Chapter 1

Out of Shadow

Jeltara rocked back and forth in the corner of the dark room, arms wrapped around her legs, face buried in her knees as she sobbed in silence. It was a dry sob as she ran out of tears hours ago. Blood dripped from her fingers, cascading down her naked shins to form a small pool at her feet where the body of Kalthia lay dead – a knife still embedded between her breasts.

“I’m so sorry my friend,” Jeltara said as she slowly got to her feet. She stepped over her friend and wet nurse’s body on her way to the cleaning room to wash away the evidence of her sin. She tossed her clothes on the floor and stepped into the tub of cold water – biting back the shivers shooting up her shins, thighs, hips, and back as she fully emerged herself. The clear water turned pink as the blood was washed from her still shaking body.

When she was clean she dressed and left the room – giving a final glance at the corpse of her friend lying dead on the floor and at the home she would never set eyes upon again. She pulled the door closed and locked it, took a deep breath and hurried down the hall in the direction of the nursery where her newborn daughter awaited.

∞ ∞ ∞

“There must be some mistake,” King Ul’Garreth shouted. “Do the tests again!”

“I’m sorry my Lord, we’ve done the tests three times. There is no mistake,” Poltina said. “Your daughter exhibits all the signs of the Vestraa. You know the laws my Lord. She must be...”

“If you finish that sentence I’ll make sure it’s your last,” the King snarled angrily. “Your services will no longer be required. Guards, take her to the dungeon.”

“But, my Lord!” Poltina gasped.

“Yes, my Lord,” a guard said stepping forth to take the former seer into custody. He took her kicking and screaming from the Great Hall.

King Ul’Garreth paced the Great Hall, furious at the news of his daughter’s fate. Less than a day old and she was to be put to death. “Vestraa,” he spit the word as venom. There hasn’t been a Vestraa born in a millennia, he thought to himself. The tests are wrong! They must be! “I must see to the Queen. Thul’Bak, I am not to be disturbed for any reason,” he said to his advisor.

“Yes, my Lord.”

The King left the Great Hall for home with all due haste. The law was the law and like it or not he was as bound by them as those he ruled over. But he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He couldn’t allow his daughter, his only child, to be put to death because of an antiquated law. He knew of the Vestraa as all Riftborn did. They were abominations and thankfully incredibly rare.

While some Riftborn possessed magic based on the color of their eyes, and a few of them were heterochromatic – possessing two magics, the Vestraa were septochomatic. They possessed the ability to change their eye color with but a thought and could thus use all magics with equal ease. This ability was not without its detriments, however, as all Vestraa eventually developed mental disorders that drove them insane and unable to control their powers.

King Ul’Garreth hurried towards home with all due haste, weaving between guards and servants alike. Those that saw him coming stepped out of the way before being bowled over, while the unlucky few were sent head over heels without apology.

The king found the door to his dwelling locked, a bad sign. He opened it and stepped inside – the stench of blood assaulting his nostrils. He saw the body of Kalthia lying dead on the floor, the handle of a dagger sticking out of her chest. “Oh, Jeltara, what have you done?”

∞ ∞ ∞

Jeltara entered the nursery, greeting the wet nurses with a smile. “I’d like to see my daughter,” she said to a short, plump woman named Yantia. She had been a wet nurse for centuries, having delivered hundreds of babies including the Queen herself.

“Of course, my Lady,” Yantia replied “right this way.”

“I know the way. I’d like to be alone with her if that’s ok.”

“I’m sorry my Lady, but I am under direct orders from Poltina to remain with you or the King should you wish to see your daughter.”

“As you wish,” the Queen said with a forced smile. “After you.”

Yantia led the Queen into a small room with only one child within. “She is such a beautiful baby,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“My loss? What loss would that be, Yantia?”

“Have you not heard the results of the tests, my Lady? I sent Kalthia to tell you personally.”

“I’ve been rather busy this day,” the Queen replied. She picked her sleeping baby up and cradled her in her arms “I did not receive your message.”

“Oh! Oh, my Queen, I’m so sorry, but your daughter tested positive. She is Vestraa.”

“And I’m sorry too, Yantia,” the Queen said, her eyes changing from blue to black. With a dismissive wave of her hand she sent the wet nurse into the wall with thunderous force. And with another she and her daughter were gone, leaving the room empty save for the body lying in a broken heap against the wall.

Gone were the cold stone and mists of the Rift. Gone was the sanctuary of home and the safety of rank. Dim rays filtered through the cloudy sky – the last bits of light as the suns sank below the horizon. The land stretched out before her in all direction further than she could see. She took a deep breath, breathing in the fresh air of the world above for the first time in her life, and glanced nervously about as she left the security of the Rift.

Her hands shook. Everything about her being told her to go back, return to the comforting arms of the mist and darkness, but the desperate need to save her child’s life urged her on. Cradling the baby tight in her arms she ran. She ran until her muscles ached. She ran until her lungs burned. She ran until she couldn’t push her body any further.

Her path took her across the Grayhz Grasslands to a copse of trees. She leaned against a giant oak to rest and feed her now crying daughter. She had never seen a tree before, but had seen then in the old picture books she was privileged enough to see thanks to her station in life. She sank to the ground, marveling at the feeling of the grass against her skin. She allowed her baby to drink her fill before nestling her tight and running once more. She wished she could use her magic to travel across the world, but her knowledge of the lands outside of the Rift was marginal at best.

∞ ∞ ∞

When the suns rose above the horizon, bathing the land in their radiance at the dawn of a new day, Jeltara was forced to hide in the shade of a tree while covering her and her child’s face with blanket and shirt. Her skin burned, her vision blurred. Her daughter cried hysterically. In her haste to flee with her child, she did not give thought to the effects the suns would have on them.

The Riftborn – condemned to the Shadow Rift since eons long past for crimes forgotten by all but the Gods, had lived their lives in darkness for so long that the suns were anathema to them. As a species they had lost the ability to absorb sunlight countless centuries ago. Their natural ability to see in the darkest of conditions did away with the need for light of any kind though they did use fire where needed.

The first rays of light upon her skin burned Jeltara as if she were struck with a hot poker and her child cried even louder as the light burned part of an exposed foot. Jeltara quickly covered her child more securely and set her on the ground at the base of a maple.

Jeltara raised her arms, moving her hands in quick, precise patterns. “Domus terrum,” she said the words of an incantation. The ground rumbled and split apart as chunks of dirt and rock rose and spun about to form a small, windowless dwelling large enough for her and the baby. Once safely inside, she closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry little one,” she said rocking her daughter in her arms. “Mommy didn’t know the suns would hurt us, but that’s ok. We’ll adapt. We’ll grow stronger and you’ll live a long and happy life away from the monsters that would see you dead. Your father and I didn’t even have enough time to give you a name,” she sighed. “Though it will never go in the book of names, I will call you Fina Edahl,” she said holding the smiling child up before her. “That means bringer of hope in our language. That is what you are my sweet little Fina. You are the hope that one day the Gods will release us from that hell. You are the hope the world will see we are no longer the savages they banished to the below.

Chapter 2

Nightmares

Meira woke with a splitting headache, her mind fuzzy as if she had had one too many drinks and slipped over the edge of blissful buzz to unpleasantly drunk. Her heart pounded in her chest, each breath coming quick and panicked. She tried to open her eyes but the damn lids refused to budge. There was a sound of soft footfalls and slow, steady breathing in the darkness. Someone...something...was in the room with her. She tried to move but something held her firmly to the bed.

A coldness crept over Meira as if she had left the widow open on a cold winter’s night. Her nostrils filled with the scent of decaying roses and dirt. “Hello Meira,” a raspy voice echoed throughout the room causing her to struggle harder against the bonds keeping her from moving. Something bumped the bed. The blankets were pulled off; shifting her body to the left as whomever was in the room climbed onto the bed and straddled her waist.

Strong hands gripped her nightgown, tearing is open as if ripping paper from a present on Ascension Day. She screamed and thrashed about but there were no sounds from her lips, no movement of limbs. She was a prisoner in her own body and cried in silent turmoil - powerless to prevent the inevitable.

A long, sharp fingernail dug painfully into Meira’s flesh; tracing a line from the little dip at the base of her neck between her quickly heaving breasts and ending at her belly button where it tapped rhythmically just above her navel. “Such a beautiful canvas to work on,” Meira’s attacker purred. “This’ll be my greatest work of art yet so try not to struggle too much. We’ve only got one chance to create a masterpiece.”

“Aaahhggghhhh!” Meira wailed, jerking upright in bed. Her breathing was quick, heart beating like a drum in her chest. Though she was no longer bound to the bed, no longer paralyzed, she was afraid to move. Her nightgown was intact, but she felt as if icy needles were boring their way under her skin. She pulled the front of her gown open with trembling fingers and looked down, frightened of what she might find. With no marks, and nothing out of place, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The pale blue light of Ralos shining through the cracks in the shutters gave her bedroom the eerie feeling of a mausoleum. “Damn nightmares!” she cursed, shaking her body from head to toe in order to throw off the effects. Her skin felt tight, every hair except those on her head stood on end. Expecting the Ebrian Slayer to pop out and attack at any moment, she grabbed the dagger from the night stand and looked around her bedroom. When nothing more sinister occurred than moth flying through the window she relaxed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her eyes darting side to side still looking for anything out of the ordinary.

“No sense in trying to go back to sleep now,” she sighed. Taking off her nightgown and discarding it in the corner, she slipped into something more practical – black breeches that hugged her legs and hips a little too tight and a dark green tunic missing the top two buttons - popped off ages ago to serve a purpose. With her feet resting comfortably in her favorite soft-leather boots, and her trusty dagger tucked into her belt, she opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air.

The streets were nearly deserted as they always were this time of night. The only ones brave enough to stay out after the suns went down were the guards. And even they had increased their patrol sizes from groups of two to groups of four as attacks from the Ebrian Slayer increased. One could almost feel the tension in the air itself as it gentle blew across the city. It was bitter, suffocating from the layer of mists perpetually hovering over above.

Only those with special permits were allowed out when the suns went down. There were curfews in place to protect the citizens from the Ebrian Slayer, but everyone knew that was complete nonsense considering every attack attributed to the killer to date took place indoors. Meira slunk back into the shadows and waited for a guard patrol to pass down the cobblestone street before continuing on towards her destination. She waited for them to turn the corner before emerging from the shadows to walk casually down the road, not fearing discovery. She learned the patrol patterns years ago and knew the Watch would not be around again for six minutes.

Meira had several advantages over the Watch that made her sojourn out into the night that much easier. She had superior vision – capable of seeing in darkness as easily as she saw in the light. She never knew where this gift came from so attributed it to an Eldarian ancestor by way of explanation. She discounted Mordathions - the other race known to possess night vision for two reasons. One, she wasn’t covered in the thin coat of fur of the Mordathions, nor was she in possession of a prehensile tail, or any tail at all for that matter. And two, from what she had been able to gather from her good friend Darven, Mordathion night vision was not as acute as the Eldarian whom spent most of their lives living in the darkness of their mountain homes.

The next advantage Meira had over the guards was her upbringing – or lack thereof. After the death of her parents when she was five, she grew up on the streets with the other orphans - learning to fend for herself while avoiding unnecessary trouble. Vermin, they were called. A drain on society that should be exterminated as rats rather than given the help they were needed.

The unlucky ones were taken in by another family where they spent the rest of their miserable lives as little more than slaves eking out an existence few asked for and fewer still could get away from. The lucky ones formed into small bands that either learned to survive on their own, or died trying.

∞ ∞ ∞

Meira crossed over Myh Street, passing between the Golden Chalice – a tavern that catered to the aristocrats, and Ma Henshaw’s Bakery. The scent of fresh baked break permeated the air around the bakery and Meira breathed in the succulent aromas. She had a particular fondness for Ma Henshaw. If not for her generosity many a homeless child would have starved to death. So what the bread was three days old. Who cared that the small cakes were dry and stale? When you were hungry food was food and you take it where you could get it.

Remembering old times, Meira nearly stepped out in front of another guard patrol, but caught herself just in time. Flattening herself against the bakery wall behind the row of hedges, she held her breath and waited. The patrol passed by without care, looking more bored than concerned. That was all well and good for them. To date no guard had ever fallen victim of the Ebrian Slayer which led many to believe he was one of the guards. But to make such a claim would have been a death sentence for whomever made it and so no one said anything official, but the rumors still persisted.

Turning down Oak Run, Meira made her way to Drunken Bones Alley – so named for the many taverns spitting their drunk out onto the narrow street at all hours of the day and night. Her destination loomed ahead of her in all its faded paint, boarded window, and broken sign glory.

The Winking Wench was a dilapidated two story building in desperate need of repairs, or perhaps demolition would be better suited. It looked about as unfriendly, dark and cheerless as the rest of the Lower District and though it was hard to see through the heavily curtained windows, the lifelessness from within could be felt outside.

 Once through the heavy wooden doors Meira sighed. She was safe. As were the other fifty men and women inside. That was the game - the loophole to break the curfew laws. Get caught out on the streets and you’re in trouble, but make it indoors – any indoors, and the guards were not allowed to arrest you. Of course, most of the people here tonight would be arrested and set free in a day or so, but that didn’t stop anyone. People needed their drink in these difficult times and with the right words, or a few coins most guards would turn their heads long enough for the cunning ones to get away.

Meira adjusted her top so that a bit more cleavage was showing, tousled her hair and put on a seductive smile. She had bills to pay, food to put on the table, and the lucky men and women of the Winking Wench were gracious enough to provide her with a living. Even if they did not know it. Her best friend Darven didn’t approve of her methods, but even he could not deny they worked. Men were the same no matter what species they belonged to and there were few that could resist the allure of a temptress. Especially after imbibing few mugs of ale.

Meira walked across the tavern floor swaying her hips side to side, smiling and winking at all who paid her even the slightest glance. Her eyes were on two things, tables and belts. If there were coins on the tables it meant they were gambling and thus their coin purses would most likely be empty. She avoided those tables unless desperate.

She spotted a tall, thin man sitting alone at the bar. He wore the clothes of a peasant, but his look and mannerisms were those of the elite. Something about his hawkish demeanor told Meira he was part of the gentry. The way he hovered over his half-full glass, eyes darting to and fro as if nervously looking for someone to either pay him a visit, or stab him in the back was a sure sign of someone out of their element. Meira wanted to do the latter, but that caused a mess she wasn’t prepared to clean up. Besides, stabbing wasn’t her style.

“Evening,” Meira said sitting on the stool next to her mark. He smelled of cinnamon and other earthy aromas that wasn’t all-together bad, but definitely not something those living in the squalor of the Lower District could afford. He was an older gentleman. Definitely high born by the newness of his clothes and the rings he wore on his left hand. They weren’t the cheap steel the low born wore, but rings of silver and gold adorned with emeralds, sapphires and rubies. He was either incredibly powerful, or stupendously stupid to be wearing such things so openly in this part of town.

“Evening,” he replied with a cautious half-smile. “Do I know you young lady?”

“Nope,” Meira purred, running a finger down his right arm. It felt surprisingly muscular beneath his baggy tunic “but you can get to know me if you like.”

“I’m not here for that kind of...entertainment. Sorry.”

“Oh? And what sort of entertainment are you looking for? I’m a woman of many talents.”

“I’m sure you are, but I’d rather enjoy my drink in peace if you don’t mind.” He drained his glass and motioned to Fenwick to give him another. The portly bartender was more than happy to oblige, filling the man’s glass to the brim with a dark amber liquor known in these parts as Amber Bliss – an all-purpose alcohol commonly used as a cleaning agent and antiseptic. Few ever drank the stuff as it had the tendency of causing memory loss, temporary blindness, hallucinations, and the release of projectiles from both ends of the body. This man was downing it like water so he was either immune to the effects, or had a death wish.

“If you’d like to talk about your troubles I’m here to listen,” Meira said nodding to his glass. Her eyes, however, were in search of his coin purse. Found it. He kept it tucked under his tunic on the right side. A reasonable precaution considering the part of town he was in, but hardly a challenge for one of her skill and determination.

“My troubles are my own and I’d advise you to leave it at that.” He snarled angrily. “Now, for the last time, leave me alone.”

“I’m only trying to help,” Meira sighed. “But have it your way. Drown your sorrows all you want but it won’t help. Trust me, it never does.”

“And what would you know about sorrows?” he scoffed. “Nothing! That’s what! I don’t need a common whore pretending to know my life! I don’t need a shoulder to weep on, so get away from me before I knock you away from me!” He shouted and downed the glass of Amber Bliss. He leered at the sexy young woman momentarily – his face a mix of anguish and sorrow. Whatever his pains, they were deep. He teetered on the stool, scrambled to catch his balance, and fell off – landing hard on his backside. His eyes were closed. He was out like a light before his head hit the floor.

“Are you ok?” Meira asked, nudging him with her foot. “Mister?” She leaned down to check for a pulse. His breathing was shallow and labored, but he was still alive. Her hands moved quickly, pocketing his coin purse and palmed his rings. “He’s alive, but in bad shape,” she said to Fenwick. “You might want to get him some help before he dies.”

“Should be dead already,” Fenwick shrugged. “That was the fifth glass of the stuff he gulped down in as few minutes. Never seen anyone drink more than two without taking up the ghost before,” he said shaking his head in disbelief. “Man must have the fortitude of the Gods.”

“Bore another man to sleep with your uninteresting tales?” came the jovial voice of a man standing behind the still kneeling Meira. She spun around at the familiar sound and stood up. Her best friend Darven was standing there with a smile on his face and a mug of ale held by his prehensile tail sloshing back and forth; no doubt spilling more than he was drinking.

“Darven, what are you doing here tonight?” Meira asked, wrapping my arms around her Mordathion friend in a bear hug while surreptitiously dropping one of the rings into the palm of his left hand as he pushed something into my pocket. It was all part of their game. They vowed long ago that neither of them would end up staring and homeless as long as one of them was capable of working. Since then they shared their spoils without fail, so that neither of them would do without.

“Good to see you too, Meira!” Darven exclaimed. “Pothem Aldain requests our presence,” he added on a quieter, more serious note. “There’s trouble in the guild.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Best not to talk about it here. All I know is that Pothem is incredibly upset and you know what happens when the boss is in one of his moods.”

“What does he want with us? We’re nobody in the grand scheme of things.”

“No idea. All I know is he wants us both at the guild within the hour.”

Chapter 3

The Honored Dead

The Brotherhood of Shadows was one of the best kept secret in all of Ebria. Under the guise of the Merchant’s, Hunter’s, and Craft’s Guilds, it operated with impunity. With members on the Watch as well as within the gentry, not to mention the hundreds of us posing as average, every day citizens, we were everywhere. There wasn’t a facet of the city we didn’t know about. Although few outside of the Brotherhood knew it, the only one with more power than us was Fina Edahl - the dreaded Lady of Ebria.

The Lady of Ebria has kept the city gripped in a stranglehold of fear and despair for more than three centuries. An impressive task considering no had seen her for nearly the entirety of her reign. As many rumors surrounded her as the Brotherhood of Shadows. She was at once a Demoness from the deepest pits of the Seventeen Hells, an enchantress cheating death through the use of sacrifice and magic, and a reclusive introvert of a long-lived race hell bent on suffocating the populace under a blanket of misery.

The only person I fear as much as the Lady Edahl was Pothem Aldain – leader of the Brotherhood of Shadows. He was a powerful man in both stature and position. Subtle, manipulative, and incredibly cunning Pothem has ruled the collective guilds unchallenged for more than a decade.

“Why are we headed to Old Willow Way? Shouldn’t Pothem be at the Guild of Hunters tonight?”

“Normally, yes,” Darven replied “but from what I hear the entire guild is being assembled and the Sanctuary is the only place big enough.”

“The entire guild? What’s going on? There hasn’t been a Gathering for eight years.” There were only three reasons to call a Gathering. There was a delegate from another guild making an appearance – a virtual impossibility considering Ebria had been isolated for more than three centuries. We were going to war, or there was a death of a high ranking official within the Brotherhood.

“You know as much as I do,” Darven shrugged.

The Sanctuary was a vast underground complex that once served as a catacombs for Old Ebria many centuries ago. It took the Brotherhood more than two decades to rebuild it – to make it into a fortress every member of the Brotherhood could call home. We entered through the back of The Dancing Eel – a tavern of ill-repute in the shadiest part of the Lower District. The air inside the large open room was thick with Ulmani smoke, the floor sticky with spilled ale and half-dried blood.

“The sparrow sings at dawn,” Darven said to the large, tattoo-covered Eldarian behind the bar. Yanthor was an oddity amongst his race. Not only did he refuse the call to the mountains centuries ago, but he defiled his body with the art of his many great deeds – each tattoo represented a battle won and a loved one lost. His body told a sad and lonely history to those that knew how to read it.

“The raven hunts at dusk,” Yanthor replied.

“The crow snatches at midnight,” I said.

“You may proceed. The Master awaits below,” Yanthor said with a forced smile.

The crow snatches at midnight, I thought as Darven and I descended into the depths below the tavern. That’s who I was. The Crow – snatcher of things in the darkest hours of the night. It was seen as a great honor to receive such a moniker. They often represented a person’s station within the guild. Crows were the sneak-thieves, Sparrows those born with the skill of voice. Darven had the most melodious voice I had ever heard. He was capable of capturing the attention of the largest of crowds with but a few notes. And then there were the Ravens – assassins and hunters, loners that took care of the Guild’s dirty work in the quickest, cleanest fashion possible.

The cold stone walls of the Sanctuary were my second home – a place I could go to get away from the stress of life on the streets above. I didn’t make use of the Brotherhood’s hospitality often as I preferred to live and work alone. Tonight, the normally empty halls were rife with fellow members. Darven and I were handed a purple armband – a sign of death within the Brotherhood’s hierarchy.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the other members – a black-furred Mordathion named Ketsra.

“There’s been a death,” Ketsra replied. Her eyes were red and watery as if she had been crying for hours.

“Who?” Darven asked, putting his armband on to honor the dead.

“I’m not permitted to say,” Ketsra snarled angrily. “Pothem will make an announcement soon.”

∞ ∞ ∞

The entire Brotherhood gathered in the Great Hall for Pothem’s announcement. The mood was somber, reserved. Whispers filled the air, but when Pothem took the stage an eerie silence fell over the crowd. He looked horrible, angry, as if attempting to keep his emotions in check.

“I’ve called this Gathering for two reasons,” Pothem began, his voice strangely calm. “As you all know there has been a death in the Brotherhood. Earlier this evening Ketsra discovered the body of Ryn Atherson in his home – victim of the Ebrian Slayer.”

Shocked gasps swept through the Great Hall like a tidal wave. Ryn was second in command of the Brotherhood and a dear friend to all that knew him. He was a master scout and one of the few among the Brotherhood with the gift of magic. For him to be caught unaware, to be murdered in his sleep, was unthinkable. It was an outrage that could not...would not go unpunished.

“From this day forth I am tasking each of you in finding and brining this...monster...to justice. It is your primary job above all others. We will not rest until the Ebrian Slayer has answered for his crimes! Now go! This Gathering is over. You have your orders, see it done!”

∞ ∞ ∞

“Well, that was...unexpected,” I said to Darven as we made our way out of the Great Hall. “The Watch has been trying for decades to catch the Slayer. How does he expect us to do any better? How do you catch a shadow?”

“With the light. We at least have to try. Neither of us would be here without Ryn. He was like a father to many of the younger members of the Brotherhood and a friend to all. His murder cannot go unavenged.”

“I’m not saying it should Darven, but how do we do it? Where do we even begin to look? I’m a Crow not a Raven.”

“I suggest going to the scene of the crime. Maybe we can find something the Slayer left behind.”

“Nothing will be left behind,” I replied irritably. “Nothing is ever left behind.”

“We have to look.”

“The place will be crawling with guards. They’ll trample all over any evidence. The body will be gone by now as well. What hope do we have!? This is an impossible task Pothem has set us on.”

“I agree, but again, we have to try. You know as well as I do what will happen if we don’t.”

Ryn lived at the end of High Tower Lane on the border between the Lower and Market Districts. It was a small, unassuming home with shuttered windows and peeling paint. I’ve been there only a handful of times, but knew the layout fairly well. At least the part he permitted me to see. Every member of the Brotherhood had a sanctum inside their home – a place they could hide themselves and any acquisitions they find while performing their duties.

The closer we got to High Tower Lane, the more anxious I felt. I couldn’t explain the feelings. It was more than the loss of a friend. It was beyond the pain of visiting the home of the recently departed. The hairs on the back of my neck were on end, my hands shook so violently I shoved them into my pockets so Darven didn’t see.

“I don’t like this, Darven. I don’t feel right snooping through Ryn’s home.”

“What are you talking about? You snoop through homes for a living. Why are you acting like this Meira? What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Darven and I entered Ryn’s home with the light steps of those afraid to disturb the dead. The place reeked of death and dried blood. Furniture was overturned, broken and strewn across the small living room. One of the legs of Ryn’s favorite rocking chair stuck from the rough plaster wall like a bone through skin. It was head height to me. I smiled. The old man didn’t go down without a fight. Thankfully, the body was gone saving Darven and I the pain of looking upon it. Though I knew before the night was through we would have to.

“What do your keen eyes see?” Darven asked.

“Same as yours, my friend,” I replied solemnly. My flesh tingled, my eyes burned. A pain wracked my brain like a dagger through the skull. Such a beautiful landscape, a familiar voice whispered to me. I could see Ryn floating in the air before me – arms out at the sides, head flung back. The look on his face could only be described as torturous. He was naked, his tanned skin covered with hundreds of intricate lines carved with a practiced hand. They came together to form a pattern I had seen many times before in my nightmares.

Don’t resist, the voice continued. Give in to the inevitability of your death. Rejoice that through your sacrifice I shall live on.

“Meira...Meira, are you alright?” Darven said with concern.

The room changed around me. Ryn was gone. The voice too. My vision cleared, but the stabbing headache persisted. “Did...did you see that? Did you hear the voice?”

“What voice? I didn’t hear anything. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a very long night.”

“Another nightmare?”

“Yeah.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose to clear my head. Darven was one of the few people that knew of my constant nightmares. He didn’t know of their exact contents though. No one knew that but me. I decided long ago to keep it a secret for fear of persecution. If word got out that I had these...visions, then I would either be accused of the crime, or have people bugging me all day long to predict who the next victim was going to be.

The truth is, I didn’t know. I never knew, and never wanted to know. In my nightmares I’m always in the position of the victim while the murderer is in the room with me. All I knew was when the nightmares happened, death was soon to follow.

“You’re right about this place,” Darven said. “The guards trampled over everything. They tracked blood all over the living room and into the kitchen it looks.”

“Whoever is doing this is using magic,” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to and regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth because I knew there was going to be a storm of questions to follow.

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. How else are they doing it? Why else would someone carve symbols and patterns into the flesh?”

“I thought that was just rumor,” Darven said suspiciously. “Are you telling me it’s true? The Slayer really does that? Have you seen another victim?”

“Forget I sand anything.” I picked up a small wooden chalice off the mantle and tears formed in my eyes. It was a gaudy looking thing, but Ryn displayed it prominently. I gave it to him at the age of twelve as a sort of thank you for being there when I needed someone the most.

“I can’t forget something like that Meira. What aren’t you telling me?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m going to confide in you something I’ve never told another and if it gets out I swear I’ll do everything in my power to end you. I know where you live, where you hide away. I know the taverns you patron and the friends you visit. There is nowhere you can hide that I won’t find you if you betray me on this. Do you still want to know?”

“You should know by now that I would rather die than to betray you Meira. Your threats are unfounded here.”

“This is not a threat, Darven. I am being most sincere when I tell you that I will kill you, my best friend, if word of what I’m about to tell you gets out. You have my word on that.”

“What is the secret?”

“I don’t have different nightmares,” I said closing my eyes, steeling my mind from the images it conjured “there’s only one. It’s the same nightmare time and time again. I wake in the middle of the night unable to move, to talk, or even think straight. My eyes refuse to open and my heart pounds in my chest like a rabbit given chase. The aroma of dirt and decaying roses fill the room and I know I’m not alone. A voice speaks to me from the darkness. The voice is raspy...cold...passionless and I’m filled with a sense of despair I struggle to flee from but the invisible bonds holding me prevent even the slightest of movements.” I stopped to take a breath before continuing with the next part of the nightmare.

“By the gods, Meira!”

“The gods do not dwell here,” I huffed “and they haven’t for many generations. The nightmares don’t end there though I wish they did. The figure throws back the covers and climbs into my bed, straddling my hips. It tears my top of and runs a fingernail from breast to belly, whispering, taunting me. Such a beautiful canvas, it says...”

“It? What do you mean it?”

“I can’t tell if the voice is that of a man or a woman. And with my eyes unwilling, or unable to open, I never see the person sitting on top of me. This’ll be my greatest work of art yet so try not to struggle too much, the voice continues to taunt me. We’ve only got one chance to create a masterpiece. That’s when I wake up screaming. In a matter of days after the nightmare there’s another killing. I think my nightmares are visions, Darven. In some dark and twisted way I think I’m able to predict when someone is going to die, but I never know whom it will be. I had a nightmare tonight. My last one was three days ago and now Ryn is dead.”

“I don’t even know what to say!” Darven gasped.

“I don’t know what to think anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’m a part of this, that I’m having these dreams for a reason. I just can’t figure out what that reason might be. If I could just see the victim I might be able to warn them, damn it!”

“Do you ever see the Slayer in these nightmares?”

“No. My eyes refuse to open no matter how hard I try to open them. Wait, tonight. Tonight was different. I wasn’t sleeping, was I? It was more of a vision than a nightmare. And when the Slayer spoke it reached out a hand towards Ryn’s chest.”

“That’s great!” Darven exclaimed. I mean, it’s not great our friend and mentor was brutally murdered, but it’s great that you saw something of the killer. What can you remember about the hand?”

“It was...old, the skin wrinkled and thick like leather. But it small, thin like the hand of a woman. A woman! By the Gods, Darven, could the Slayer be a woman?”

“Or a creature disguised as such. If it is using magic anything is possible I suppose. If it is using magic it could be a different person for each crime. We’d never be able to find the thing. Wait, you said you had a nightmare tonight, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re saying that in a few days there’ll be another murder?”

“Yes.”

“And you never once thought to tell anyone about it? To seek help?”

“Who would I tell? The Watch? They’d laugh it off as childish fears. I’ve lived on the streets since I was five years old. Sure, I could’ve told some of the other children, but what would’ve been the point?”

“So how do you know the killer is using magic?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure until tonight. When we entered the house I heard the voice talking to Ryn. I had a vision of Ryn floating – held suspended in the air right there,” I replied pointing to a spot on the floor between where the rocking chair and table used to be. “‘Such a beautiful landscape, the Slayer said to Ryn. Give in to the inevitability of your death. Rejoice that through your sacrifice I shall live on.’ It was horrible! His body...his body was covered with...intricate patterns that looked very much...magical to me.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Darven suggested. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and his tail around my waist and led me from the home of out departed friend.