The Nursery of a Dead Clan

Malakor had witnessed the entire scene unfold, his senses scanning for the slightest movement amid the surrounding devastation. A part of him knew he should return to Jianna and Blynn; the girl was utterly defenseless, and the Satyri would offer little protection if they were attacked. But a grim compulsion, a morbid curiosity, overrode his caution. Slipping through the narrow breach Flitterwing had torn open, he descended into the crater.

The small chamber was bathed in a wan, ethereal glow emanating from a single, faintly luminous stone. The light source lay beside the Feyan, who was crouched in the center of the room with his back to the entrance, cradling something in his arms.

After a single inhale, Malakor forced himself to breathe through his mouth. The cloying stench of death in the enclosed space was so thick it was almost a physical presence. Through the gloom, he could make out the wreckage of furniture—delicate, finely carved pieces now splintered and upended against the earthen walls. He advanced slowly, treading carefully, as if the silence itself were fragile and demanded reverence.

“What is this place?” Malakor asked, his voice a low whisper.

For a long moment, Flitterwing did not reply. When he finally spoke, his voice, so full of life and mischief only hours before, was devoid of all emotion, utterly hollow. “This? This is the nursery.” The final word caught in his throat, dissolving into a ragged, choking sound.

In an instant, Malakor was by his side. Peering down, he saw that Flitterwing was holding a tiny form—an infant Fey, its silvery hair matted with blood. Malakor’s gaze fell upon the delicate, iridescent wings of a dragonfly, now crumpled and still.

With a tenderness that defied the horror of the scene, Flitterwing rocked his dead child back and forth, as if lulling him to sleep. He stroked the infant’s small face with an agonizing love, his touch oblivious to the dark blood that seeped from a neat puncture wound in the baby’s chest.

“Everyone’s dead,” Flitterwing said, his voice a dead monotone, though the words were clearly meant for Malakor. “They would have fought to the last to protect the nursery. This was our future. Joriel, ishalna corif na fifani.” The last was a low moan, a lament directed at the lifeless form in his embrace.

“Wha’… what was his name?” Malakor inquired softly, gesturing toward the child.

“Namino Joriel,” Flitterwing breathed, his voice breaking as he spoke the baby’s Soulname—his true name. It was an act born either of a sudden, profound trust in Malakor, or of the stark realization that it no longer mattered; one cannot command the dead, even with their Soulname. “In the Common Tongue, Joriel means ‘Dawntreader’.”

Malakor gave a slow, deliberate nod. “It’s a good name.”

A sound that was a horrific parody of a laugh, dry and brittle, escaped Flitterwing’s lips. “I thought so, too. Better than mine, at any rate.” He gathered the small body and rose to his feet. With one hand, he righted a small, overturned cradle and tenderly laid his son inside. He found a blanket that was mostly unstained and carefully swaddled the child. He pressed one last kiss to the cold forehead, then turned and walked toward the entrance.

Sensing the Feyan’s need for solitude, Malakor had already retreated back outside. He waited. When Flitterwing squeezed back through the opening, his shoulders sagged, and he simply began to walk. Malakor fell into step a few paces behind him, and the silence between them was oppressive and absolute.

They were halfway across the plain when Flitterwing finally shattered. With a guttural scream of pure, undiluted rage, he whirled and slammed his fist into a skeletal, leafless tree, the crack echoing in the darkness. He spun on Malakor, his face a mask of anguish and fury, streaked with tears. “How could Troggs do this?” he demanded. “I can kill a score of them myself! How did our guards fall?”

“Because it wasn’t Troggs,” Malakor stated, his voice level and cold. Flitterwing stared, confusion warring with the grief on his ravaged features. “I saw tracks back there,” Malakor clarified. “Not big enough for Troggs. And the limbs on the dead… severed too cleanly. That’s not the work of a Trogg’s axe. It was Aelvin who fell on your people.”

“…Aelvin?” The word was a disbelieving echo. “Why would the Aelvin attack us? We’ve never done more than create distractions for Zovira.” He trailed off, his eyes growing wide with dawning horror. His gaze met Malakor’s, and a single, chilling thought passed between them: it had been some time since they had heard the roar of a Trogg.

Malakor broke into a dead run, Flitterwing launching into the air and easily matching his pace. They raced back toward the place they had left Jianna and Blynn, propelled by a shared, frantic urgency and the cold certainty that they were running toward disaster.

As they neared the spot where they had separated, Flitterwing cried out, “Malakor! They’re here!” He banked sharply to the side. Malakor followed without question, momentarily grateful for the Feyan’s aerial view over the tall grasses.

They burst into the clearing and froze. Their enemies had been waiting.

An Aelvin woman—Muscaria—held a dagger to Jianna’s throat. The girl was limp in her grasp, eyes wide with a terror so profound she seemed on the verge of fainting. A cordon of Aelvin warriors surrounded them in a tight circle, weapons drawn. Behind them, several hulking Troggs shifted impatiently, their brutish faces torn between sullen anger at the Aelvin for stealing their prize and hostile glares at the newcomers. There was no sign of Blynn.

“Come any closer, and I’ll open the girl’s throat before you can blink,” Muscaria said, her voice cool and composed. She pressed the dagger just enough to leave a white line on Jianna’s skin.

Malakor halted. Flitterwing drifted down to land silently beside him.

“Why d’ye want the girl?” Malakor demanded.

At the same instant, Flitterwing’s voice rang out, taut with fury. “Why did you murder my people?”

A sneer curled Muscaria’s lip. “One at a time. I ask the questions here. But to satisfy your curiosity, Feyan, your… ‘people’ were in the way. A necessary diversion. Had you not gone to check on them, you would not have left the human so conveniently unguarded. For that, you have our thanks.” She gave a slight, mocking inclination of her head.

Though he was trembling with a rage so potent it was a tangible force, Flitterwing held his ground.

“And I suppose I will answer your question, demon,” the Aelvin said, turning her attention to Malakor. “Lady Zovira has a keen interest in this Out-Realm girl, thanks to a prediction from her oracle. Can you imagine, the blasted fool abandoned her service right after the vision?” She gave a short, dismissive sniff. “But surely you know of this girl? The Council must have told you. Unless, of course, they don’t trust you.” She brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her face and smiled. “Is that it, demon? You’re just their delivery boy, having proved yourself unreliable once before? And here you are, proving yourself untrustworthy again. Can’t even deliver a single human alive to Kaur-Koram.” She pressed the blade’s edge deeper, and a thin line of red welled on Jianna’s neck.

And then Muscaria screamed. She staggered backward, her hand gone, the end of her arm a smoldering, cauterized stump.

Jianna was still limp, but her eyes were no longer her own. They were blazing white orbs, lit with an infernal light. Blue sparks crackled in her hair and danced from her fingertips. The Aelvin and the Troggs stared in stunned disbelief. A sharp thunderclap erupted, throwing back several of the warriors who had surged forward, their bodies charred and convulsing with lightning. A brilliant, otherworldly aura now enveloped Jianna, with arcs of electricity lashing out at anything that drew too near. A Trogg hurled a massive stone axe, but it vaporized into a cloud of fiery motes before it could reach her.

“Pull back!” shrieked the one-handed Muscaria, her face a mask of agony and incredulity. “Back to the citadel! We cannot fight this.” She cast one last, hate-filled glare at the incandescent girl before she and the remaining Aelvin melted into the darkness. The Troggs, bellowing with pain and terror, thundered after them into the night.

For another second, Jianna floated in the eye of the storm, her hair and clothes whipped by a wind only she could feel. Then, slowly, as if reluctant to depart, the light faded from her, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Struck dumb with amazement, Malakor and Flitterwing could only stare at her still form.

It was Flitterwing who found his voice first, a mere whisper of shock and disbelief. “Malakor? You never told me she was a sorceress.”

Malakor opened his mouth, but no sound came out. For the first time in his very long life, he had absolutely nothing to say.