The officers from the Commission surrounded Aron and Maselli, though Ren Talon had requested that his men give the earthens some privacy.

  “Sir, we are grateful for granting us this opportunity,” said Aron. “We cannot repay you.”

  “Out of all the children in the south, why did it have to be your son?” Talon asked. “What makes him so special?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aron.

  “I heard he went to Leonard because he wanted some money. Do you believe that?”

  “He is young, Sir. He made a mistake. No one was there to stop him this time.”

  Talon’s gaze lingered on the dormant computer on his desk. He let his folded arms fall, his tense muscles softening.

  “I can’t begin to fathom how it feels to be in your position. It makes you wonder what goes through the minds of all the parents whose children have had the injection recently. I hope our High Commander knows what she’s doing. Aron, you’re a strong man—stronger than you realise.”

  As they left the building, Hannah waited at the gate, having been barred entry by the operator’s instruction that only family members were allowed to speak with Jeromy. She couldn’t contain her excitement when they reached her.

  “Did you see him?” she pestered. “How was he?”

  Aron didn’t mind Hanna’s questions, leaving Maselli to answer. But where could he even begin? Jeromy was finer than a prince. He was friends with the most influential woman in their country. He had powers Maselli would die for.

  “Oh, Maselli…” Hanna pulled him into an embrace. “Don’t cry.”

  Silly girl. He wasn’t crying!

  Aron led them through the open streets of the Third. Almost every war factory had ceased operations but not from labour strikes or lockdowns. Peace was on the horizon. After ten years of conflict, Sexton and Henrikia were preparing to sit down and resolve their differences. There would be no need for war factories anymore.

  “Are you telling me Maselli didn’t say a single word throughout the call?” Hanna asked. “Do you know how foolish you’ll feel tomorrow?”

  “Don’t be too harsh on him,” said Aron. “Now that he’s told you about Ezra, you can understand how difficult it has been for us.”

  Hanna’s first reaction in the tunnel had been a mix of outrage and disbelief. She had spent an hour berating Maselli, convinced it was a prank. That night, she hadn’t believed him and left home angry. That was when he involved Aron and Mari. Maselli eventually took Hanna to see Ezra. He had half-expected her not to perceive the fae, but Ezra hadn’t hidden from her.

  “Uncle, I don’t mean to offend you, but everything that’s happened is your fault. Jeromy wouldn’t be in this situation if you weren’t poor. Why didn’t you ask my parents for help? You know my father would have given you the money for Ezra’s medicines.”

  “I did ask them. More than once. I revealed the truth about Ezra so they would lend me more money. We kept the secret until Rita told Matrica, who told Jeremy. Eventually, Father Ken found out and threatened to report me to the commissioner if I didn’t reveal where the foreigner was hiding.”

  Maselli’s head throbbed. It sounded like nonsense, yet Aron spoke without a trace of sarcasm. What was he hearing? Aron hesitated, stretching out Maselli’s unease, before finally speaking.

  “I’m only telling you this now because I trust you two will work together. If not as a couple, then as good friends. Otherwise, everything we’ve done will be in vain.”

  “Please, tell us everything,” Hanna begged. “I don’t like the secrecy.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you the South receives more visitors than you realise?” Aron asked.

  “Who in their right mind would visit the South?” Hanna scoffed.

  “Swayers,” said Maselli.

  “Right,” Aron nodded. “The Swayer’s Dawn.”

  “The Swayer’s Dawn?” Hanna mouthed. “What is that? What are you two talking about?”

  “Let me finish,” said Aron. He paused for a moment, then turned to Maselli. “You might remember fragments of it, but I doubt you fully understand how you’re feeling right now. Your mother and I have kept many things hidden from you children. It’s been nearly ten years since the sorceresses brought Ezra to our village, and they’ve been coming ever since. They use spells to erase certain events from your memories.”

  Hanna trembled all over, unable to digest what Maselli had prepared his whole life for.

  “Swayers are powerful ascenders, that much I can tell you,” Aron continued. “The Dawn monitors anyone who suspects us—anyone who may have heard Ezra during their absence.”

  “Are they here?” asked Maselli. “Are they watching us right now?”

  “No, they come and go.”

  “Ezra… This isn’t the first time she’s had Black Vein, is it? And it’s not the first time I’ve tried to help her.”

  “Every year. In the early days of the war, times weren’t as hard. Buying Black Syrup was far less of a challenge than it is today.”

  “Why would anyone do this to you?” Hanna demanded. “The Dawn—or whatever you called them—are selfish for burdening you like this. And they couldn’t even bother to cover Ezra’s expenses! Maselli, why are you so calm?”

  “The Dawn never asked Aron to cure Ezra when she got ill,” Maselli realised. “Aron and Mari took it upon themselves. They brought Ezra here to die.”

  Aron nodded. “I don’t know what Ezra did to deserve death, but I let myself become attached to her. I couldn’t let it happen.”

  “What did the Swayers do when they found out you were saving her from Black Vein?” Hanna pressed.

  “They knew it was only a matter of time before I could no longer afford the treatment. As long as Ezra’s death was inevitable, they did not interfere.”

  “And what about me?” Maselli asked. “Why take away my memories?”

  “I asked them to keep you out of it. I wanted you and your brother to have some semblance of a normal life, free from the burden of knowing what Ezra, your mother, and I were going through.”

  Maselli shoved Aron into a lamppost and seized him by the shirt. “Did you ever think that was what we wanted? Ezra—does she remember things that I don’t?”

  “She does.”

  “How lonely she must feel.” Maselli’s grip weakened. “All because of you.”

  “Uncle, I don’t understand something,” said Hanna from behind. “Why would they go through all this trouble to kill her? Couldn’t they just…” She dragged a finger across her throat.

  Aron chose not to answer.

  When they arrived behind Blackwood’s Ring, the portal opened. Hanna darted in front of Aron, arms spread wide to block him. When he tried to manoeuvre around her, she shifted to bar his path.

  “What are you doing?” Aron asked.

  “We want to know everything,” Hanna insisted. “Let’s find somewhere nearby and keep talking.”

  “I’ve told you everything there is to know.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  The portal began to close.

  “Hanna!” Aron snapped.

  “Uncle, I’m serious,” she said. “We can spend four more hours on the Farm, can’t we?”

  “I didn’t tell Mari I’d be coming home at two in the morning.”

  “Antonica doesn’t know where I am either,” Hanna replied. “We can all make sacrifices.”

  Had Aron wished, he could have moved Hanna aside. But staying to tell them the whole story was something he wanted to do. The hum of the Ring subsided, and the portal closed.

  There was only one place nearby where they could talk for the next four hours—the tower beside an astaphite factory. Once they had settled in, Aron began telling them about Floren. She was a leader of the Swayer’s Dawn, and it was she who had convinced the others not to execute Ezra but to exile her instead.

  “I don’t know what Ezra did during her time in Solvaria,” Aron admitted. “Floren has never told us, because she fears it would drive a wedge between us.”

  “Why? What is Ezra capable of?” Hanna asked.

  Both Aron and Maselli struggled to find an answer.

  “We can’t say for sure,” said Aron. “I have to be honest. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s right to keep letting her live. If it hadn’t been for Maselli, this might have been the time I let her die.”

  Jeromy had been right all along. Aron wanted Ezra dead. It sounded more understandable now that Maselli knew his father’s perspective. The Swayer’s Dawn were the ones in the wrong, burdening an innocent man with such a responsibility.

  “Hanna, thank you for pushing me to have this conversation,” Aron said. “I’ve spent days wondering when I’d gather the courage to tell you everything. This was the right time. I’ve been trying to persuade Floren to let you keep your memories. One day Mari and I will be gone, and it would have fallen to Maselli and Jeromy to guard our secret. I had hoped you and Maselli’s relationship would be in a… better place than it is.”

  Aron kept talking, oblivious to how uncomfortable he was making Hanna.

  “It may not have mattered either way. Floren doesn’t believe Ezra has much time left, so leaving you two with the secret is unnecessary.”

  “You mean—”

  “After Ezra is gone, we will forget she ever existed.”

  Maselli perked up, his frown deepening. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

  “This is the first time,” said Aron. “But none of it will matter soon. You won’t remember any of this—or the Black Vein, or the cure.”

  What was the point of revelation if it would all be erased later? For all they knew, Aron and Floren had already arranged to wipe their memories the moment they returned home. Aron had nothing to lose. His apologies, his gratitude toward Maselli—none of it meant anything.

  The growl of motorcycle engines cut through the night. Three officers wove between the clustered buildings, their headlights slicing the dark. Maselli tracked their course and knew exactly where they were headed: the Ring station.

  The motorcycles braked to a halt behind one Ring. Not just any Ring—Blackwood’s Ring.

  They rushed out of the tower, covering ground quickly to meet the officers. Whenever soldiers came to Blackwood, it seldom ended well. They arrived just as Blackwood’s Ring was powering up.

  “Officers, what business do you have in Blackwood?” Aron asked, his voice barely audible over the humming machine.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Two of the three crossed through the open portal, leaving one behind to address the earthens.

  “Are you from Blackwood?” the officer inquired.

  “Yes,” all three answered at once.

  “The commissioner received a report from the priest,” said the officer. “Is there a man named Franka Shepherd in your village?”

  “Not anymore,” Aron answered. “What about him?”

  The officer revved his motorcycle’s engine, glancing back at the portal. “We haven’t had an assault case in years,” he said.

  That evening, every light in Blackwood burned bright. Hundreds gathered around Block Six. The air buzzed with noise and chatter. Many leaned over the balustrades of the upper floor, straining for a glimpse of what was happening below.

  The officers called for order, blending into the crowd. Aron told Hanna and Maselli to stay back from whatever was unfolding at Block Six. Maselli was about to protest when Aron’s attention shifted. He had spotted something. A sight that washed his father white.

  There was no confusion, no metaphor to unravel. Franka stood before their eyes. He wore the same grey suit they had buried him in, the same white shirt, the same black shoes. He was unchanged in every way but one. Etched into his forehead was a symbol Maselli recognised—the same one Ezra had carved into their kitchen counter.

  Franka looked bored, unafraid of the officers. He held Father Ken’s wrist in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. Father Ken was so badly beaten he was barely recognisable. His nose was broken, his lip torn nearly free from his face. Blood dripped from his mouth. His robes hung in tatters. His holy staff lay discarded, his phone smashed to pieces.

  “Drop him,” one officer barked. “Drop him and get on the ground.”

  Another warning rang out. They aimed. They fired. Plasma bolts struck Franka—head, torso, arm. But the dead do not flinch. Everyone had the same thought: now would be a good time to run. And yet, no one moved. Why was it so impossible to look away?

  The officers fired again.

  Franka sprang forward, seizing the fallen staff. He closed on the soldiers with terrifying speed. Chaos ripped through the crowd as people scattered in all directions. Maselli, however, stayed rooted, his eyes locked on his dead brother.

  Franka twisted through the frantic shots. He smashed one officer’s head clean off with the staff. With another spin, he rammed it through a second officer’s gut, driving it until it burst out the other side, strings of blood and entrails dangling from the wood. Grabbing the dying man by the head, Franka crushed his skull with his bare hands.

  The last officer bolted for his motorcycle. He gunned the engine and tore into the fleeing crowd, running down a girl and ploughing through more bodies as he sped away.

  Franka seized the girl he had run over, ignoring her mother’s screams. He lifted her high, aimed, and hurled her into the fleeing officer. The girl’s body smashed into him, sending both crashing to the ground.

  The men who had been running stopped. Their fear curdled into disgust. Their disgust hardened into rage. Peasley, Tomica, and Joel exchanged looks. They would die for Blackwood.

  Franka, unfazed, stood alone, his eyes narrowed with boredom. He spun his staff once and stamped the ground, goading the men to close in. They charged as one.

  Franka drove the staff through Tomica’s throat. He seized him by the neck and sank his teeth into his skull, crushing it. Joel whimpered, bolting away, abandoning Peasley to face Franka alone.

  Peasley did just that. He swung wildly, fists cutting air. Franka swept his knees with the staff, dropping him. Grabbing Peasley by the hair, Franka spat fragments of Tomica’s crushed skull into his face. When the man screamed, Franka reached into his mouth, clamped onto his tongue, and pulled. Tug after tug—until it tore free.

  A plasma bolt cracked through the dispersing crowd, striking Franka in the back. Uncle Hans had wrenched the weapon from a fallen officer.

  “Henrikia!” he roared—before Franka’s staff split his face apart.

  The Ring began to hum, triangles blazing violet across its twin pillars. Every Blacken surged toward the machine, desperate to be the first through the opening portal. Children screamed for their mothers, lost in the crush of bodies.

  “Get to the portal!” Aron shouted. “Go!”

  Portal. Away. Safe. Ezra. Where was Ezra?

  Maselli was shoved from every side as the masses poured forward. Others burst from their apartments, clutching their belongings. The officer who had opened the portal lay dead, trampled underfoot.

  Franka stood apart, watching the exodus, almost granting them time. He gripped his staff in both hands, twisting it, waiting. When the portal reached its full glow, just as the first Blackens were about to step through to safety, Franka lifted the staff high and slammed it into the ground.

  Triangles burst across the soil, blazing violet. They spread like fire, climbing the pillars and encircling the Ring. The machine fell silent. The portal closed.

  The multitude broke in every direction—towards the church, the abandoned clinics, the forest below. No one dared guess Franka’s intent.

  Maselli shoved his way through the throng, throwing bodies aside. Aron didn’t want Ezra. Mari didn’t need her. Only Maselli thought of finding her. Only he could.

  He reached Block Seven, pushed into the tide on the stairwell, and fought his way up through clawing hands and shoves. At last, he reached his old floor and sprinted down the corridor.

  What was Franka doing? More mayhem. From one floor of Block Six he hurled bodies over the parapet.

  A woman stormed from her room with a cauldron of soup. She flung it at Franka. He caught it mid-air and smashed her skull with the pot.

  Neighbours crept from their rooms. One looped a rope around Franka’s neck. Two more rushed him with clubs, striking again and again. Maselli didn’t stop to wonder if their efforts would matter. Fight or flee? There was only one right answer.

  He banged on Rita and Conrad’s door. They screamed at him to go away.

  “It’s me, Maselli!” he shouted. “Get out—now! Leave everything behind! I’m right behind you!”

  “Maselli, is that you?” Old Jane and her husband stood outside their house, looking at him as if he were the answer to all their problems. No—he couldn’t help them. He ignored the old couple and rushed into his apartment. Darkness didn’t slow him as he hurried to his bedroom. Maselli pounded on the door.

  Later. Everything was for later.

  “Ezra, we’re leaving,” he said, knocking harder. “I know about the Dawn and Floren and whatever rules she set for you. You’re coming with me now.”

  Rita and Conrad had joined the old couple at his door.

  “Maselli, is that Hanna you’re talking to?” Rita asked.

  “I can’t,” Ezra whimpered. “I can’t leave.”

  Maselli slammed the door, rattling the handle.

  “Hanna, stop this nonsense and come out!” Conrad bellowed.

  “Ezra!” Maselli shouted.

  “I can’t leave!” she shrieked.

  “Who are you talking to?” Rita demanded. “Who’s in there?”

  “Who do you think the Dawn will blame when they come back and find us all dead?”

  “Maselli,” Conrad called. “Who is in there?”

  The bedroom door clicked. He swung it open, grabbed Ezra by the wrist, and dragged her into the moonlit hallway.

  Rita and Conrad’s mouths fell open.

  “Ma!” Hanna snapped, breaking their gaze off Ezra. “What are you two still doing here? Everyone’s leaving.”

  “We heard the noise, but we didn’t know what was going on,” Rita said. “You know it’s safer if we stay indoors.”

  “No,” Hanna wheezed. “Not this time. We’re going through the forest. Franka’s back from the dead—and he’s killing everyone.”

  “What exactly is going on?” Conrad turned to Maselli. “And who is that?”

  Maselli didn’t answer. He just pulled Ezra along, leaving them with their questions. She dragged her feet, and he urged her forward. The village had gone quiet. Franka’s presence remained—unseen, but unmistakable. What if he was here, in Block Seven?

  Rita and the old couple followed at a short distance, while Hanna pushed her father’s wheelchair from the rear. Ezra kept looking around, flinching at the slightest sound.

  Prayers and weeping resounded from the homes they passed. Some begged for divine intervention. Others questioned why Blackwood had to suffer such a fate.

  Ezra stopped suddenly and yanked Maselli close.

  He almost missed it—a black staff hurtling through the air. Maselli dropped to the ground, covering his ears. The staff smashed into the concrete wall. Triangles erupted, racing across the surface. They spread over windows and doors, bursting them open with destructive force.

  A stampede followed as panicked residents bolted for the stairs. In the chaos, a heavy hand shoved Maselli down. Aunt Gertrude blocked the path with her massive frame, raising her arm just enough for her husband and children to slip beneath. Then she followed, leading the charge to the lower floors.

  A scream turned the tide. The stampede reversed. Gertrude’s family lay strewn about in a grotesque mess. Her husband’s head was wedged between two balustrade bars. Her children had gaping holes in their navels, as if Franka had driven his finger in and popped them open. Now he was busy with Gertrude. She was on her knees, her head caught between a doorframe and the door. Franka swung it open and slammed it shut again and again, crushing her bleeding face. His eyes stayed dull with boredom, but the act kept him occupied.

  Maselli tugged Ezra’s arm and hurried her past, both of them holding their breath. If they could just make it down the stairs, they might survive. Franka didn’t even glance at them. He was too busy hammering the door against Gertrude’s skull.

  Against all odds, Hanna, her parents, and the old couple had also made it out of Block Seven. Everyone fixed their eyes on the stretch between their block and the forest. Bodies littered the compound as far as they could see. The sight was so unreal it looked staged—Maselli could only see them as sacks of sand.

  “Let’s keep going,” Hanna said to her parents, rolling Conrad’s wheelchair forward. She had mentioned survivors escaping through the forest. Maselli followed, dragging Ezra along.

  The small group skirted the building, passing the community water tanks. Conrad’s wheelchair snagged and struggled through the muddy ground on that side of the village. They kept moving beneath the shadow of the apartment block, their ears filled with the grunts and cries of dying neighbours. A toddler’s scream cut short, replaced by the sickening squelch of flesh.

  At the forest’s edge stood Aron with Percy, Jeremy, and a handful of others. Survivors clasped hands, helping one another down the slope into the trees. Maselli held Ezra upright, making sure their father saw her. Aron did, but quickly looked away.

  “Where are we going?” Maselli asked.

  “Maplewood,” Aron answered. “It’s on the other side of the forest. We’ll reach it quickly if we don’t stop to rest.”

  “Where is Mari?”

  “She’s gone ahead with the others. We’ll follow once we’re certain no one’s left in Blackwood.”

  “Aron,” Ezra squeaked.

  The men, only just noticing her, stared—eyes flicking between Aron, Maselli, and the fae.

  “Yes?” Aron cleared his throat.

  “I don’t want to go into that forest,” she said. “Shados is in there.”

  Maselli shook his head at Aron, sparing his father the need to answer. He dragged Ezra along, pulling her down the slope into the forest.

  Boots crunched twigs and branches. Moonlight guided them tree by tree, each step bringing Maplewood closer. The silence was absolute—not even a whimper from the smallest child. In some ways, it felt like the night they spent as hostages in the chapel. Maselli prayed the similarity would hold, that a Gaverian might soon rescue them.

  “How much farther is Maplewood?” Ezra asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should know.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Shados is watching us.”

  “Shados isn’t real, Ezra.”

  A scream split the silence. Feet thundered as those ahead turned, running back toward Blackwood. Maselli didn’t run—not yet. Not until he saw what was after them. Ezra tugged at his arm, urging him forward. He held his ground, watching.

  A shadow leapt from branch to branch, snatching people off the forest floor and dropping them like broken dolls. None of them rose again.

  Shados—or Franka, or whatever this monster was—turned its face toward Maselli. Its only features were two white circles where eyes should have been.

  It came for him.

  Ezra jolted into motion, dragging Maselli along. Thud, thud, thud—the creature skipped from one branch to the next, closing in, reaching to snatch. Maselli broke from Ezra, sprinting alone. No chance to look back. Forward was the only direction.

  The hairs on his neck rose. Any second now, Shados would seize him. He collided with someone—a girl’s startled squeal broke his ears.

  “You leave her alone!” a man shouted, stepping in.

  Shados pounced. The demon slapped its black hand across the man’s face, pressing him into the dirt. Maselli kicked the girl away, scrambled up, and bolted deeper into the forest.

  Maplewood. Just get to Maplewood.

  Cries echoed all around—people searching desperately for lost relatives. Among the names, Maselli heard his own. The silly fae girl, wandering and calling for him. He ran to her, and together they fled with the few who hadn’t looked back since leaving Blackwood.

  This part may not sound true, but it happened all the same. They reached the forest’s edge. One last stretch, one final lap, and they would be safe. Only a few hundred survivors remained ahead, most of them women and children. One of them looked like Mari. Maybe it was her. Maybe not.

  Giant fangs erupted from the ground, shaking the earth. Massive, jagged things, thick as pillars, rose higher and higher. Screaming women were trapped between them as the jaws of hell snapped shut, bodies torn into meaty chunks. Still the ground rumbled.

  From it rose a beast. An undead hound, its eyes round and glowing white. It had no abdomen—only a ribcage draped in a thin blanket of tattered skin. Its claws scraped the soil as it swung its colossal head, sniffing at the mortified onlookers. Then it lunged.

  Reverse. Back to Blackwood.

  The beast hunted, snatching all in its path. Up ahead, a young girl set her baby down and turned to flee. Maselli and Ezra ran past the crying infant, then past its mother. Her squeal was cut short as her bones cracked under the beast’s bite.

  At the forest’s edge, men with pistols stood their ground, aiming at the oncoming horror.

  “Get down!” they shouted.

  Maselli and Ezra dropped, plasma bolts flashing through the trees. Conrad and Hanna climbed the slope with Aron and a few others pulling them up. Maselli called to his father. Aron, panicked, asked about Mari. Another group scrambled from the forest, scraping knees and elbows against rough soil as they clawed to the top. Mari was among them. Maselli and Ezra stretched out their hands, dragging her to safety.

  At the tree line, Shados and the beast halted, as if declaring they would not step beyond their domain.

  “To the tunnels!” Aron commanded. “Go—get to the tunnels!”

  Ezra tugged Maselli forward, but he lingered, waiting to see if his suspicion was true.

  Then he saw it.

  Shados stepped out of the forest and melted into Franka’s form. The beast followed, shifting as well. What had been a monstrous hound became a young woman in a ragged dress. Her neck bore the rope marks of her hanging. Gemma.

  It will kill you all.

  Take your mind back to a time not so long ago, when your goals felt unattainable. You began the journey with others, but many fell along the way, never to rise again. You envied those ahead and pitied the ones left behind. The road never ended, yet you kept your head down and pressed forward. One way or another, you would endure. And then, you did. But when you reached your destination, were you happy? No. It dawned on you that there was still more to do. Your dreams were a myth. Life had deceived you. Not to worry, the only reward for living is death—and it is one you will surely receive.

  Women and children went first, climbing down the ladder into the dark tunnel. Maselli handed Ezra to Hanna, watching them descend. Motorcycles skidded into the clearing. Antonica rode one, carrying Zerah and her baby. He said nothing as he took Will from her arms. She went down first, and Antonica lowered the baby after her. Riders ferried back and forth, scooping up those too slow to reach the tunnels in time. But once Franka and Gemma drew too close, the motorcycles were abandoned, their riders scrambling down into the dark with the rest of the village.

  Then only five remained on the surface: Maselli, his father Aron, Percy, and Percy’s two sons. They flexed their palms and bent their necks, bracing themselves. Aron clasped Maselli’s neck and smiled.

  “It’s up to you now,” he said.

  Maselli nodded—first to his father, then to his uncle and cousins. He descended the ladder until only his head stuck out of the hole.

  “On three,” said Aron.

  The men bent low, their weight pressing against the tunnel lid. With a grunt, they heaved it upward. The hinges groaned, the lid rising at last.

  Then Franka’s staff cut through the air and tore straight through Uncle Percy. He fell dead. The others did not falter. With all their might, they slammed the lid shut over the tunnel, leaving Maselli and the rest of Blackwood in darkness.