Mine are the gleaming stars Mine is the silvery moon And the flickering shadows For I am the Queen of Darkness I am the Night Incarnate
The night is calm and quiet. The moon serene in her bed of stars. For once Nyx’s heart felt free, in a manner she had not experienced for many moons. No longer did she feel chained to the past, to the darkness of her father. No longer did she feel caged by events she could spend all her life wishing had never happened. She felt unrestricted, liberated, like a bird set free. The stars beamed and the heavens beckoned, drawing her forth from the salty shores. With Alanaris, Caeleste, Sovereign and Edana in the past, the night seemed to draw her into the present, into the future. Whatever this world was, whatever this land was named, Nyx felt as though she might have finally found a place to truly call home. Unshackled from her mistakes, from her power and her family, the fallen Goddess was ready to start a new life.
With a poignant hiss, the portal that had deposited her upon the beach closed. For a moment Nyx felt that sharp stab of fear, of sorrow. She could be trapped here forever, never to see her friends again. She thinks of Io Kairavi, of Ciaran and Nylah, of Aelin and Campion and Avallac’h. And lastly she thinks of Thanantos. A few months ago she might have believed they were better off without her. And truly, though some may miss her, they would continue on without her. No. She steeled herself against the sadness that licks her heart like devouring flames. She needed this fresh start and she deserved it.
Snow dusted the beach, dotted the grassy verge as she followed a meandering path away from the shore. On the horizon, the soft glow of firelight whispered of a settlement up ahead. Elegantly, the star-dusted femme picks up a trot, eager to investigate the unfamiliar land. Sapphire oculars alight with the silver glimmer of the moon she was a blue beacon in the gathering shadows, as twilight was overcome by the true darkness of midnight.
It did not take long to crest the hill and reach the glowing city, lit by a thousand lanterns. It was like gold stars across a black sky, a city of flickering flames and charming buildings. A faint smile on her lips, a gleam in her eyes, Nyx wanders down a large street, gazing at the scenery as she passed by. There would be an inn or something where she would spend the night, but for now the femme was content with roaming the town.
Elchanan has never known responsibility, duty, commitment. He has never been particularly worried by the knowledge that there are problems in the world, and that some of those problems might affect him. He does not particularly worry about the changing hands of Novus’ politics. He’s not even sure he cares that his queen is about to leave on a warship to some hovel across the world.
So, like Nyx, his heart is light tonight. But unlike hers, it has never been heavy at all.
The ground is freckled with snow, some of the cobblestones painted over with a thick layer of black ice: Elchanan’s usual prance has slowed to a graceful, nitpicky trot, steps carefully calculated not to slip and fall as he makes his way down the slope of the streets. Tonight the wind is blowing through with a vengeance. Tonight it is on a mission, seeking out graveyards and foolish mortals just like him. Usually the priest isn’t bothered by cold, but tonight he finds himself shivering, hair being tugged from its braids by the vicious breeze and skin prickling against the cold. His steps are stilted, joints locked together like a wooden doll’s, but still he slips and slides his ways through the alley with continued, foolish stubbornness.
It’s a beautiful night, as it always is. Denocte has a way of making the world look… better. Prettier, more magical. Like an oil painting. Overhead the sky is dark-velvet blue, pricked with the impression of burning white stars and a sliver of moon; the flickering yellow light cast by the street lanterns doesn’t reach much further than the nearest cobblestone corner or stained-glass window. Despite the way the cold gnaws at his skin, his cheeks, nostrils and all his sharp edges, Elchanan finds himself entranced by the sight of it.
And then, a moment later, entranced with the sight of the girl making her way up the street.
She is beautiful in the way of something otherworldly, dressed in all the colors of the sky and ocean but not of the earth. After a cursory glance Elchanan decides she must be new; she is staring at the buildings around them with the kind of awe evident only in strangers who have just arrived. Anticipation rises in his chest.
“Evening,” the priest calls out. In the darkness his voice is rich and easy, ringing with the same carelessness evident in every other action of his. He smiles, but the sharp, fanged edge of his smile is lost in the lack of light.
