Chapter One
“Whispers in the Gloom”
The nightmare came and went, like it had for the past week, and just like every night before Anora jolted awake gasping for air and drenched in sweat. It took a while, each time, for her mind to accept that she was awake and back to reality. In those tense moments, reality was unbalanced, distorted, and things felt less tangible. Most nights for her were plagued by bouts of insomnia and when she did manage to fall sleep, graphic nightmares and horrific dreams awaited her. And the more vivid the nightmare, the longer it took for her to return to wakefulness; sometimes it seemed to her as though she would never return—trapped in the lingering grips of the nightmare.
But, not this time.
This time, she awoke almost instantly. She found herself smiling at that small mercy and rested in her canopied bed for a moment, in silence as the first light from the lunar dawn crept through the balcony window of her chambers. The pale light shone over her equally pale skin, while her silver hair fanned out over her cotton pillow. Her four-post bed was simple in design with curtains hung in disarray, their once-brilliant fabric dulled by time. And as years passed, their dullness became more noticeable as if reminding her of the countless hours she’d spent in solitude at castle Nightshadow. It was a grim reality she’d tried not to think about.
She sat up, massaging her tired eyes, letting out groans of frustration and achiness. It had been years since she’d gotten a good night’s rest, years since she’d known that comfort and even longer since she’d been free of bad dreams. At least this time, the nightmare faded quickly and as the morning drew on it felt like a distant, forgotten, memory. Only brief glimpses remained, those of ghostly hands dragging her down into a cold abyss. It wasn’t that the abyss itself scared her, no, it was the nothingness that resonated in its core. Is that death? She wondered as she stared, vacantly, at her chamber window; streaks of rain ran down the glass like tears. She longed to mirror that sentiment, to let herself weep, but she felt empty inside.
Outside, on the balcony Nightravens were perched on the stone ledge, a few ruffling their jet-black feathers to shake off the rain. If not for their glowing red eyes, they would have appeared as living shadows. And with the eternal night over the world, finding creatures like the Nightravens was especially difficult. Despite the constant state of gloom and darkness, Anora found solace in seeing the distant Fall Mountains; mountains so big and vast that they seemed close. But, Anora knew better, she knew that the Fall Mountains were miles and miles away; so far away that she’d never see them up close. There was a strange allure to them, a pull that’d she’d felt ever since she could remember. Perhaps it was the fact that they remained a mystery to the world, with no one truly knowing what lay beyond them?
Either way, it didn’t matter, Anora’s day was just beginning, and she was very particular about her schedule; no matter how little sleep she got or the severity of her nightmare. And with the precision of a well-rehearsed dance, she began her morning routine. She was meticulous in how she folded back the sheets of her bed and how she carefully aligned her boots beside the door. She dressed in silence, the soft rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room, and the delicate bird-like wings above her ears fluttered slightly, as if stirred by an unseen breeze.
Her chamber was once glorious, luxurious even, back before Nightshadow was destroyed. Velvet drapes, though worn, cascaded down the stone walls, framing an exquisite moonstone chandelier. At the center was her bed with its canopy, one that was intricately embroidered with ancient Viempiric symbols that seemed to shine in the dim light. Across the room, near the wardrobe, as an ornate vanity; one she used to straighten her clothes. Though not as statuesque as the women in the paintings that adorned the walls of the keep, she possessed an undeniable beauty. Her skin was porcelain, complementing the alluring gray of her eyes. Long strands of pale hair cascaded down her back, framing her delicate features. But it was the wings, small and bird-like, sprouting from her head that set her apart. They appeared larger against her petite frame, giving her an almost ethereal look, a mark of her unusual heritage.
In the top drawer of her wardrobe were her most prized possessions - vials of lunar water from a hidden forest stream that only she knew about. The crisp, untainted liquid was a refreshing secret she kept for herself alone. Taking a vial, she added a few drops of the alluring lavender fragrance she had nurtured from seeds found deep in the Gloomy Woods. The scent awakened her longing for feminine things, though she had no suitors to smell nice for. A futile desire, she thought, yet the floral perfume made her feel alive in the cold lifeless place she called home. She dabbed her wrists, and the fragrance transported her imagination beyond the confines of her lonely chamber, if only for a moment.
With that, she left her room at the top of her tower and made her way down the long spiral staircase leading outside. There, Nightshadow Keep loomed ominously against the bleak sky, its dark stone walls and dark wooden doors seemed to absorb all light. The castle grounds held crumbling dormitories and outbuildings within its once formidable walls, which were surrounded by dilapidated ramparts. Things were in utter disrepair, with stone and bricks strewn haphazardly across the muddy, overgrown landscape leaving only a few structures standing. At the front entrance was an enormous, heavy iron gate that barred any entry. Beyond the walls was the Gloomy Woods, a dense fog-shrouded labyrinth forest that provided a perfect natural barrier around the hidden castle.
Anora often wondered what happened at Nightshadow and how long it had been destroyed. According to her late caregiver, Odessa, it had once been the domain of a powerful Viempire Count - a noble who had ruled the lands with an iron fist centuries ago. The castle’s downfall came during the last great war, a war that had ravaged the region, one that led to Nightshadow being utterly decimated in a brutal siege.
Darkwalkers, the vigilant guardians of the castle, ceaselessly patrolled the parapets with unsheathed swords and shields at the ready. They weren’t alive, nor were they dead, and as best Anora could figure they were bound by old magick—living armor with a strict purpose: to protect her and keep her from escaping. As she hurried through the castle grounds, making her way to the kitchen, she avoided the patrols of the Darkwalkers. She kept her head down and avoided eye contact with them. Their towering, hulking frames filled her with a sense of uneasiness and their yellow eyes only worked to bolster that feeling. And despite her uneasiness, she still put up with them and managed to forge somewhat of a normal existence.
When she finally arrived at the kitchen she immediately put on a fire and warmed up pottage from yesterday’s supper. It consisted mainly of meat, deer and rabbit from the woods, and a few vegetables from her garden. Meat was a main part of her diet, as it was with others like her; those with demon blood. And in effort to seem less like a monster, she cooked the meat despite her cravings for it raw. She ate the pottage with a piece of stale bread before beginning her morning chores, which consisted of sweeping the soot-stained hearth, restocking woodpiles and scrubbing pots that were blackened from previous meals. It was also part of her chores to clean the floors, dust surfaces and lug piles of laundry to be washed—a mundane life, but one she’d known for the past fifteen years. Each day blurred into the next, and she often found herself questioning whether time itself had any real meaning left.
A decade and a half of isolation, with yearly visits from her captor the Crimson Prince of Hell Lautrec Luferion, left her with a sense of hopelessness. Much of her memories were faded, leaving only a few pieces for her to put together. She remembered being with Odessa and when she died, Lautrec took custody of her—sending her to a life of solitude in Nightshadow. Lautrec was a powerful Velagoth, a demon lord, who’d conquered much of the dark earth. And his interest in Anora perplexed her. She too had demon blood, as well as Viempire blood. Maybe it was that combination that interested Lautrec? Maybe it was something else entirely? Anora was certain that her dark bloodline was the reason for other things as well, things of a unnatural kind.
For as long as Anora could remember she felt a strange and potent connection with the dead. The curse of necromancy, as Odessa used to call it. And it did feel like a curse to Anora. Especially, when she would get close to Alune Cemetery—the ancient and derelict graveyard of Nightshadow castle. It was not often she passed by it, only on days when she needed to get to the secret pathway that led to the Gloomy Woods. And she only ventured into the woods to have a moment away from the Darkwalkers, to retreat into a spot where she would work on her bow and arrows.
The dead are dead. She would often say to herself, it was a phrase that was meant to bring comfort. Still, nearing the graveyard brought an ill-sense of fear. But that fear was something she was willing to deal with in order to do something she loved. The pathway hugged the outer fence of the graveyard and when she neared it, haunting voices crept up from the muddy earth. Vapor clung over the crumbling stonework of the graveyard’s walls, and inside the headstones had been reduced to deteriorating remnants. A few dead oak trees, with gnarled branches and rotten bark were found scattered across the overgrown landscape. She could feel the energy of the long-buried dead, it was a sensation that she’d had since the earliest days of her childhood. She knew they were dead, she knew that they’d been dead for centuries. But, they still emitted an energy, a sort of lifeforce, one that she had trouble defining—a subtle vibration, a faint pulse that seemed to echo from the earth itself.
As she drew further away from the cemetery, and more into the Gloomy Woods, she heard soft whispers from the dead; most spoke in ancient, long-forgotten, tongues while others cried out in anguish. The haunting sounds didn’t last long and before she knew it, she’d sneaked out and entered the dark forest beyond. The gloominess of the woods there was oppressive at times, with an unnerving stillness that hung in the air. A dense canopy above let in little moonlight, allowing only fragments of it to pass through to the leaf-covered ground below—a ground that was covered by blackened roots and soggy undergrowth. The lack of light wasn’t a problem for Anora, as her unique heritage as a half-viempire granted her the ability to see with perfect clarity in the pitch black of night. Her supernatural vision allowed her to navigate the dense, shadowy, forest with ease until she reached a small grove. It was here that she’d set up a makeshift workshop to make her arrows—a quaint spot, secluded but dominated by the toppled remnants of a massive tree.
She brushed aside some fallen leaves and twigs to reveal a wooden box that contained an assortment of tools and supplies she’d used to craft her arrows—with the fallen tree serving as a renewable source of raw materials. The previous day she’d whittled the shafts to the size she wanted, and today she worked on the fletching. Most of her feathers came from the mourning crows, some collected while others were harvested. All in all, she had made nearly a hundred arrows in a week. The arrowheads were crude, but still useful, having been taken from old pieces of armor and molded into the shape she desired. Her bow was her design as well, recurved and balanced perfectly.
As mid-lunar day wore on, Anora hummed softly to herself while she methodically bundled her arrows and cleaned up her work area. The songs she sang weren’t ones she was taught, they were found deep in her memories as if they’d been passed down to her. She suspected that the gentle tunes were ones her mother had sung to her to her at some point, but the identity and fate of her mother remained a mystery. Her earliest memories were not loving ones, instead they were of a life spent on the run with her guardian Odessa; fleeing the endless pursuit from their Viempire and Sylph adversaries. It was a tumultuous time that she longed to forget, a time of fear and unknowing, one that ultimately ended in tragedy and her confinement in Nightshadow.
When she was done, the forest fell noticeably more silent; save for the faint rustling of leaves. With her Viempiric agility, Anora moved swiftly, and quietly, through the underbrush with her bow and arrow at-the-ready. When she found the origin of the noise, she was relieved. It was a small deer, munching innocently on some moss-covered bushes. However, it did not take her long to notice that the deer was malformed; having two faces and crooked antlers that curved back into its skull in a grotesque display. At first, she was appalled by the unsettling sight. Then a sense of tranquility washed over her the longer she watched the innocent animal. There was a sort of peaceful way the deer went about its business, as if it were unaware of its deformities and even content in that fact. Anora was fascinated at the contrast to the deer’s innocence and the horrific nature of its appearance.
The deer caught sight of her not long after Anora had settled into the underbrush, and it curiously and slowly made its way over to her. It wasn’t afraid. Anora was taken aback by that notion. Growing up, she was taught that she was not normal and that she was a thing to be feared.
“Hello,” Anora greeted, holding out the palm of her hand.
The deer sniffed around it, friendly in its demeanor.
“I was unsure if this forest harbored any docile creatures,” she remarked. “It appears I was mistaken.”
Rubbing its snout on her hand, the deer continued in its friendly manner, before feeding on the leaves on the ground.
“Have you any family?” she inquired with a note of curiosity. “If not, do not be disheartened. I myself have none…”
She paused, watching the deer and feeling a sense of ease while it delicately picked and nipped at the undergrowth. A soft brush of wind moved the canopy above, creating a serene, almost meditative atmosphere. Anora’s shoulders relaxed, the stress and worries of the day seemed to melt away.
“Are you alone? As I am?” she asked in a humble voice. “For I am truly alone…” her eyes wandered off, lost in sorrowful reflection. “I supposed I have always been alone…even when I had a companion…she’s passed on…and I am trapped…”
The deer’s movements were unhurried and calm, and Anora found herself slipping into a gentle trance.
“One day I hope not to be trapped,” she confessed with a tinge of hope. “Though, I fear my life is ill-fated…much like this world, I supposed…lost in an endless darkness…”
Anora ran her hand down the side of the deer, feeling its soft downy fur and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. She couldn’t help but smile as she took in the unique beauty of the creature, a comparison she made to herself. It had been years since she had any company that didn’t consists of Lautrec or his Apostles visiting to keep tabs on her. As she continued to stroke the deer’s side, she was reminded that despite her crushing loneliness there was a vast world out there, and that she was not truly alone.
“Are you content in your life?” she asked with somberness. “I regret that I cannot say the same for myself. Tell me, young fawn, is there a path out of these woods?”
In a sudden, brutal, attack the sword of a Darkwalker viciously bore down on the fawn splitting it in half. Blood sprayed out over Anora as she stood in horrified shock. Before she had time to fully understand what had happened, the Darkwalker snatched her up and carried her back to the castle.
“You wretched creature!” Anora exclaimed in fury, twisting and struggling to free herself. “Release me at once, you murderer!”
Anora’s attempts to get out of the Darkwalker’s grasp were in vain and it marched her back to her tower chamber, tossing her inside and slamming the door closed behind it.
“Let me out!” Anora screamed in desperation and panic, slamming her fists against the door repeatedly. “I wish to speak to the Crimson Prince at once!”
Before she could strike the door again, it flung open and a Darkwalker stood ominously at the entrance. Anora stood firmly in place, the two staring at each other in unyielding glances. And in an instant, the Darkwalker took Anora by the arm and dragged her to the foyer of the keep, tossing her to the ground before a massive portrait. She brushed the dust from herself before looking up at the painting. It was of the Crimson Prince of Hell, Lautrec Luferion; the man responsible for her imprisonment.
“This was not what I intended,” Anora said sharply to the Darkwalker. “I wish to avoid this portrait, for it causes me considerable dismay.”
Though she tried her best to avoid looking directly at the imposing portrait, she couldn’t help but sense unease and dread emanating from it. It depicted Lautrec as a fearsome figure, a demon lord who had brought devastation and suffering across the land. The detail of the painting was vivid, showing Lautrec in all his twisted, regal, splendor—clad in deep red, ornate, armor and trappings of royalty. He was a demon and as such had horns, curling up from his brow to touch the ornate crown that rested on his head. Behind him the flags of the conquered nations of the Viempire and Sylph were set ablaze, a statement proclaiming his victory over them fifteen years ago. Anora could feel rage swell inside her, just knowing that the portrait was there. Lautrec was responsible for Odessa’s death and was the warden for Anora’s confinement. Yet Anora dared not look away, she needed to remind herself of her suffering and the burning need to survive; and to never forget the demon lord who had brought such devastation to her world.
“I am aware of my status here. I should like to return to my chambers now,” Anora said to the Darkwalker, after standing to confront it. The creature didn’t budge. Anora felt like she needed to add more, “I am aware that the Crimson Prince of Hell is the authority.”
The Darkwalker obliged and stepped aside to allow Anora to pass. She hurried to her room as she felt her emotions rising inside. Once behind the closed door, she let out a stifled, guttural scream that was laced with raw, unbridled anger. The solitude had become suffocating and her hold on sanity was faltering—a thought that frighted her to her core. Her loneliness seemed to mock her, a stark reminder of the isolation that had invaded every corner of her existence. She tapped her fingers on the wall and took deep breaths, calming herself. In a moment of clarity she felt a presence in the room with her. And in a brief flicker, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the otherworldly ghost of the malformed fawn. Its twisted form hovered ominously in her dimly lit room, appearing strangely content with vacant eyes. Anora found herself smiling, not out of joy, but at the simple fact that the fawn had found, in a disturbing way, a sense of peace.
