Interlude I
"There is a veil upon the world, Alya."
The young girl's eyes are transfixed on her mother's somber face. She leans so close that the sharp, jagged scars running down her cheek stand out in sharp relief. One, two, three…
Alya learned to count by them.
"It's time for you to peel it back."
Her mother was once considered a great beauty. Once, as some of the crueler village boys are quick to remind Alya when she bests them during play. She pays them no mind beyond wielding her wooden sword with even more ferocity. Scars are hardly contagious, and besides, all mothers are beautiful in their children's eyes.
The scars only enhance Lady Césaire's noble bearing. A cock of her eyebrow feels like the challenging roar of a lioness. Look at me and despair. I've faced worse than you.
Sometimes, Alya's overactive imagination likes to paint vivid stories of how those scars came to be. She imagines fierce battles with monsters and dragons, her mother emerging bloodied and victorious, having avenged Alya's late father.
Gently entwining her fingers with Alya's, her mother leads her to the wing of the ancient manor Alya has never been allowed in. A bookcase slides out of their path, and then they descend down stairs made of cold stone, torches on the wall lighting their path.
"Adults cannot believe it," her mother says, "until they have witnessed it with their own eyes. Magic blinds them to the truth. Remember what you are about to see, my sweet, for it will give you true sight once you're a woman grown."
A heavy steel door creaks open. Just as the smell of burned flesh hits Alya's nostrils, a snarl echoes through the dungeon. Iron shackles drag along the ground as a creature lunges forward, torch light revealing matted fur, sharp fangs and the face of a man.
Alya is ten years old when she learns just how prescient her imagination is.
Alya is going to be a Warrior for Goodness and Light, Vanquisher of Evil, carrying on an Ancient and Noble Family Legacy. She can feel the truth of it in every fiber of her being. It is her Destiny.
There is just one small problem. Tiny. Insignificant, really.
Aiming at the vaguely circular blob, she loosens her arrow. Her cousins howl with laughter as Alya misses the practice target yet again, and she grits her teeth.
The greatest heroine to ever live shall not be bested by bad eyesight.
There is much to learn for a Lady of House Césaire. Alya immerses herself in the art of dance, polite conversation, and how to hide iron blades under long flowing gowns. She studies the ancient histories of her ancestors, reads up on every fae species they've faced and catalogued. Their strengths and weaknesses she can recite by heart, knows that sirens can be entranced with the gleam of gems and that a dryad will only die when its birth tree has been felled.
Every morning she drinks the herb brews designed to strengthen her mind and body, and while her elder sister nods off due to boredom, Alya's mind never strays during her daily meditations.
Alya strains her arm, hopping in place to reach the highest bookshelf. It takes her four jumps to push the blue tome as far in as it can go, the last lock sliding in place, and the secret path opens. Clutching an iron dagger to her chest, she makes her way down the winding stairs, following the twists and turns engraved in her memory.
A low growl greets her.
"Hello," she says to the beast on the other side of the door, her high-pitched voice echoing in the dark stone hall.
The snarl ceases abruptly.
"Greetings, little one," says the beast with the sweetest timbre Alya has ever heard. "Who let you down here?"
Alya's eyes widen in excitement at the unexpected response. Mother said that the fae is resistant to all interrogation and has been for years. But if Alya can coax valuable information out of it and prove her worth, then that will surely impress the elders of her clan and earn her a magical weapon.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"What's yours?"
Alya's lower lip pushes forward in a pout. "I asked first."
Low, silky laughter. "True. Shall we trade, then? A name for a name?"
"I'm not telling you my name," Alya says with a huff, her mother's warning in her ear. Names have power.
"And yet you demand mine. How rude to not offer anything in exchange."
"I do offer something in exchange." Alya hastily reaches into the depths of her frocks. "I offer a light that sparkles like the stars." Fae love shiny things, or so the books she's been studying say, for they are greedy creatures.
But the fae responds with derisive laughter. "Nothing shines down here, little one. There is only darkness and the burn of iron."
"This light shines without reflecting the sun."
"You mean fire. Fire devours that which sustains it. I'll not trade my name for a few hours of candlelight."
"No." Her fist closes around hard edges, and she fishes a glowing crystal out of her pockets. "This one will bring you comfort for years and years. It's magic of your kind." A trinket so trivial and benign, nobody even noticed when Alya snatched it from her clan's vast trophy collection.
A long silence. "Now why would you bring me such a thing?"
"Mother says you are a creature of darkness. But I saw you lunge for the light."
A thoughtful hum. "You have a hunter's perception, little one."
If only. The world grows more blurred year by year. It's hard to excel at the trials testing her merit as a hunter when so much of it relies on sight. As eager as she is to follow her mother's footsteps, Alya knows her cousins' derisive whispers behind her back are not entirely without merit.
Hence the desperate measures.
"So, my name for a light in the darkness. Is that our bargain?"
Alya swallows heavily. "Yes."
"You have the makings of a temptress. But you underestimate how much my name is worth."
"Well, now I know it's worth more than the light you long for."
A hoarse cackle answers her.
"My name is eternal. This… predicament of mine is not. So, no, I shan't offer my name to the spawn of those who would bind me with it."
Alya's shoulders sag in disappointment. "So why are you talking to me at all?"
"I'm bored."
"By all accounts, you've been bored for years, and haven't deigned to do more than growl."
"Would you believe me if I said I have a heart? Can't say I've ever been interrogated by a little human before. I have a soft spot for innocents."
"Are we your favorite meal?" Alya mutters under her breath.
The fae laughs. "No. Though reliable sources tell me human children are quite tender."
Alya can almost picture the fangs gleaming on the other side of the door. She swallows heavily at the reminder that the affable creature she's talking to is a monster. One who would devour her if given the chance.
"So, little one," the silky voice purrs. "What else might I trade for that light? Shall I promise you a favor of your choosing?"
"A favor from a prisoner is not worth much."
"As I said. My predicament is temporary, and my memory long. I remember those who would give me a drop of pleasure when my need for it is greatest."
Her fingers clutch the crystal, a shiver running down her spine. This is a mistake. Intuition whispers that unless put down, this one will escape one day. Being remembered by a powerful fae with a grudge is the last thing she wants.
His wrath will be worse if she forces a debt on him.
It takes all her bodyweight for the door to budge even an inch. A gentle kick sends the glowing crystal sliding into the cell, briefly illuminating slitted eyes before the heavy door slams shut again.
"Consider it a gift," Alya says, "and forget I was here."
"As you wish, little one."
The crystal and the fae get added to Alya's growing pile of secrets.
At the heart of it, there's only one secret, but like a cascade, it necessitates endless deception. If she ever hopes to be a hunter, nobody must know of the weakness that would disqualify her. So she smiles and shrugs sheepishly when she's yet again admonished for her poor aim, vowing to improve even as her eyesight secretly deteriorates. She memorizes the obstacle course by walking it at night, counting the steps until she can run its length even with her eyes closed. If she cannot rely on her eyes, then she will rely on sound and intuition.
It's not enough.
Alya thinks little of it when Nora is the first one chosen to receive a Weapon from the family's vault. She's older, after all, and easily the most ferocious of them all. Stamping out all seeds of jealousy, she crowds around Nora like the rest of her cousins to admire her many new limbs, congratulating her elder sister with a smile on her face.
And she even means it.
But one by one, everyone else either receives a Weapon of their own to move on to prepare for field work, or they quietly slip away to build an ordinary life, electing to raise the next generation of hunters instead of risking life and limb.
Not Alya, though. Alya keeps trying.
But it's galling to be eighteen years old and seeing cousins three years younger than her being judged worthy while she stagnates.
Tonight is the solstice. They feel it in their blackened heart. Home. So close, and yet so far. Tugging at the iron shackles, they hiss at the pain.
Warm light pulses, the crystal in their lap soothing the sting. It's their eldest brother's light, just the kind of trinket he loves to create. Wisdom shines a path when the hour is dark. The gift is their one stroke of fortune in recent years, and the Lord of Mischief treasures it.
One of their tails twitches, and their ears perk up.
The walls crumble, heavy iron door torn from its hinges with a deafening screech. A woman steps through the opening, trailing behind black, bubbling corruption. A creature with dark fur stalks closely behind, pressing itself against her leg when she comes to a halt, eyes shining with devotion.
"Hello, sweetling." Reaching to scratch the feline fae behind its perked ears, the Lady of Nightmare smiles, revealing multiple rows of sharp teeth. "I have need of your talents."
"So mercenary. Don't I even get a hug before we bargain for my freedom?"
Soft laughter echoes. "I cannot say I'm eager to feel your claws digging into my back."
"My claws?" Trixx tilts their head. "I remember our last embrace differently. Was it not I who nearly died?"
Red eyes flare in irritation at the reminder, and Trixx grins, even though they really shouldn't. They're caught in her trap, after all. Perhaps it's their pride talking, but Trixx refuses to believe that ordinary humans succeeded in shackling them all on their own. Any moment now she will offer him escape from the hunters she no doubt aided.
For a price.
And he is weary enough of imprisonment to say yes.
Their gaze is drawn back to the fae by her side. There is something not quite right about it, something off.
Something interesting.
The feline fae pays no mind to Trixx as it begins grooming the fur on its paw, only the slightest hint of feral intelligence in its green eyes.
How did it tear its way through the hunters' iron defenses?
The Lady follows their gaze and her smile widens. "Do you like my new pet? I made him myself."
Kindred, whispers instinct, and Trixx listens.
"Your creativity knows no bounds, mother."
Her mother's mouth is a grim line these days, mirroring the expression on all the elder hunters. Alya seethes at being left out. As if she hasn't put together the meaning of the fire destroying half their family's ancestral estate on a solstice night.
It escaped, she is certain of it.
But she does not complain. Instead she throws herself into yet more training, burying her nose in ancient tomes. Whining won't get her anywhere, only proving herself will.
And she is richly rewarded when, scarcely a fortnight later, her mother calls her to a private supper.
"I have a gift for you, Alya," the somber woman says without much fanfare. "Keep it close and tell no one."
Unfurling the silk to reveal a small purple pin, Alya wants to shout her excitement from the rooftops. She has imagined this moment of triumph a hundred different ways, always vindicated in front of all who'd doubted her. Yet now she is to keep it secret?
"Why?"
"Because I trust you to keep it safe. Your uncles do not share my concern, but we have experienced attacks on even our most guarded sanctuaries. Our weapons are not safe in the vault, they need to be dispersed."
"Oh." Disappointment churns within. "So… I haven't earned this?"
"In an official capacity? No." A rare smile graces her mother's ruined lips. "But don't think I've not noticed your hard work. In my eyes, you've earned this chance years ago. I would counsel patience until the others see sense, but this is no time to leave you defenseless. So this will be our little secret."
Alya swallows the lump blocking her throat, cradling the magical pin to her chest. "I won't let you down."
"I don't doubt it." Her mother hums thoughtfully. "The butterfly flaps its wings, and a storm rises elsewhere. It's a subtle weapon made for subterfuge, not for those who'd charge straight at the enemy. I chose this one because it fits you, and I know your clever mind will make good use of its gifts."
The transformation flows over her like water and suddenly Alya is as light and nimble as a leaf dancing in the wind. A swarm of butterflies rises to envelop her, whispering secrets in her ear.
A vision of the world unfolds in perfect clarity.
The Lord of Mischief crouches low, watching the hunter clan's eldest and strongest gather. They think themselves safe in their fortress under the light of a new moon, when Misfortune is weak and far away.
But Trixx has a unique talent.
Balanced on a razor's edge, they do not belong to any world, able to stalk the borders and spaces in-between. Shackled to neither Creation nor Destruction, they and they alone are truly free.
Which makes the invisible chains constricting around their neck truly galling. Even now their bargain pulls at them, the price for their freedom. They do so loathe being indebted. Best to cast the shackles off and get it over with.
The seams between worlds rip open at their command, and a nightmare army descends upon the hunters.
"I'm so sorry, Alya."
She nods, gloved fingers digging into her silken gown.
"Your mother and sister fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered."
"How did you escape?" Alya does not mean to make it sound like an accusation, and yet it does.
"Luck, nothing more." A strong hand ruffles her hair. Her shoulders stiffen at the touch. "We'll take care of you, of course. You'll have your yearly stipend. But Alya – don't you think it's time for you to find a husband? Your mother wanted nothing more than to see you safely settled."
"Perhaps you are right, uncle," Alya murmurs demurely.
Not far away flutters a white butterfly, circling above the few survivors of the ambush. And in all their heads, the same void.
Alya forces her lips to take the form of a shy smile. "I think I should like to go traveling for a while. To the northern coast, to calm my nerves after this ordeal. May I?"
The puppet wearing her uncle's face returns her smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Of course, my sweet."