I feel so alone,
trapped inside this world-
come and take me home.
(only fate remains, nightly walks)
~
Night blanketed the ground in black, a thin veil of stars barely illuminating the pathway to Headmaster Ambrose's office— all was still, except for a single, shadowy figure that tiptoed across the grounds. And that was just how she liked it.
The girl known only as Shadowsong slipped quietly through the crisp evening air— she darted in and out of the shadows as swiftly as a thief in the night as dusk descended upon the grounds. She had grown accustomed to such loneliness over the years and, in fact, preferred to travel only by nightfall—a true spy left no clue of her presence, and companions were but an inconvenience. She didn't have the time or patience to cover up another person's tracks, or worry about saving anyone's skin, but her own. She needed to get to Alhazred and the Order, and nothing would stand in her way. At her request, he'd gone ahead of her, maintaining that his offer to protect her was still open, but Shadowsong didn't need protection from anything… or anyone.
As a baby, she had miraculously cheated death when a worldwide massacre left her orphaned. Any relatives she'd had were either killed instantly or tortured to death by Krokopatra's horde of mindless Nirini brutes that still ravaged the depths of Krokotopia's caves daily, in search of fresh blood, and all birth records for the area had been destroyed. Needless to say, she had no first name, age, or birthdate, and no idea who her parents were— no one else had survived, so the entirety of her life was shrouded in mystery to this day.
The only thing certain in her life was her master, Alhazred— a great and powerful sorcerer, he had gone into hiding during the war and formed a resistance: the Order of the Fang. When the war had ended, he'd taken his ragtag band of wizards through the tombs to look for survivors, only to find that there were none— except for Shadowsong, then an infant, who'd been found swaddled only in a moth-eaten blanket and half-starved to death. Suspecting that she'd been left there by a well-meaning relative, who'd been killed before he was able to return, Alhazred had taken her back to the Order's secret headquarters and raised her as his own child.
Stealthily, she unlocked the door and glided through the dimly-lit hallway, almost catlike. She could hear murmurs of fear and concern as the headmaster— or Merle, as she'd come to know him— called the meeting to order. It was the reason she'd come, but group protocol stated clearly that an apprentice was never to interrupt her superiors; therefore, she'd have to wait for the right moment to present her ideas.
She parked her broom in the hall closet and propped herself up against the doorframe to listen better. The rest of the Order— Alhazred, General Khaba, and the Ravenwood professors— all sat in a semicircle and listened as Merle told them of the troubles in Wizard City: rogue Fire Elves, undead scarecrows, and an evil so dark and vile that it defied description.
"Welcome," he began, glancing around at his comrades' worried faces. "I suppose you all know why I've called you here— the Necromaster has returned to the Spiral."
About a minute of silence passed, as Merle allowed his colleagues to process the information he'd just given them. "As some of you may recall, he continued, nervously eyeing a grandfather clock in the far corner of the room. "Malistaire Drake was once one of my best students— highly intelligent, and a genius in his own right. His young lady-friend, Sylvia Lifemender, was also one of the brightest— they always pushed each other to new levels of greatness, and I had such high hopes for them both. But then, Sylvia died, and something went terribly wrong…"
He sighed mournfully, then cleared his throat. "Malistaire and Sylvia were soulmates," he went on. "In fact, they were once the most-loyal and respected members of this very group. But he was never the same after her passing and, within the year, he'd been excommunicated from the Order for treason— he betrayed us to the sorceress Morganthe, who told him that we killed Sylvia and that she could revive her, in exchange for his loyalty. She bestowed upon him the curse of undeath— the soul dies, but its body lives on, and it's a terrible affliction, unparalleled by any earthly torment. Needless to say, he's out for blood— the Spiral Geographic Society has deemed him an immediate threat to Wizard City, and we've been tasked with bringing about his downfall, as quickly as possible."
A few gasps here and there— a frustrated sigh. But Shadowsong simply leaned closer and hung on every word. If she was going to help vanquish evil, she needed to know exactly what she was up against— her opponent's strengths and weaknesses, and how to best exploit them for universal gain. She opened her mouth to speak, but Professor Drake— Malistaire's twin brother, Cyrus— beat her to it.
"Now, hold on just a minute, old man," he began, sweat pouring down in buckets from the top of his bald head. "One doesn't simply bring about the downfall of a man possessed, my liege. My brother is very dangerous— he'll kill us all, or die trying, if we set foot near Castle Dragonspyre. The only way to get to him is to send in someone whose presence won't attract attention, and the best man for the job is… a woman, specifically her."
He turned and pointed at Shadowsong, who was still standing in the doorway and had, up to this point, gone completely unnoticed. All nine heads swivelled in her direction— some nodded in agreement, but Alhazred scowled and quickly leapt to his feet. "No," he stated adamantly. "I won't have you sending my apprentice to her death, Cyrus— in fact, I expressly forbid it, and will volunteer to go in her place. I am an old man, with only hazy memories of my former life and glory… So, if anyone's life deserves a place in Fate's mighty hands, then let it be mine, or so help me."
Almost instantly, a fight broke out. Cyrus and Alhazred continued bickering among themselves, and the other members began shouting and hurling curses at one another; Merle, however, remained completely composed, turning to Shadowsong as everyone else continued arguing.
"Ah, Wizard Shadowsong," he greeted her calmly, offering her a seat and paying no attention to the now-heated debate. "Welcome, my dear— we've been expecting you. How rude of me, to start the meeting without you. Can I get you something to drink— a cup of Dalia's Flaming Soup to warm your bones, or a hot glass of lemon tea, perhaps?"
She hadn't eaten since leaving Krokotopia the night before, and thus gratefully accepted the offer. Hunger was a dangerous affliction, one that distorted the senses and made it all but impossible to focus in combat— soldiers required sustenance, and she had come to fight, meaning that she would need food in order to focus.
By the time Merle was finished preparing and had brought the meal— the Flaming Soup, a plate of his special Golden Squash Surprise, and a freshly-brewed pot of lemon tea— to her place, things had calmed down a little and the members of the Order were behaving like civilized adults once more. "So," he finally addressed her, hushing the others with a stern, but relaxed, look. "Since it's your fate that ultimately hangs in the balance, Wizard Shadowsong, what are your thoughts on all of this?"
In response, she gave a slight grin and shook her head. "Well," she answered, drawing confused looks from both Alhazred and Cyrus as she tossed her dark hair. "As you all know, I love a good fight. Therefore, I've no problem going in— that is, if that is what you all wish of me."
Cyrus nodded at her and turned to smirk at Alhazred, who narrowed his eyes. "I can't allow this," he repeated, gazing imploringly at Merle. "The final decision is in your hands, my dear, but you must understand that this is no ordinary fight— this is not simply an uprising, but an evil that makes the earth itself tremble with terror and will strike fear into many hearts, the Spiral over. You're very brave, my dear, and very powerful, but this mission is time-sensitive, and will require a great deal of planning and experience. Though you are wise beyond your years, child, you won't get very far with just your sword."
"Then I'll train her myself," Cyrus piped up. "Her combined beauty, intelligence, and formidable survival skills make her the deadliest weapon in our cache, and I'll gladly oversee every detail of her coaching myself, should she wish to pursue it. Without her, we don't stand a chance against my brother, or the spectral army he's amassed."
Alhazred pursed his scaly lips and frowned again, adjusting the fez atop his head. "That may be so," he replied cautiously. "My apprentice is indeed a wise woman, and very beautiful. But that won't stop Malistaire from turning her into a soulless slave, just like every other unfortunate victim to pass through those doors. No one ever comes out of there alive, Cyrus, and it is for that reason that I cannot and will not agree to this."
At his words, the meeting once again began to descend into a brawl. Merle glanced helplessly at Shadowsong, whose green eyes flickered as she shrugged back at him uncertainly. "I'll do it," she announced loudly, causing the others to stop arguing and stare at her in a mix of shock and dismay. "No disrespect, Master Alhazred, but Cyrus is correct— I am the best, and possibly only, chance we have. No sense in you lot risking your lives."
"Very well," Alhazred agreed, the crinkly corners of his mouth dipping downward into a sad arch. "If you must go, child, then go— just know that there is no margin for error, and don't you ever forget that. Even smart wizards like you make mistakes, and I don't want you to get hurt… or worse."
He turned to Cyrus. "You win this time," he sighed resignedly. "You have my blessing, on one condition— anything your brother does to her, I'll do to you, a thousand times over."
"No need to be so overprotective, old man— your apprentice's life is in the safest of hands, and I'll teach her everything she'll need to get out of there in one piece. As for you, Wizard Shadowsong, meet me in the Arena when you're finished your supper; I'm sure you'll be a most-worthy adversary."
Shadowsong nodded and, like any good apprentice, did exactly as she was told. As the rest of the Order sat down to read or play cards, she finished the last bite of supper and cleared her plate before heading off to the Arena to begin her training.