Chapter 1

The Stain and the Scar

The Stain—

Waning Moon of Stillness – Season of Stone

Every sunrise, every sunset, I still feel you. You’re not in my arms anymore, but you’ve never left my mind. I just have to close my eyes and there you are, flickering, faint, but real. As cold as that memory is, your smile still warms the hollow in my chest, if only for a moment.

You always told me to laugh, you said it made my eyes brighter. You wanted me to leave my tears in the past, but I can’t. Each first moon, I light a candle by your shrine and kneel where the rug hides the stain—where the floor still remembers what I lost. I drown you with memories that pool at the edges of my eyelashes before they’re swept away. I like to think my tears carry them to you, wherever that may be.

I know I promised I’d go forward. That I’d keep living for both of us. I’m sorry, I lied. I still carry your picture, smudged now from so many nights wishing I could feel your warmth through the paper. I think I’ll know I’m ready to move on when your eyes finally fade.

But they haven’t. They stare back at me like they’re waiting for me to do something. To become something. To fix the mess I made of the life we dreamed of.

I thought you’d always be here. I’m not mad at you for leaving, I know how scared you were. You’d get that worried look in your eyes when we talked about dying. You told me that night, our last night, that my purpose was to heal the broken-hearted, to put an end to the trade.

I don’t know how you expect me to become a hero when I’m still learning to live alone. You always knew where to go, what to do. And now I’m just…here. Rootless. Lost. Maybe this is what I needed to escape the darkness. Maybe this is what it means to survive you.

This morning, I watched the sun rise over the mountains. For the first time in what feels like forever, I felt it, that flicker of life again. I think I’m ready to walk forward. I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t care. I just want to feel something real again. And I will find my way back to you. One day.

Until then, I’ll keep the lamp lit. Just in case your ghost still wanders.

—Eva

The Scar—

She was bleeding when I found her.

Not badly, not at first. Just a slice across her cheek, and another at the shoulder. I told myself it could be worse, that she had seen worse.

You were gone by then. I watched you slip through the back door like a ghost, small enough to disappear between shadows. Seren looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t relief, it was goodbye.

I was supposed to follow you, Eva. I almost did. But when the guards grabbed Seren and dragged her back toward the parlor, she didn’t scream. She just looked at me with knowing eyes. And I couldn’t move.

I froze, like some worthless noble’s son watching his world turn to ash. I wasn’t just my father’s blood— I was his silence, standing in a place I never should have been.

Then I ran. I tore after them. I fought like I meant to win. And maybe I did win, if even for a few minutes. Maybe I bought her enough time to breathe free one last time. By the time I found her again, there was too much blood. Her body was broken, her mind fading as the moon rose.

She said you made it out. Asked me to find you. To keep you safe. Said she was glad it was over. And then…she said nothing. If she only knew it was my foolishness that caused her death. I failed her. I failed both of you that night.

I buried Seren’s body in the garden behind the girls’ quarters, near the black iron fence where she used to hide stolen pastries for you. I left no marker, no flowers were placed in remembrance, just a name carved onto the inside of my arm with the same knife they used to take her light from me. That’s all I could take with me, it’s all I have left of her.

I was supposed to protect both of you. I should have been there earlier. I’ve lived every day with the weight of that choice, and it never gets lighter.

If you ever read this, Eva—

Know that I didn’t run from you. I ran after her. I thought I could save Seren from this nightmare, and I lost her anyway.

I’m so sorry.

For what I did.

For what I didn’t do.

—Sylas

Where Memory Waits

The glass scraped softly across the marble bar, a sound too delicate for a place like this. Ice clinked against crystal, then silence, save for the muffled piano warbling in the corner. Sylas brought the whiskey to his lips, the first swallow warming his chest like a slow spark in winter.

He sat back on the cold metal stool, elbows resting on polished stone, eyes scanning the crowd with a practiced detachment. Brown suits. Black suits. Cream-colored dresses. Everyone blurred together—just ghosts in a rhythm, chasing comfort they’d never admit needing.

The bartender reappeared like clockwork, voice rough with disinterest.

“‘Nother whiskey for you, sir?”

Sylas squinted at the crooked name tag on the man’s worn vest.

“Thanks, Tom.”

The glass was filled before he’d finished the words.

He didn’t drink to forget. Forgetting was easy. He drank to remember—to keep the details sharp. The smells. The sounds. The way things felt right before they fell apart.

A commotion sparked at the far end of the bar—raised voices, a toppled chair—and then settled as quickly as it had flared. He barely turned his head. Cigarettes and sour beer saturated the air, a stale perfume of places like this.

The stairs in the back caught his eye, narrow and old, trudging upward into flickering light. He’d missed them when he walked in. Most did. But now—

Flowing green fabric.

Pale skin like ivory.

She emerged from the doorway like a memory. She moved like smoke. Her gaze didn’t waver. She didn’t scan the room, didn’t pause at the stairs. Men parted for her without a word, lowering their eyes like she was something holy—or something hunted.

Sylas sat up straighter, glass halfway to his lips.

She didn’t walk like she owned the place.

She walked like she built it.

He watched her ascend without breaking stride, as if the room itself bent to her will. His drink warmed in his hand, untouched.

She hasn’t seen him yet. He doubts she would recognize him if she did.

The years have changed them both. She’s sharper now, polished like something reforged in fire. But it’s still her. He’d know the shape of her presence anywhere.

It’s a strange thing, seeing a ghost that still breathes.

He shifts on the stool, heart steady, fingers curled loose around the glass. He tells himself he came for information. That this is just the beginning of a long delayed debt, but watching her now, untouchable, alive, he isn’t so sure.

She stops at the landing. Turns. Their eyes don’t meet, but he feels something stir, like recognition or warning. He doesn’t look away.

If she’s built a new life, its wrapped in secrets. And Sylas? He built his life learning how to break them.

The clink of glass draws him back. Tom returns, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better days.

“She come in often?” Sylas asks, voice easy, like he’s making idle conversation. He doesn’t look up from his drink.

Tom follows his gaze, then shrugs. “More lately than she used to. Quiet thing. Keeps to herself.”

Sylas hums. “Doesn’t seem like she’s here for the company.”

Tom chuckles, low and tight. “Company’s not what it used to be.”

He hesitates, then leans in just enough to lower his voice. “Some say she owns the place now. Bought it off the old bastard who used to run it. Man vanished a few months back. Didn’t even collect the deed.”

Sylas arches a brow, feigning mild interest. “Is that so?”

Tom nods. “Name’s Eva. No last name. Just Eva. You get the feeling she’s seen more than she lets on. One of those types who already knows what you’re gonna say.”

Sylas swirls what’s left in his glass. “What do they say about her?”

Tom pauses. “That she doesn’t ask twice. That if you owe her, you pay. If you don’t, you disappear.”

There’s no fear in Tom’s voice—just quiet respect. Like the kind earned, not taken.

Sylas offers a faint smile. “Sounds like someone worth knowing.”

Tom gives him a long look, then moves on to serve another customer.

Sylas watches the stairs again.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

She’s changed, but not enough. The way she moved—deliberate, unbothered—he remembers that. Remembers her sister pulling her close behind the bar, whispering what to say and who to avoid. Remembers Eva’s small hands gripping stolen bread, her eyes too old for her face.

He finishes the whiskey and sets the glass down gently.

He’s not here to mourn. He’s here to find out if the rumors are true.

If it’s her—if Eva is the one bleeding out the rot at the root—he’ll help her burn it all down.

Even if it means standing in the fire.

Close, but Not Known

She’s always gone by nightfall.

Ten days I’ve been here. Long enough to chart her rhythms, short enough to stay invisible.

The innkeeper didnt ask questions—just handed me a key and grunted at the credits. The room’s small, walls thin, but it has a view. From the second floor, I can see the bar across the street. Or more specifically, the attic window above it.

There’s always a light there. Faint. Flickering. A candle, maybe. Or something else.

She retires early, like clockwork. But the light tells a different story.

I’ve only seen her leave through the front once. Most nights, she slips out the back—coat tight, head down. She doesn’t wander far, but she never returns empty-handed. A parcel. A paper. Once, a bloodied ring.

The locals don’t speak her name in the open, but they speak it often. Eva. No title. No last name. Just a shape in their mouths—sharp at the start, soft at the end.

She doesn’t walk alone.

The thing at her side has the rough outline of a dog—tall, sleek, with ears like painted brushstrokes, tipped in what looks like feathers or smoke. Its body shifts constantly, like heat rising from pavement. You stare too long, you lose the edges. The eyes are black, but they glow faintly red when the air tightens.

Once, I saw it look straight at me. I haven’t slept right since.

There’s a bird too—bigger than any crow I’ve ever seen. It’s got the same wrongness to it, like it was made from a memory instead of flesh. When she’s calm, it perches in silence. But when her mood darkens, its red eyes flicker like coals. It moves like a knife in flight.

They’re always near her. I heard someone mutter a name for the dog the other night—Od. Just Od. Like something half-finished, or a joke told in a dead language. It made me laugh before I realized I was the only one laughing.

At night, the attic window always glows. Sometimes warm, sometimes red—like blood behind curtains. The bar sleeps. But she doesn’t.

I came here chasing a rumor. A whisper of vengeance, cloaked in the face of a ghost I never expected to see again. But now I’m not sure who’s haunting who.

I hadn’t planned to speak to her. Not yet. I needed more time—time to observe, to understand who she’d become, and whether the rumors were true.

It was a rainy morning, the kind that softened the edges of the city and left the air heavy with old stories. I stopped in for breakfast, a habit I was forming. I told myself it was convenient, told myself it was harmless. Tom brought the usual—some kind of meat, overdone potatoes, and eggs that defied description. I didn’t taste much of it.

I was thinking about the new brothel rumored to be rising just outside town. A quiet build, tucked in the folds of dusk and paid for in hush money. They weren’t supposed to exist anymore, not since the ban. But they did. And they thrived in the shadows—unless someone burned them to the ground.

That someone might be her. If it is her.

If she’s the witch they whisper about—the one unraveling the trade, one man at a time—then she’s done what I never could. I have names, secrets, access. But not power. Not like hers. I need her help. I just don’t know if she’ll give it… or if she even remembers who I am.

I didn’t hear her approach. But I felt it—like a shift in gravity.

She came from behind, quiet as mist. I didn’t turn around right away. I just let the moment stretch, let the air thicken between us. Her gaze was heavy, curious. Like she was sifting through old memories, searching for something long buried.

When I looked up, she was already beside me.

“Rain’s heavier today,” she said, like she wasn’t talking about the weather.

Her voice was soft, kind even—but it carried weight. Each word landed with the precision of a blade. She spoke like someone who had nothing left to prove and no time to waste.

I managed something like a smile. “It suits the town.”

She tilted her head slightly. Studied me. “You’ve been around.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Passing through,” I lied. I hated lying, so I didn’t linger in it. “Breakfast is decent.”

Her eyes narrowed just enough to say she didn’t buy it. Stormy grey, sharp as flint. Her skin was pale, not in the sickly way of someone unwell, but in the way marble holds light—porcelain and striking. Her red hair was tied back, barely tamed, and catching the dim light like flame trying to escape a lantern.

She wasn’t tall. But gods, she felt tall. Like the room bent around her.

She said nothing more. Just offered a polite nod and moved on. Her boots clicked against the old tile as she walked back toward the stairs, her shadow drifting behind her like smoke.

The light in her attic would burn late tonight.

The Girl, An Omen

Sylas waited until Tom refilled his coffee, the soft clink of the pot against ceramic giving him an opening. He leaned back on the stool, swirling the mug gently in his hand.

“Quiet around here lately?” he asked, voice low and easy.

Tom gave a noncommittal grunt, wiping his hands on a stained rag. “Quiet enough.”

Sylas let the silence stretch a few heartbeats longer, then added, “Heard something strange the other day—someone mentioned new business opening off the East Ridge. Said it’s… invitation only.”

Tom’s eyes flicked toward him, the way people do when they’re weighing whether to lie.

“Can’t say I know about that,” Tom replied too quickly. “Town’s always got its whispers. You know how folks talk.”

“I do,” Sylas said, nodding slowly. “Still. Seems like strange timing, don’t you think? Thought those kinds of places were banned years ago.”

Tom hesitated. His mouth opened, then shut again. He looked around—an instinctive glance, checking for ears.

“There’s a girl comes in sometimes,” he finally said. “Red scarf, limps a little on her left side. Sits near the back table, quiet sort. Always hungry. Startles at the slightest whisper of a breath. You’ll know her if you see her. She doesn’t talk much—but she’s one of them. Not by choice.”

Sylas nodded once. “She have a name?”

“Not one she gives.” Tom wiped the counter a little harder than necessary. “But she’s there most nights after sundown. East Ridge, like you said. Look for the rusted gate with the violet flag. They’ll only open if they know you’re not new to this.”

“Appreciate it, Tom.”

Tom shrugged and walked off, but Sylas noticed the way his shoulders stiffened as he moved. Some truths sat heavy even in whispers.

Sylas paid his tab and stepped out into the thinning light. The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled like rust and wet stone. He chose to walk—the East Ridge wasn’t far, and riding in this part of town meant drawing attention. That wasn’t something he could afford.

The city was a contradiction of time. A creaking cart pulled by a mule clattered past a parked transport skimmer. The skimmer’s shell shimmered with oil-slick colors, its driver asleep behind mirrored glass. Across the street, a vendor hacked apart roasted tubers with a plasma cutter older than Sylas’ coat. On rare days, he’d catch sight of a starship descending toward the port on the far end of town—always private, always rich. They never stayed long.

This world—Pelnar—was old. Mined hollow, drained dry. Whatever green once blanketed its surface had long been traded for metal and flame. The city had grown over the bones of the planet like scar tissue. Crumbling stone buildings leaned against newer structures patched together with solar panel scraps and alloy struts. It was a place that had learned how to survive without hope.

Still, there were corners of beauty. The East Ridge loomed ahead, a stretch of jagged peaks cupping the edge of the Black Forest. They said the trees there still whispered if you walked among them at night. Some believed the forest remembered. Sylas didn’t, not exactly—but something in him felt uneasy the closer he got.

As he turned off the main road, the buildings grew quieter, older, and closer together. Dust coated every surface, clinging to clothes and teeth alike. He passed a cracked fountain long since run dry, then ducked into a narrow alley that curved like a question mark toward the outer edge of town.

Just before the ridge, half-hidden by a weather-worn rock wall, he found it: a rusted iron gate with a tattered violet ribbon tied to its bars.

It swayed gently in the breeze—welcoming or warning, he couldn’t tell.

He didn’t knock. Not yet.

A sharp cry broke the stillness.

It was faint, muffled by distance and the thick air—but unmistakable. A girl. Young.

Another sound followed—boots slamming against stone. Men’s voices, angry and panicked, echoing down a narrow side street.

Sylas backed into the shadows, pressing his body against the cold brick wall. He knew that tone—someone had slipped the leash.

A flutter of movement caught his eye. Bare feet skidding on dust. A slip of a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, ducked behind a broken transport shell lodged between two buildings. Her breath came in gasps, limbs trembling.

Her eyes met his, wide and wild. She didn’t trust him. Smart girl.

“Don’t run,” Sylas whispered, barely moving his lips. “They’ll hear you.”

She crouched lower, hands clutched to her chest like she was holding something sacred—or stolen.

Shouts cracked through the alley. Closer now.

Sylas scanned the path behind him, then knelt slowly to meet the girl’s eye line. “There’s a cave,” he said, voice low and even. “In the woods, past the East Ridge. Go straight until the trees grow too thick to see the sky. You’ll find a willow with white bark. Behind it, a cave. I played there when I was your age. No one else knows about it.”

The girl didn’t move.

“You don’t have to trust me,” he said, “but if they find you, it’s over. They’ll lock you back in and throw away the key. Or worse.”

He saw the calculation behind her eyes. She couldn’t afford hope. But she could afford desperation.

Footsteps thundered down the alley behind him.

“Go,” he hissed. “Now.”

The girl bolted. Not a sound. Just a flash of movement and the sharp whisper of feet disappearing into the trees.

Sylas stood, blocking the men’s line of sight as they rounded the corner.

“Hey,” one barked. “You seen a girl run through here?”

Sylas cocked his head, casual as ever. “This alley? Just me. And a rat the size of a cat. Pretty sure he gave me the side-eye.”

The man frowned, squinting past Sylas, but saw nothing.

“Try east,” Sylas said, pointing in the opposite direction. “If she’s clever, she doubled back.”

They ran.

Sylas didn’t wait. He turned and walked fast—no longer toward the gate, but back the way he came. There was only one person who could help now. If Eva was who he thought she was… she’d go after the girl.

And if she wasn’t?

He’d walk into the Black Forest alone.

The Oracle – Part 1

Sylas ran, chest heaving, boots heavy with mud. His lungs burned, and so did the urgency behind his steps. By the time he made it back to the bar, Eva was already there.

She stepped from the shadows like she’d been summoned, her presence sharp and storm-dark. Her eyes locked on him—fierce, unreadable.

“Where is she?” Her voice was low and dangerous. “The girl. Where is she?”

Sylas stammered, caught off guard by the raw fury radiating off her. “I… I found her—there were men—how did you know?”

Eva’s gaze didn’t falter. “I felt it.”

He blinked, breathless. “She’s in the cave. Black Forest. I sent her there. It’s hidden—”

“The one near the white willow?” she interrupted.

He nodded, surprised she remembered. “You still know it?”

She looked past him. “The Oracle is waiting.”

Then she turned without another word, climbing the stairs two at a time. Sylas followed, struggling to catch up.

“Eva,” he called. “Eva, I need your help. That girl, she—”

A flash of crimson light erupted from the room ahead. A sudden gust of smoke burst outward, hot and thick, curling around his face and chest. It stung his lungs. Burned his eyes. When he opened them again, she was gone.

No footsteps. No sound.

Just a shimmer in the air where she’d stood, dust caught in the fading sunbeam.

Sylas staggered back, breath caught in his throat. He had seen illusions before. Carnival tricks, sleight of hand. But this? This was old magic. Ancestral. It clung to him like the smoke—bitter on his tongue, electric in his bones. Real magic.

He didn’t wait long.

Within minutes, he’d stolen a tired old mare from a nearby hitching post and took off toward the edge of the forest. The horse wasn’t fast, but it knew the way—like it, too, was drawn to something deep in the trees.

He tethered her just beyond the forest line, at a bend in the path where the shadows grew long and the air felt different—older.

He walked.

The silence was immediate, the kind that swallowed sound. Even his breath felt too loud. The trees here were thick and twisted, their bark dark as soot, their branches tangled overhead like clasped hands shutting out the sky.

Then he saw it—light.

A faint, golden glow bleeding through the branches like dawn had cracked open in the distance.

And then… a voice.

Eva’s, quiet but certain. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was reverent, like prayer or spellwork.

A second voice followed, older. Not louder, just deeper—earthbound. It moved like wind through reeds or roots breaking stone.

The two voices tangled like smoke in candlelight. They weren’t speaking—they were singing. A lullaby of sorts, eerie and fragile. The kind of sound that could make a man weep without knowing why.

Sylas crept closer, drawn to the glow.

And there, in a clearing drenched in amber light, he saw them: Eva, on her knees, head bowed. And before her, tall and still as a statue carved from night itself—the Oracle.

She was not of this world. Her skin was deep as soil, textured like bark. Her hair was wild and full of leaves, her dress woven from strips of white willow bark that shimmered like frost.

She raised her hand toward Eva’s crown, and the trees bloomed under her touch.

Sylas did not dare move.

The Oracle – Part 2

The clearing pulsed with stillness, the hush of sacred ground. Sylas stood at its edge, half-hidden in shadow, watching as the Oracle lowered her hand and the last flickers of willowlight faded into the roots below.

Then—

“Sylas.”

His name, soft as a breath, whispered not in his ear but behind his ribs—deep, inside his chest. He froze. It didn’t echo like a sound, it bloomed like a memory.

“My boy. My beautiful boy with the golden heart… you’ve returned to me.”

Sylas turned, startled. The air remained still, the wind unmoving. Yet he felt her—next to him. Her voice brushed the shell of his ear.

“Do not fear me, child. You are safe in my forest.”

Eva didn’t flinch. She hadn’t heard.

And that, somehow, made it more real.

He stepped forward, hesitating at the edge of the light. Eva rose from her knees, already sensing movement behind her. Her hand went to the short sword at her hip, quick and instinctive. The moment she saw him, she drew it.

Then lowered it.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said enough: You followed me.

The Oracle’s eyes shifted to Sylas, calm and knowing. The leaves in her wild hair trembled gently, though no breeze stirred.

“I know you, child,” she said aloud now, her voice rich and rooted in the earth. “I am at your service. How can I help?”

Sylas exhaled. “There’s a girl—”

“Yes.” The Oracle cut in gently. “She is safe… for now.”

She stepped forward with slow grace, her bare feet leaving tiny blossoms in the moss where she walked. Her presence bent the world around her, time itself seeming to slow in reverence.

“She must be moved.” Her voice rippled outward, carried by unseen winds, echoing softly through the canopy. “The Traders are near. Their hogs—foul beasts—are trained well. Blood, fear, heat. They will find her.”

A pause.

Her eyes, ancient and endless, turned to Eva. Galaxies swirled within them—blue as deep waters, bright as stars.

“They will find you, too, Eva. You are the ember they’ve been sniffing for, even in their sleep.”

Silence gathered, heavy as thunderclouds.

“The time for hiding has passed,” the Oracle said. “The time for action has knocked on your door. Will you answer the call?”

Eva stood rooted, her hands clenched at her sides, face calm but eyes storming.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

The trees answered for her—branches tightening above, a low groan of wind rising from the earth.

She had been waiting for this.

A hush fell over the glade, broken only by the rustling leaves as the Oracle turned her gaze toward the thick shadows near the cliff wall.

“Come, little one,” she called, her voice carrying like wind through reeds. “You are safe here. No harm shall find you under my branches.”

For a moment, there was nothing—then a small figure stepped from the cave’s mouth, her bare feet hesitant on moss and stone. She was rail-thin, wild-eyed, her hair tangled with bits of leaf and ash. A faint bruise bloomed beneath her jaw, but her chin remained lifted, cautious and defiant.

Eva stepped forward slowly, kneeling to meet the girl’s gaze. “What’s your name?” she asked gently.

The girl answered, her voice brittle. “Mari.”

A pause. “They called me Mari.”

Eva tilted her head. “And what were you called? Before.”

The girl flinched, uncertain.

“Not by them,” Eva whispered. “By your soul. What name still sings in your bones?”

The girl looked down, eyes darting side to side as if trying to remember something long buried. Her lips parted, barely a breath.

“…Callaia.”

The word settled between them like a bell tone in still air.

Eva reached out, brushing the girl’s hair behind her ear. “Callaia,” she repeated. “Yes. That’s better.”

The girl trembled, and Eva leaned in close. Her breath was a hush against Callaia’s temple as she whispered the spell—a binding of safety, of sleep, of forgetfulness. A lullaby wrapped in ancient words.

Callaia’s eyes fluttered shut. Eva caught her gently as she slumped forward, weightless in her arms.

“She cannot stay,” Eva said, rising with the girl in her arms. “She needs warmth. Food. Rest.”

The Oracle gave a slow, knowing nod. “Then send her home. The path you’re walking now will soon need all the light it can bear.”

Eva turned to Sylas. “Take her. Ride fast. I’ll meet you in the back room, near the kitchen. It hasn’t been used in years.”

Sylas took the girl from her arms and cradled her against his chest. He nodded, saying nothing. Then he turned for the path, where his stolen horse waited.

Behind them, the wind carried a name through the trees like a prayer.

Callaia.

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