Sleep eluded me in the weeks following Lucan's death.

  Much like the mischievous Onyx, the escape of slumber seemed to taunt me. Unlike Onyx, there was no punishment to be inflicted that would coerce a restful night into submission.

  When I closed my eyes, I saw Lucan’s—green as emeralds and radiating with fear.

  Panic surged within me; my heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to tear free and tumble down the dark shaft atop the Heartsbane Plinth. I choked, my breaths fast and shallow as my lungs screamed for air.

  I raced from bed, seeking the night sky like a swimmer trying to break the water’s surface. I burst through the doors of my chambers and out onto the balcony, gripping the stone balustrade like a lifeline. Sweat stung my eyes, my legs trembling as I fought to remain upright.

  Though no matter how weak my legs grew, burning from the lack of oxygen coursing through my blood, I refused to fall. To show weakness, I'd learned, was to be punished. Draan was, after all, a city of violence and ruthlessness.

  I looked up into the night sky, trying to slow my rapid breaths and racing heart.

  The overbearing black sun, Obos—the Dead God's Eye—was closed. In its place, the twin moons Ral and Turos moved slowly through their eternal dance. If one believed the legend, they were my grandmothers. They stared down at me, a set of eyes, one silver, the other gold. Under their glow, faint hints of colour emerged in the city below: scarlet banners, gilded columns, and ornate statues—beauty concealed during the day by monotonous monochromatic light.

  All under Obos’ gaze were stripped of colour, appearing only in shades of grey. Enough time spent under His eye would lead this change to be permanent. Radiation from Obos had odd effects on those who spent time beneath His rays. Mortals would find their skin and hair bleached, their eyes white with thin cataracts that allowed for sight and protected their vision from the harsh light.

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  For instance, the dusklings that drifted lazily above the rooftops, their pale white lights a faint echo of the stars scattered across the heavens. The insectoid dusklings had evolved to feed on darkness itself, leaving trails of pale luminescence in their wake. This made them appear as dim stars that were visible over the cityscape only when Obos closed His eye for the eve.

  I took a deep breath, allowing the night air to soothe my panic.

  Draan, despite its savage nature, revealed moments of tenderness that made me love it, almost against my will.

  The nights were one such moment, as the twin moons danced and the dusklings rose. The harsh yells of workers, the barked orders of guards and nobles, the trundle of cart wheels over dirt roads, the metallic march of militia through the streets—all of it faded with the fall of night in Draan. It was replaced instead with the greetings of friends after a hard day's work, the soft whispers of reunited lovers, and the cheers of children as their family reconvened.

  My reprieve was short-lived.

  The barest creak indicated my door had opened. When I glanced around, the room appeared empty.

  It looked the same as always: a four-poster bed bearing a design of gilded chains around the posts. A chandelier hung over the bed, adorned with unlit candles. The bedhead bore a large crystal orb. Teardrop-shaped stones encircled the orb, emitting a ruby glow meant to symbolise the rivers of blood of Draan society, overlooked by Obos' uncaring eye. What it meant in practice was an eerie sterile white light, tinged with flecks of red that gave the room a ghoulish appearance.

  The light framed the engravings on my wall, depicting great battles in obsidium and gold, interspersed with rubies. The warlike motifs were always looked over by the stern etchings of my father.

  My gaze swept the room again, lingering on every shadowed corner—but nothing was amiss. Convinced my guilt was conjuring phantoms, I shrugged uneasily and returned to my reverie.

  I jerked backward, startled, finding myself face-to-face with a stern, angular face dominated by a single yellow eye. His other eye was obscured beneath a large black bandage, complementing a prominent hooked nose.

  The man's lips were upturned into a pouting scowl. Long black hair hung limply over his face. Above all else, the main feature that caught my attention was how the man hung weightlessly over the balustrade: his feet were flat against the railing, and his hand lightly caressed the stone, yet he hung firm. His other hand, however, was concerned with a knife that lightly pricked my throat.

  I gulped sharply, wincing as the blade’s tip gently broke my skin. I felt the burning path my blood made as it trailed down my neck and dropped into the darkness below…

  Chapter 3: Left Eye of God