish sight of a six-foot tall humanoid wolf with razor sharp claws that tipped the edge of each melon sized hand, incredibly dense and waterproof fur that covered a heavily muscled frame more befit of a wrestler, and a dog-like muzzle that hid gleaming white fangs that can cleave through bone like butter. Not many adventurous souls have fought these fearsome creatures and lived to tell the tale.

In response to the barrage of attacks, King Nikos arranged for the wall to be built out of timber as a temporary defensive maneuver. The border of Althea used to extend far into the forest but in order to protect enough farmland to be sustainable and the capital city that hosted the palace, the kingdom’s land was dramatically trimmed to fit inside the borders. No one would have suspected that the temporary measure would turn permanent after the death of Queen Maribelle. One late summer’s eve, King Nikos and Queen Maribelle decided to go out on a sunset horseback ride for the anniversary. The attacks from magic blooded creatures had ceased for a few weeks into a time of relative peace, so much so that the King had ordered no guards to accompany them. Alas, that proved to be a fatal mistake as Nikos returned a short while later, slumped atop his dark stallion and completely soaked in scarlet blood from his head to his toes. Once the king was secure in the healers ward, a search was conduct for the Queen but no trace was found save for her white dress cleaved in two from slashed claw marks that resembled the brutal nails of a werewolf. Miraculously, he was unharmed save for a strange five fingered purplish bruise on his right arm. The King slumbered on for another day and a half before awaking, bellowing good-naturedly to the servants to bring him a pint of beer, his adopted baby son and his wife, not necessarily in that order he joked with a sparkling twinkle in his eye. The healers scrambled to obey his order for the drink, not having the heart to explain that his wife was no longer amongst the living. It was only when they were assured that Nikos was of sound mind did they tell him the true burden.

They were wrong. Some say that Nikos went mad with grief, others said that he was never sane after reawakening. Instead of a public funeral or memory service as was tradition for a royal family member, all evidence of her life was erased. Paintings of her were placed under lock and key in the royal treasury except for one that is rumored to hang in the royal castle along with the other members of the royal family that were now passed on . Her name was erased from all but the most important of records. Her personal possessions, clothes, and jewelry were all given away in the streets like a peddler’s wares. The only items of hers that he kept was his adopted son Travain and the garden of white roses that lay around the palace grounds. Once all traces of Maribelle’s existence had been eliminated from the castle, Nikos ordered the wall to be reinforced with stone. His claim was that the sturdy walls would protect Althea and prevent anymore meaningless slaughter at the hands of the enchanted beasts of the forest. Squads formed from prisoners and the lowest ranking members of society gathered under the supervision of the royal army and sent to work. Endlessly laying stones carved from the ground to form the 20 foot walls that took 5 long years of work to build. Once completed, Althea and its citizens lived in complete isolation from the outside world.

Time flies as I flutter around, depositing gowns here and there in their proper places, rearranging some to order, and choosing two to display on the stuffed mannequins in the glass window of the shop. To celebrate the arrival of spring, we had previously displayed an ankle length baby pink dress with a high neckline and a sapphire blue gown with matching elbow length gloves made of buttery soft velvet. Now that warmer days were ahead, most ladies would be looking for something a little lighter to wear, hence the influx of gauzy fabrics in our current stock of gowns – and the harsh summer sun quickly fades any dark colored dress. With an ankle length green silk gown the color of fresh emerged spring leaves, a scoop neckline, and sheer sleeves that extended to the elbows – the other was almost exactly the same except that it was a bright teal and instead of elbow length sleeves, it was sleeveless and a had a sheer cape of matching fabric. – Women would be lining up around the shop to add to their summer wardrobes. I slid the older dresses off the mannequins, folding them up for storage, and carefully slipped the new ones into place.

Aren’t you done yet? This place looks worse than my little brother’s room after he had the stomach plague!

Too bad it wasn’t you who had the stomach plague. With the out of season gowns tucked under my arm, I turned towards the snarky blonde troll and accepted the written list of measurements that she was waving around. It was almost a mindless action to retrieve the Ghro family file from our frequent customer drawer, pull the payment information, and write the receipt. Your dresses will be ready by the 15th I said with a smile, holding out the receipt that would be her unique ticket for pickup of the customized dress.

Milasy snatched the paper out of my fingers so fast it burned. They better be. Don’t think just because your dinky little shop is rumored to be the best that you’ll get a free pass. If I’m not satisfied, this shop is history. I’ll make sure of it! With one last toss of her long blonde hair, she called for her sister and exited the shop. The door slammed so hard in her wake that the glass window rattled. For a moment, the shop was entirely still, as if the very air was waiting to breathe in relief of finally being freed from its surprised torture. The tension began to dissipate like the morning mist, and with it the tension that had simmered along my skin and threatened to be loose at any moment.

Kyri, please flip the sign and lock the door, Mama said.

I glanced over at the palm-sized clock on the desk. It was only 4:30, still another two hours till our regular closing time. Are you sure?

Yes, please. Mama sank into one of two overstuffed plush chairs we had in the shop with a groan. Exhaustion weighing her thin frame down so heavily that she just simply collapsed into a boneless heap amidst the soft support.

I flipped the sign from open to closed and the lock clicked shut with an easy movement of the wrist. I walked back to the desk, mentality preparing myself for the answer to a question I didn’t want to hear. How bad is it?

Bad, She answers without even opening her eyes. Head lolled back limply against the edge of the chair back. I managed to persuade Milsasy into a puff-sleeved turquoise gown with hidden pleats at the waist, but she simply insists that it has to have embroidered silver filigree all over the dress. Sharon just wanted something that would make her pretty enough to catch the prince’s eye, so I suggested a gown in light amethyst with a slightly flared skirt and a scoop neckline decorated with small white organza flowers.

Well, the dress with the flowers doesn’t sound so bad but you are right, Milasy’s dress does sound like a pain in the ass with all that embroidery, I said.

Mama held up one misshaping finger, one blue eye peering at me in warning. "Hold on a minute, it gets better. You want to know what thread she picked out for the embroidery? The special silver thread, She sighed. It wouldn’t normally be a problem but I’m almost out right now and we don’t have the money to buy any more from the Raven’s guild."

This could really turn into a bad problem. The silver thread that Milasy had ordered to use in her dress wasn’t just your normal cotton or silk mixture. It was the threads of a glistening Vitare cocoon that had been completely unwound. These unusual threads were extremely valuable, much more so than just your average thread. An eight inch cocoon – a typically small sized cocoon – would bring triple the value of regular cotton thread and would certainly help us pay this month’s rent. The threads produced by these magical creature that looked like a unique cross between a butterfly and a dragonfly with large delicate wings of swirled sapphire blue and emerald green, bulging eyes the size of oranges and lined with a thick fringe of white eyelashes, and a lighting fast arrow shaped body were wonderfully soft, more lustrous than a pearl but yet more durable that any canvas material. Since the threads were produced by an enchanted beast from the forest, it meant sneaking out beyond the wall at night—an extremely dangerous occupation in itself – or risk using regular silver thread and hoping that no one would notice the difference. If they did, then The Femme Mystiques’ exceptional reputation would suffer a fatal blow as a shop who’s product did not meet the customer’s expectations. Even being such a small issue as a potentially different accent thread on a gown, we could lose the shop if the Ghro family was feeling vengeful enough – and they usually were.

It had been awhile since my last journey outside the walls, nearly three months ago when I returned with a pouch full of silky cocoons and a palm-sized patch of roasted skin on my right shoulder. Even now just the thought sent the now-healed burn throbbing dully. An enraged mother Vitare is nothing to joke about, wielding breath so scalding that it can boil rain falling through the air, these living jewels are quite dangerous in themselves. I have learned from my mistakes since then. This time I would make sure that the Vitare has left the nest before sticking my arm inside.

Kyri, what are you doing? I slip in behind the desk and reach into a hidden corner of the wall, wrap my hand around the tarnished brass knob hidden in the shadows and tug. The closet door swung open with a mouse-like squeak, revealing a tattered black wool coat that had faded to an ugly shade of charcoal and a full length, heavy khaki canvas cloak. A small navy patch emblazed with a golden Griffin reared up and killing a serpent lay on the right side of the chest portion, just over the heart. I remove the cape from its hanger and sling it around my shoulders, the comforting scent of pine wafts around me, one of the last remaining remnants of the previous owner.

Kyri, don’t ignore me! I asked you what are you doing? Mama jumped from her seat, the exhaustion not completely cleared from her face but she was ready for battle onceagain. Don’t you even think you’re going into the forest! You know what happened the last time.

Mama, I’ll be fine. I’m the Mouse, remember? Stealthy and silent as a shadow? I spun around on my heel, letting the ends of the cape flutter around like wings for dramatic effect. I tried not to let the sudden aura haloing my hand be too visible as I lay my hand on her shoulder for comfort, but it seemed to have the opposite effect I had intented. I’ll be back before the morning sun rises.

She flinches at my words, at the long buried memory that surfaces with them. Mama shrugged my hand off, turns away, and heads to the dark wooden stairway that leads to our shabby apartment over the shop. Your father said the same thing before he died. Was barely audible over the crackling wood, her grey leather boots disappearing from sight as she climbed.

Tugging the hood over my head, I head out into the night darkened city. The soft tinkle of the tiny bell above the shop door sounded particularly ominous tonight. Almost as ominous as the thick blanket of clouds shrouding the moon in darkness.

2

The difference between day and night in Lentiqua Marketplace is as stark as light and darkness. During the day, the market is bursting at the seams with life. The mouthwatering yeasty scent of fresh baked rolls and bread from the baker mixes with the sweetened aroma of fresh berries and fruits from the farmers. The bickering chatter of the two fishmonger brothers—each trying to outsell their brother’s stall – almost drowns out the yelling perfume merchant, attempting to beckon the lonely housewives and servants to his stall with promises of love and fortune in every one of his expertly crafted scents. Although the most overwhelming factor of Lentiqua is the sheer size of the customers, masses upon masses of people migrate through the marketplace like some massive plague of locusts, devouring everything in their path as they journey onward through the city and leaving behind nothing but empty stalls and highly satisfied merchants.

By night, Lentiqua is completely different. Anyone under 21 is forbidden to roam Lentiqua after nightfall, the punishment a week’s stay in the Dungeon – another weird rule of King Nikos that is supposed to prevent the corruption of the kingdom’s youth. Raucous drunken men wandered the filthy streets littered with trash from the day’s sales. Scantily clad women with black rimmed eyes and vividly painted lips congregate on street corners, alluringly calling out to the male passersby with hooting cheers of their seduction abilities. Stray cats – their bodies turned completely skeletal from the constant starvation – search empty tin cans for food left behind, the eerie clanking sounds and the mournful wails slice through the silence, mistaking more than once for a banshee or some other unholy specter. The stalls, now deserted and bare of wares, slouch crookedly like drunken old men. The shadows they cast loom long against the crushed ash and charcoal streets even in the darkness, providing excellent cover for a single girl to avoid the occasional army patrol that slouches through, their focus more on frequenting their favorite ladies of the night rather than patrol the packs of black jumpsuit clad prisoners picking up trash.

Cold, filthy water splashes up my left leg as step in a puddle of stagnant water trying to avoid a staggering skeleton of an old man with a beard so long it reaches his knees. He never noticed me, raising his clear glass bottle with a light amber colored rum – I can tell by the smell. Mama uses rum in the cakes she bakes for the winter holidays – and waddles onwards with shaking toothpick legs. My shoe makes little squelching sounds as I continue on, water squishing jelly-like in between my toes. That’s just great! I’ll probably have another blister on my foot but I don’t really have time to stop and let my shoe dry. Maybe if I just let some of the water out, it won’t be so bad. I look around but I don’t see anything I can sit on, I guess I’ll just have to lean on a wall. The flower merchant’s booth seems to be cleaner than most, so it’s my lucky choice. The flimsy wood bends under my weight but it doesn’t break, hopefully I won’t land flat on my back. The knot tied in the laces of my shoe unravels with a few tugs. When I pull it off, a steady stream of grey water leaks from the sole. I hope it’s not infected with something, the water that collects in the streets usually is.

The one lucky thing is I haven’t run into any guards tonight in this sector. Maybe they are all too busy with their ladies of the night. That would so convenient and make it a much quicker trip for me altogether. With a final twist to my shoe, I slip it back on and hobble off, my hood pull low over my face. A low thumping comes rumbling down the pathway ahead. It shouldn’t be thunder, it sounds too metallic. Maybe a cat’s got stuck in a container or something? The uneven rhythm creeps closer, a drum thumping out of rhythm till I realize what it is.

Oh, shit! It’s footsteps!

The dull, thumping steps grow closer as I duck inside a flower merchant’s booth and huddle down, my back pressing painfully into the protruding empty wooden shelves that normally display fresh bouquets of tightly budded pink roses leaking a delightfully honey scented perfume and individual stems of fleshy petaled lilies bloomed out in a spray of elegant soft white. The thudding steps grow closer, the dry clanking of his armor provided a discordant symphony of clatters and clashes. The clamor came to a halt right on the other side of my hiding space. Risking a peep, I glance quickly over the edge of the booth and my breath catches in my throat in horror. It’s a guard! A short man with a watermelon shaped pot-belly barely contained by his black armor and a bushy beard littered with crumbs. If one was so inclined to imagine, he could briefly pass for one of the bearded dwarves from a fairy tale, or at least a drunk one based on his nose burning scent. A sour tang of sweat both new and old mixed with a hint of bitterness – the unique scent a byproduct of a night spent drinking only the cheapest liquor from Harold’s Tavern – swamped the surrounding area, completely overpowering the sweet lingering scent of flowers and making my stomach heave in protest. Another rolling wave of nausea slides through my stomach and I have to press my hand to my mouth, stifling the urge to spread my stomach contents across the floor. Maybe if I try taking smaller breaths, then the smell won’t be so bad?

Wrong! The smell is just as bad, only the tiny inhales of air are making me dizzy in addition to already being nauseated. My entire head is spinning, my chest is aching, and I’m gagging, the bubbling acid rising in my throat and burning like liquid fire. In response to my panic, the buzzing energy shimmers across my skin once more. This time becoming more visible as a faint golden glow spread across my limbs.

Finally, with a few muffled curses and a loud honking belch, the guard shambles on. The cluttered clanking and belching fading away as the rotten stench trailing him like a living tail. The burning in my chest and throat eased as I let out a huge whooshing breath. The air is returning to the normal stale smell but it’s never been so sweet in all my life. At least, I’m nearly to the gate, so I shouldn’t run into any other guards, drunk or otherwise. The most problematic area will be at the gate itself as an entire squad of soldiers are stationed as guards.

Life inside the walls hasn’t turned out as well as the King proclaimed at first. After the wall was solidified, most of the citizens turned towards building new lives in our gleaming capital city of Melrose. Rows and rows of houses seemingly sprung up overnight, fully formed and ready for new occupants. What forests and farmlands left inside the wall that hadn’t already been savaged by the army for materials was cleared of all trees and shrubbery and turned into giant farms that worked the lowest ranked citizens to literal death. Giant factories were built on the outskirts of Lentiqua to manufacture items that were previously traded between Althea and the other kingdoms like steel and glass. Although the grime ridden complexes do provide highly valuable jobs to all the people that couldn’t find work as merchants or servants, but the aftereffects on the factory workers are intense. A constant stream of throat-clogging smoke and smog erupts from the factories heated ovens, polluting the air with their discharge and releasing their waste in what water sources remain inside the walls. Inside, the workers are frequently burned from the heated metal and glass and the toxins released from the manufacturing process poisons their lungs, sometimes limbs are lost to the giant blades that descend from the ceiling to slice the glass into prespecified shapes, but the factory never stops. It can’t stop. The demand for their products is too high.

Rather than gamble with their life in one of these treacherous occupations, a select group of others has decided on a slightly darker way of living. Shifty men with hooded faces and gloved hands lie in wait for members of the royal family or the magistrates to come to Lentiqua Marketplace, kidnapping the unsuspecting member of the wealthier class and holding the person for ransom. Cunning women, armed with a razor edged knife and a beautiful charming smile, tempt their victims siren-like into the shadows where they are quickly relieved of their belongings and left bound and gagged for someone else to find. Wily children, their cherubic faces innocent and sweet, drift through the crowds of people with lively steps, removing purses and wallets filled with money with well-trained nimble fingers. Infuriated by this blatant display of disrespect for his laws and system, King Nikos ordered the arrest of these renegades on sight but they slipped away into the darkness on silent wings. Together they banded and formed a network of outcasts, spies, and thieves—The Raven’s Guild – and that’s exactly who I need.

The rumor is that their