Chapter Four

“Graveyard by Moonlight”

  “Blast!” cursed Anora. 

Her hand shot out, reaching desperately for the small portrait of Odessa as a sudden gust of wind swept it away.  It slipped through her fingers, barely evading her grasp.  She lunged forward for another try at it, but missed, and it flew through the rusted bars of Alune Cemetery.  She waited at the gate, hesitant to enter, undecided about the amount of risk she wanted to take by going inside.  She had already pushed her luck by sneaking out again and would be pushing it even more if she went inside.

‘Tis not getting caught that troubles me… She thought. ‘Tis the dead…and their haunting voices…

Her eyes nervously lingered on the eroded, crumbling headstones beyond the bars. The air was different here—thicker, colder. And there were voices. Faint, whispering sounds, like a distant breeze, yet they didn’t come from the wind. And in the quiet gloom, she could hear the soft murmur of words that seemed to call to her from somewhere deep inside.  The longer she stood debating whether or not to go, the farther the portrait drifted away from her.  It finally landed on the ashy grass, below a thin layer of fog.

Her heart pounded in her chest. I shall move with haste and retrieve the picture before those dreadful voices catch up to me…

With determination, she pulled her cape tight and flipped her hood up, before squeezing through the narrow bars.  Once through, she crept toward the portrait.  Each step parted the light mist on the ground and broke apart the brittle grass under her feet.  The air seeped inside her lungs, thick and dry, forcing her to cough.  Her coughing stirred the ash, spreading it all around her.  Underneath, the grass glowed white, almost blinding at first, but her eyes soon adjusted to its brightness.  She focused on the object of her desire and reached for it, with trembling fingers, she was so close—and then, just as she was about to grab it, another burst of wind yanked it out of reach.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” she muttered under her breath before taking off after it, her feet kicked up more ash as she ran deeper into the cemetery, the ghostly voices whispered behind her.

This time she was determined not to fail and with a quick burst of energy she sprang for the portrait, grabbing it before another gust of wind had time to take it away.  She handled it with care, gently brushing off the ash that was on its face before tucking safely back into the pocket of her tunic.  Her initial response afterward was to return to her tower, but there was a disturbing energy all around her, a subtle tug from deep within the earth. 

Four hundred and twelve… she thought.  There are four hundred and twelve deceased buried here…

The realization that she could feel the presence of the departed caused a shiver to run up and down her spine.  Yet, the fear she once had was gone.  Instead, it was replaced by morbid curiosity.  Curiosity, as always, had the final say in her choices. To her, the decision was easy—and more than that, it was thrilling.  She made sure the hood was nestled tightly over her head and her face was covered, so she wouldn’t have to breathe any ash, before venturing deeper into the cemetery.

In the center stood a towering, dead, tree, that appeared to have been infected by a plague.  Wind caressed its withered form, causing thin layers of its decaying bark to break free and dance in the air, swirling and twisting like flickering flames.  The disease that had taken hold of the tree was slowly changing it to dust, dying from what the Velagoth called the ‘corroding curse’.  She’d read about the disease once but seeing it in person was surreal to her.  Knowing that the corrosion only occurred in dying trees, she curiously touched the white dust.  It was soft, dry, and stubbornly clung to her skin.  She tried brushing it off but found it hard to get rid of.

“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered to herself, wiggling her fingers as if that might help. “What possessed me to believe that approaching that accursed tree was a sound decision?”

Eventually, she was able to clean her hand but not before realizing she must have looked ridiculous standing there with her hand outstretched like she was trying to keep a plague at bay.  No one was watching her, she knew that, but it didn’t make her feel any less foolish.  She laughed, trying to dismiss the awkwardness and reminded herself it was no big deal.  It was at that moment she came to terms that, perhaps, it was time to go back.

But, one particular headstone caught her attention.  Its face had been chipped away.  At first, she thought that wild Blighted had tried to desecrate it.  A notion like that was not that uncommon, since they often unearthed corpses.  Upon further inspection she discovered that nothing had been carved on the stone and that it was made of salt.  She touched it.  The tips of her fingers burnt.  She pulled her hand back, nursing her wound.

“Why are you here?” she uttered.

A clicking noise came from the face of the marker.  She listened to each click, wondering what it was.  Then, something else caught her attention.  Near the trees, outside the graveyard, was a man.  At first, she thought it was a Darkwalker that had come to take her back.  But, his skin had a subtle glow to it, under the moonlight.  Her heart jumped, realizing that it was no Darkwalker or any other being she was familiar with.  Who was he?  The clicking stopped, a door beneath her feet opened, and she fell.

***

The air was damp and sour with the scent of mud and murky water.  Anora’s eyes drifted open and rolled over, forcing her to blink.  The back of her head throbbed.  She was on her back, under a thin layer of dirt.  She gingerly rubbed her head to ease the throbbing.  Her head was bleeding, and she searched with her fingers until she discovered the wound.  By then, the tips of her fingers had traces of black blood on them.  She covered the wound and wiped the blood. 

For a moment she had forgotten what she was doing at the bottom of a grave, but soon the realization that someone had been looking at her moments before she fell made her heart jump.  She brought herself to her feet and reached for the top of the grave.  She was inside a hole large enough for four or five people her size and the walls were slick with mud.  After a brief shiver of disgust, she turned her attention to getting out.

“Curse this muddy place!” she exclaimed, realizing she was too short to reach the top and would have to risk getting dirty in order to get out.  With her Viempiric agility she was able to clear distances twice her height. But, she was unable to jump over the top.  The bottom was covered with broken wooden spikes, many of which had turned to mush from the damp environment. 

“A trap?” she wondered.  Still on her guard and worried about who was waiting out there, she opted for the dirty way out and dug her hands and feet into the wall of mud and clawed her way to the surface.  It didn’t take long, but by the time she reached the top she was nearly covered from head to toe in mud.  Once topside, she rolled over, worn out from the climb.  Her head still throbbed, and she rested for a moment, catching her breath. 

“You know, they built those as traps against Blighted,” said a voice, directly to her right.

She jumped to her feet, startled.

A man, with dark hair and pale blue eyes, was lounging next to a gravestone.  He was casual in his actions, paying little attention to her – whom, with relief, had just realized that she was still in disguise.  With that in mind, she stomped forward, asserting her presence.

“A trap? And what, pray tell, qualifies you as an expert on such matters?” she asked the stranger, with a tone of curiosity and reproach.

He stretched his arms back, placing them behind his head. “Salt is like candy for a Blighted, many graveyards used salt markers to trap them.  It’s an ancient method to protect the more valuable treasures of the dead.  By the looks of those spikes, I’d say this one was forgotten.”

“And who, exactly, might you be?” she demanded to know, asserting her stance with authority.

He offered a casual shrug and a lazy grin. “Just a wanderer seeking a bit of peace amidst the dead. Nothing particularly dramatic.”

“Only the deceased seek solace in a graveyard,” she retorted, crossing her arms.

He turned to her with a smirk. “And you.”

“And what, precisely, are you insinuating about me?” she asked offended.

“You’re here in a muddy cloak,” he said, eyeing her clothes. “Either you’re a really disheveled seeker of solace or a grave robber who’s taken a rather unique approach to blending in.”

Her eyes widened, and she put her hands on her hips, trying to look imposing. “A filthy grave robber? How dare you! I am nothing of the sort!”

He stood up, giving her a once-over with his eyes. “Filthy? Oh, absolutely. A thief? Hmm, I’m not entirely convinced.”

“You... how dare you!” she spluttered; her cheeks flushed with anger.

He chuckled, leaning casually against the gravestone. “So, if you’re not here to pilfer from the dead, what’s your excuse? Lost in the cursed bone yard, or just auditioning for the role of ‘Muddy Graveyard Wanderer’?”

“Very amusing,” she retorted, struggling to keep her composure. “I am here for a perfectly valid reason, though it is really none of your concern.”

“Oh, come now,” he teased. “You’re in a graveyard, covered in mud, and squabbling with a stranger. Clearly, you’re a mystery waiting to be solved. So, what’s the real story?”

“I am not a mystery,” she said, her irritation softening into a reluctant smile. “Merely someone who has had a rather uneventful day.”

He leaned in and tried to peer beneath her hood, but it was carefully hidden.  When he got too close, she darted away in the blink of an eye.  By the time he spun around, she had already slipped to the other side, laughing and taunting him.

“You’re fast, I’ll give you that,” remarked the man. “What manner of being are you?”

“That is a very rude question,” Anora commented, offended.

She studied him with a critical eye, realizing that he was doing the same.  His hair was slightly disheveled, a detail that bothered her greatly.  She liked things neat and orderly, to the point where it almost distracted her from the scars on his neck and face.  However, it was his eyes that captivated her the most.  They were a vivid blue and she couldn’t help but feel drawn in each time she looked at them, and that scared her.

“What exactly is it you desire? You are irritating me,” she said, bothered.

“Out of this place for starters,” he remarked.

“You are surrounded by the Gloomy Woods, there is not a way out,” she stated firmly.

He raised an inquisitive brow. “Are you the keeper of these woods, then?”

Anora taunted once more, “I am the queen of these woods.”

“Very well, Your Majesty,” he said with a mocking bow. “Certainly, the queen of the woods would know which direction is east?”

In response, Anora drew a knife and lunged at him. He was momentarily taken aback, but managed to evade her attack and countered, trying to grab her.  A smirk came over her face and at the last possible moment, with his hand inches from her body, she darted behind him.  His arm was still outstretched, grasping the air that was in her wake.  She cleared her throat, tapping him on the shoulder with the knife centered at his neck.

“Killed you,” she said.  When he turned around, she moved to the other side, taunting him with a playful chuckle as she held the knife to his neck again, “Dead…my, my, you are dreadfully slow,” she teased, tapping his shoulder again before vanishing. “What are you? Certainly not a Sylph. No, far too sluggish for that.” She leapt onto his head, balancing effortlessly. “A Velagoth, perhaps?" She tilted her head, studying him with pretend seriousness. “No, no, your skin’s much too... alive.”

He smiled. “Who are you, really?”

“Me? I am a ghost, something you will never be able to catch,” she boasted.

He offered a challenge, “What if I could?”

She raised a brow as her lips curled into a smirk. “Oh? You are serious?”

He replied with a touch of playfulness in his voice. “If I catch you, you have to answer any question I ask.”

“What could you possibly want to ask me?” she said provokingly.

He shrugged. “Humor me.”

“Fine, but don’t hold your breath,” she agreed with a chuckle.

“Fine,” he nodded with a smirk.

Anora darted off, faster than before.  Her Viempire blood fueled her supernatural speed, but something was different this time.  He was not moving. 

“Not even going to make an effort?” she called over her shoulder, slowing just slightly in her confusion.

Then his eyes blazed a bright white, igniting in a furious pale fire.  She gasped, taken aback by the sudden use of his power.  And when the time was right, he tackled her to the ground with a smirk of triumph.

A curse slipped from her lips as they both tumbled to the ground. He gazed at her with fiery eyes, and she found herself ensnared by his intense stare, feeling utterly powerless. “Who are you?” she inquired softly.

The white in his eyes died down, replaced by its normal color.  “I win,” he said with a satisfied smile.

“Very well!”  she responded by kicking him in the face.

He staggered back, bewildered. “Why’d you do that?”

“I simply felt the urge,” she replied coldly.

He straightened his cloak and nursed his face while she tightened the hood around her head, making sure it was secure to hide her features.  “You are angel-kind, are you not?  Endowed and blessed with the light of the heavens,” she observed.

“Now, you know who I am,” he acknowledged.  “So, tell me...who are you?”

She wasn’t ready to answer and instead said, “First, reveal your name.”

“I am afraid I do not have one,” he offered openly.

“Everyone has a name, or at least a title of some sort,” she countered.

“What if I don’t?” he challenged.

“Rubbish,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “You must call yourself something.”

“Very well,” he said, giving in. “Arcalane.”

She let his name sink in. “Arcalane,” she repeated thoughtfully.

“Now, what of you?” he asked.

“I am but a humble handmaiden,” she told him, tilting her chin up with pride. “You can call me Anora, however.”

“To whom do you serve, Anora?” he inquired.

“The mistress of this castle,” she replied, gesturing towards Nightshadow.

“Very well,” Arcalane said, allowing himself to accept her answer. “And what brings you here, to this grim place?”

“I merely seek solitude,” she answered with calmness.

“And your mistress allows you to seek such comforts?” he asked probingly. “Without reprimand?  Tell me, who is your mistress?”

“She is a formidable sorceress, ruthless and powerful,” Anora boasted. “’Tis why I must return, promptly.”

“You sound afraid of her,” he observed.

“I am,” she announced.

He was quick to respond, “You say that without hesitation.”

“She is indeed fierce and strong,” Anora again boasted.

 “Is that so?” he questioned.

“What do you know of her?” she asked, seeking a reaction.

“Well, you shall have to tell me her name for me to offer my insight,” he said with a smirk.

“Some refer to her as the Dark Princess,” Anora revealed.

Arcalane scratched his chin pondering. “I’ve heard whispers of this Dark Princess.”

“And what have you heard?” asked Anora with a tinge of excitement.

“Rumors, mostly,” he answered. “She was born amidst the last war…hunted by the Viempires and Sylph.  Some say that the war was started over her.”

“Why might that be?” she questioned.

“I know not,” he shrugged. “Perhaps, it was due to her bloodline?”

“You seem to be well-informed Arcalane,” she remarked. “More so than most, it seems.”

“I make it my business to know,” he told her.

She leaned in with interest. “And what is your business?”

“You certainly ask a lot of questions for a handmaiden,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I thought maidens were trained from birth to serve their master.”

“I do,” she affirmed, trying to maintain her cover. “I am loyal to the Dark Princess.”

“And what exactly is she a princess of?” he inquired.

She lowered her head with disappointment. “Is that all she will be remembered for, merely as a title?”

“Why should you care?” he inquired.

“I-I wouldn’t, I mean, I don’t,” she said evasively.  “’Tis simply that she ought to be remembered for more than that, for something substantial. Perhaps as a tyrant, vicious and cruel?”

“Is she?” he asked directly.

Anora paused, reflecting on that question.

Arcalane went on, “Her ‘vicious and cruel’ nature must impress the shadows of her chamber, then.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked in a sharp tone.

“Apparently, she has been locked away for most of her life.  Who would remember her as being anything more?” he asked, unsure of the answer.

“Oh, but she is…you can see it in her eyes, the hurt, the pain and the anger...you can feel it,” she said, looking at Arcalane to gauge his reaction, “her loneliness tears away her hope and grace.  It reveals the darkness within her, darkness that simmers just below the surface.  There are times I hear her weep, and others I hear her cry out for release, release that will never come.”

“It will come,” he stated callously.

“Oh?” she raised a delicate eyebrow.  “I suppose your kind would know?  After all, weren’t angels locked away in dungeons after heaven was sealed?  Your kind have been waiting for release.”

“Bitterness,” he uttered, as if recalling his own feelings of despair.  “Not release.”

“Bitterness,” she agreed. “Yes, perhaps the Dark Princess is bitter too.  After all who wouldn’t be?”

“I’m sure there are moments when she feels shut out, that life was stolen from her,” he remarked, broodingly.

“Like she was never given a chance,” she echoed.

“Yes, a chance,” he agreed.

Anora turned to Arcalane and made an impulsive decision, possibly a disastrous one, but one she was incapable at that moment of letting it escape her. 

“Do you want to see her?” she asked simply.

He veered his head back, surprised by her sudden request. “Won’t you get caught? Or punished?”

“There are countless maidens,” she explained, making it up. “I daresay they even know I am absent.  Moreover, I know of a place where you can get very close to the tower where they keep her.”

“Where ‘they’ keep her?” he questioned, focused on the term ‘they’ as a negative one.

“’Tis like you said, she was placed in confinement after the war,” agreed Anora. “By Lautrec and the other demon lords.”

“Yes, indeed,” Arcalane agreed.

“Well,” her voice trailed off. “Shall we go?”

With that, Arcalane followed Anora toward Nightshadow while ducking Darkwalker patrols.  She gave simple instructions for him to stay out of their ever-watchful gaze, while stealthily working their way to a ruined outbuilding.  Once there, they climbed to its roof and waited.

“Her room is at the top, where the balcony lies,” said Anora, pointing to the looming tower at Nightshadow keep.

Arcalane narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly to get a better view.  The tower stood taller than the rest of the castle, spikes lined its slick walls.  Four large metal beams reinforced its frame, and a single, solitary balcony jutted out near the top.

He turned to her and asked with curiosity, “Do you come here often?”

“On occasion,” she replied evenly, “just to observe it from the outside.”

“You are as much a prisoner in that castle as she is,” he said, intrigued. “Yet you are still drawn to it even when you are free?”

“I can never be free of anything,” she murmured with a sigh.

Arcalane lowered his head in reflection. “I have seen many things on this dark earth, but I have never seen her-”

She cut him off, “She is nothing to hold your breath over.”

“You seem so sure of that,” he observed, watching her closely.

“I am,” she said, her voice full of bold certainty.

“Do you hate her?” he asked bluntly.

“Perhaps I do,” she replied with a touch of coldness in her voice.

“If they discover what you have told me, you’d be put to death,” he warned her.

She leaned closer to him. “You would not turn me in, would you Arcalane?” she said naughtily. “No, I think not.  ‘Tis not your nature.”

He raised an eyebrow, stunned. “And now you believe you know me, do you?”

She looked him over, her gazing lingering as she studied him once again.  He sat upright—stoic in his posture; strong and athletic, tall, and looked young for someone she estimated to be close to a hundred years old.  Like all angels, there was a faint ethereal glow to his skin when under direct moonlight.  She knew little of the fallen angels, only what she’d read in books.  The odds of meeting one by mere chance were exceedingly rare, and yet, here he was.  And, up until now, she hadn’t really thought about the randomness of their chance encounter.  It just felt good to talk to someone.  It struck her that she hadn’t truly considered the randomness of their encounter.  Maybe because he did not make her feel scared or uncomfortable.  In fact, she was relaxed around him.  Maybe that was foolish?  But, she did not care.  She knew she could outrun him if things went awry.

“Angel-kind are outcasts,” she declared in a crisp voice. “You must hate the Velagoths as much as I do.”

“Do you hate your own kind?” he asked. “Or are you a human slave?  Your speed suggests otherwise.”

“What I meant was, you have no allegiance or honor,” she said, fumbling with her clarification. “You are a proper villain, and that is why you will not speak a word of me to anyone.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed easily. “So then, what would stop me from taking whatever I want from you?”

A sudden chill of fear escaped down her spine.  She swallowed her fear. “You would not dare-” she said in a shaky voice, letting her vulnerability escape.

“Why not?” he asked, locking eyes with her. “You just said I don’t have honor…that I’m a proper villain.”

“You would have done something to me already,” she replied, mustering her courage.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back with a lazy grin as he threw his hands behind his head. “Or perhaps I’m just too bored to care.”

Anora shot him an unamused glare, muttering a string of curses under her breath.

“Do you know why they keep her locked away, like a prisoner?” asked Arcalane, diverting.

“A prisoner?  I thought she was viewed as something valuable,” she said with a raised brow, “like a sacred ‘pearl’…though even a pearl loses its luster, does it not?”

“From what I have heard, she waits in that tower until the Hell God rises and returns to the earth,” he explained with a hint of uncertainty.

“Why?” she asked abruptly.

He shrugged. “I supposed the Crimson Prince would know.  I can only guess.”

“A promise,” Anora murmured, her eyes trailed off in deep thought.

“A promise?” he repeated, watching her closely.

Anora took a breath before continuing, “‘Tis not just that. There is no other purpose for her in this life. She is meant to find it in the next,” she paused, gauging his reaction. His expression was delayed, but then interest sparked in his eyes as he leaned closer to meet her gaze. She recoiled, shyly avoiding his stare.

“Is something wrong?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, attempting to hide her nervousness.

“Go on then,” he encouraged.

“This world, for her, ‘tis nothing more than a staging ground for what comes next.  At least, that is all she can hope for…a promise of peace in the afterworld,” she explained somberly.  Almost immediately after she told him that, she found herself feeling uncharacteristically open and exposed.  She was surprised that she had given him that much personal insight.  Perhaps, it was easier when she talked about herself in the third-person.

“And how does that work, precisely?” asked Arcalane.

“How does what work?” she asked, looking for clarification.

“Truth be told, many believe she is to die for the Hell God. And if she is to give up her immortal life, which is her soul and very existence, what will be left to travel to the afterworld?” he pressed.

She fell silent, too afraid to face the truth, the truth that she’d been hiding from for years.  The clues had always been there—her isolation, her demonic blood, the bargain Odessa had struck with Lautrec—all leading to a grim fate, one entwined with the Hell God.

“What leads you to believe she is to forfeit her immortal life?” she inquired, her voice trembling slightly.

“Just a question,” he dismissed.

“Then, perhaps there is nothing left for her but a foolish hope,” she said softly.

“Hope is never foolish,” he assured her. “Only fools have none.”

“This, coming from an angel?” she teased.

“No,” he replied, with a small smile. “From a man.”

“And what does a woman hope for, then?” she asked brazenly.

“The same,” he told her in a steady tone.

“Well, then,” she concluded, her voice trailing off into a whisper. “I suppose nothing awaits her after all.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps not,” he said. “I’ve heard things in my travels, from the ancients of the world that are older than these very lands, of a Place of Neither Here Nor There.”

“A Place of Neither Here Nor There?” she inquired, her curiosity piqued.

“Not much is known about it,” he replied

She leaned in, eager for more. “What is it?”

“It is said that it is a realm between the stars, where the gods themselves were born,” he answered.

Her head cocked back, and her face lit up with intrigue. “’Tis mentioned, I believe, in the text ‘Last Account of the Undying Light’,” she said to him. “I have read of it.  ‘Tis the tale about how the Archangel Atheleon killed the devil and became the Hell God.”

He nodded with sad eyes. “Then you must have come across the part that mentions the Place of Here Nor There?”

“First, you called it the ‘Place of Neither Here Nor There’, now you simply state ‘Place of Here nor There’?” she said, with her arms folded in a firm lock, annoyed.

“Either one will do,” he replied dismissively.

“Well, make up your mind,” she insisted. “Include the ‘neither’ or do not,” she paused, embarrassed, after noticing he was not responding to her criticism.  She felt awkward, having just shown him an odd side of her. “Nevertheless, ‘tis merely a name.  Do you think that is where she will go upon her death?”

He shrugged indifferently. “Perhaps.”

“That is, if it truly exists,” she replied.

“It might well exist,” he said.

“Presumably,” she told him, “but much of the world’s history has been rewritten by Velagoth scribes, under the guidance of the Crimson Prince.  I doubt the ‘Last Account of the Undying Light’ is entirely accurate.”

“I was there a hundred years ago,” he confessed openly.

“Then you must know whether the account is true,” she said with buoyant excitement.

He cleared his throat and shifted position as she leaned forward, closer to him, with folded arms resting on her knees. 

He began quoting a passage, “‘Lying in glade among ruined earth was the body of the Hell Goddess.  Atheleon’s mind, frayed and blackened, throbbed as he gazed with tender sight at her likeness.  His desire to take her as his own overcame him as he approached the fallen beauty.  A kiss was all he desired.’” 

“A kiss?” she said, bashfully, as she blushed.

He smiled, looking at the shy expression on her face.  She tried to hide it once she noticed he was looking at her and put her hands over her blushing cheeks.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “a kiss.”

She scoffed, “What rubbish.”

“That is what he desired,” he explained.

“Love does not grant power, merely impedes it,” she said dismissively. “Moreover, you have quoted the text almost verbatim, and that bears no relation to the Place of Neither Here Nor There.”

“I got the gist of it,” said Arcalane offhandedly.

“Precisely, hence why I remarked ‘almost’,” Anora scolded.

“Still, it did happen,” he said. “I was there, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “What of it?”

“That means that the Last Account holds some degree of truth,” he explained. “The demon scribes must have left some truth when they wrote the account.  The Place of Neither Here Nor There must exist.”

Her eyes wandered off and her fists balled up in pent-up bitterness. “Do you find it difficult to believe that the will of the Hell God is driven by his affection for the Goddess?” she asked. “One cannot truly love someone in such a brief span of time.”

“He did,” Arcalane said frankly.

“Then he is weak,” she said firmly. “Love is pain.”

Arcalane waited as she calmed down before responding, “Coming from someone forbidden to love, from a maiden like yourself, you seem bitter about that.”

“I am not,” she dismissed, her wings twitched under her hood. “I am unsure where you obtained such an impression.”

“Perhaps, I was mistaken,” he corrected.

Anora stood up and looked at the tower once more. Her brow tightened, annoyed by his statement. “You may leave if you wish.”

He gave a courteous bow and got up, seeming to have no trouble with going away.

“Wait, you have not seen them,” she said pointing to the tower.

Arcalane’s brow tightened in bewilderment as he anxiously gazed to where she was gesturing.  Grim clouds overhead suddenly parted, allowing a beam of moonlight to pierce through and engulf the north end of the tower, where the balcony was.  Emerging from the shadows that clung to the walls was a horde of Darkwalkers.  Their movements were swift and predatory, they methodically searched the castle grounds with haunting precision.  And as they advanced, the glow of their eyes burnt like malevolent embers in the night.

“Those are the Darkwalkers,” she uttered softly. “They are ever in her company…like a ball and chain,” she closed her eyes, unable to look at them any longer. “Let them pass,” she whispered to herself. “May they not find me.”

But, it was too late.

The Darkwalkers surrounded the building, their ominous shadows stretched across the walls.  She stood up and pulled off her hood, revealing her wings and face.  Her long silky hair glowed against the light, flowing down across her shoulders to the small of her back.  Despite her attempt at a brave smile, her shoulders dropped in sadness.

“I must go now,” she said tenderly. “You should leave as well, or they will kill you.”

“You’re the Dark Princess,” Arcalane said, shocked, under his breath.

He watched in stunned silence as she moved to the edge of the rooftop and spread her arms out like a bird, gracefully, before falling off.  The Darkwalkers below caught her as though she was an object they had lost, rather than an actual person. With harshness, they carried her back to the castle leaving Arcalane alone in disbelief.