CHAPTER 2 ADRIA
CHAPTER
ADRIA
The Shadowlands are ensconced in absolute, unrelenting night, pockmarked by winking stars to which we can no longer travel.
In the center of my family’s fortress, on the highest of its towers, elevated like a fallen celestial body to light our world, a massive torch burns brilliant azure.
Visible from any of the smaller surrounding structures, and reignited by the torchbearers every time its fuel dwindles, it is the only way we nightfolk deign to track time’s march.
The only fixed, final indicator of when one ought to lie down and when one ought to rise.
It’s completely invisible from the Depths.
When the asteroid Diakópsei first collided with Pagomènos, it seemed like a thoughtless force of nature.
But it was, in fact, a borderline sentient thing—a stone that exerted will, whose sediment shimmered with intent.
The twisting, underground labyrinth whose entrance looms just ahead of me was built not by nightfolk hands, but by the explosion of energy from the impact site.
The Cataclysm site should’ve become a crater. Instead, by the sheer force of its far-flung, interstellar power, the Diakópsei fashioned itself a home. A cathedral, if you ask the Elysian cultists who live here.
The Elysium cult, dedicated gatekeepers of the Depths for generations now, are the only ones who are supposed to come down here—the only ones who abandoned a system of time tracking altogether, their labyrinthian abode perpetually lit by the pulsing indigo light of the asteroid itself.
It’s the same blue as our blood, the same blue as the undercurrents of our people’s skin, the same blue as the Diakópsei’s unique gifts to its people.
If I could see the sky as it once was, set afire by Pagomènos’s sun as the Daylands are, I imagine it would be this blue.
This impossible, endless, unflinching blue.
Yet the color feels purer here, undiluted, when it emanates directly from the asteroid.
The light is to my eyes what swallowing a spoonful of raw spice powder would be to my tongue.
Even at the Depths’ entrance, still a while away from the Diakópsei itself, my vision stings and waters.
My throat twists as if on a withheld cough.
The Diakópsei raised us nightfolk from our merely human origins and imbued us with alien magic.
Uplifted. Empowered. Transformed.
Monstrous, the dayfolk say, but their minds are rotted by the endless sun. Or so I’ve been told.
The subterranean Elysium cult worships the Diakópsei for obvious reasons. So why, at the threshold of beholding it firsthand for the first time, do I feel cold all over when I should be thrilled?
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Father says, laying one of his four clawed hands on my shoulder. “Soon, my child, with our own eyes, we will behold that which made us what we are.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that, per usual, he calls me child and not daughter. For all my parents’ attempts to evade any mention of the truth, it’s been glaringly obvious since my earliest memories: They wanted a son. But asked to choose between a childless future, absent of
heirs, and accepting the miracle (or perhaps cruel joke) that was their daughter’s birth, they chose the latter.
And dedicated their lives to hardening every soft edge, leashing every threatening emotion, and training every cell of my being into an heir worthy of the Shadowlands.
I incline my head toward the waiting Depths, its alien light glinting off my horns.
It shines faintly through my wings as well, making their bulk shimmer like gossamer.
Said entrance is a straight vertical drop—no ladder, no visible indents for climbing down.
The presumption is either wings or telekinesis. “Why have you brought me here?” I ask.
“Not only you,” says someone behind me.
I pivot almost instantly, my wings lifting my feet just above the stone ground, to lock eyes with Mother.
Her mutations are more akin to the ones I inherited.
She has only two arms and two legs, but altered enough by Pagomènos’s radiation to enable natural travel on all fours, as she approaches me now.
Unlike Father, who was graced with a second pair of arms, Mother’s spine twirls into wings like my own, and the horns crowning her head curl and arch away from the skull, whereas Father’s are smaller, smooth cones.
My horns are somewhere in between the two, arching through the short dark curls of my unkempt hair.
Trailing Mother, the new arrival is closer to a standard humanoid height than her seven feet or my own eight; she has a foot and a half on the stranger, at least. It’s possible the stranger will hit a dramatic growth spurt later in life—the radiation affects every nightfolk in a unique way—but he looks to be more boy than man, more child than soldier.
And the stranger has neither wings nor arms; in fact, he has no arms at all, only legs, and stands straight as a metal rod, head in the clouds above despite being dramatically below everyone else’s eye level.
I would wonder what gift the Diakópsei bestowed upon him, but the absence of arms makes it obvious.
He evolved beyond the need for nature’s former designs; he’s a telekinetic.
I incline my head to the stranger. A steep incline, given his profound lack of height for a nightfolk boy. “Adria,” I say, by way of greeting. It’s not really an introduction, as we’re both well aware.
“I know who you are,” the stranger says. A high voice, ringing with youth. Definitely a child, then. I may not quite be an adult myself, but I’ve been on this planet far longer than he.
I shift my eyes to Mother. “You told me one of your soldiers had volunteered for today.”
Her answering smile doesn’t reach her eyes, the corners struggling to lift as if under unseen weight. “Isek’s father is one of our lead generals,” she explains, laying both hands on the stranger’s shoulders from behind. “He entered training for the service early.”
“I’m s-so very grateful to be here,” Isek stammers, “P-Princess Adria, inheritor of the Shadowlands. My lord.” Unlike my father defaulting to child over daughter, there’s no hidden jab in Isek calling me lord; to the nightfolk, any ruling party, queen or king, prince or princess, can bear the title.
Without hands to wipe sweat from his brow, Isek gives his head a little shake. “My liege. My—”
I raise a clawed hand for silence, and he trails off before the next title. I’m tempted to take a knee so that we’re eye to eye, so he can see there’s no threat behind my gaze, but there are standards for leaders, even with youths. I swallow, throat tight. “Adria is fine.”
Normally, I’d feel a thrill in my stomach at Isek’s deference, knowing I’ll someday take my parents’ mantle.
But this stranger, this Isek … this is a child.
He shouldn’t be so afraid of anything, least of all me.
Fear is a tool like any other to keep the powerful in line before their rightful master.
It shouldn’t be at all needed with this small, shrill boy, even if he is a telekinetic and a respected soldier’s son.
My father points toward the entrance before us with both left arms. “Shall we proceed?”
Mother whispers something to Isek. Isek’s amber eyes shut tightly, his forehead crinkling with concentration. Simultaneously, my wingless
father ascends above the ground and surges forward, hovering above the waiting chasm. A moment later, eyes still shut, Isek rises to meet him.
So I was right. I know a telekinetic when I see one.
Mother and I spread our own wings, keeping pace with Father and Isek’s slow supernatural descent.
The drop is a seemingly interminable blur of jagged rock and azure light. A ways down, I glance to Mother. “Is this the part where you tell me what’s happening?”
She laughs. A slick noise, like spilled oil. “Are you suddenly so eager to understand the intricacies of rule? You could pay better attention in your studies, you know.”
“You’re deflecting. You always brief me on my mission. Usually it’s so the nightfolk can see their next leader’s face, but the only subject here is a child.”
“Some things are better seen for yourself than foretold.”
Heavy cold always blankets the Shadowlands, but pure ice shoots down my spine now.
I don’t like not knowing. And I especially don’t like being kept deliberately ignorant.
“What sort of bargain did you strike with Elysium, that we haven’t already been attacked?
Why would they—?” But my mother’s stern gaze and upraised palm are enough to silence the rest of my sentence.
No one will respect me as queen one day if I cement myself as a thickheaded princess who never listened to counsel.
Eventually, after a nearly unbearable stretch of silence broken only by wingbeats and pluming white breath, my feet touch the ground.
Isek opens his eyes and sags from the effort of having sustained such prolonged telekinesis, nearly bent double, forehead close to his knees, breaths rasping and uneven.
“Well done, Isek,” Mother says, but does not reach to steady him.
If they’re going to treat him like a soldier, I’m expected to do the same. “On your feet.” I force the command too much, injecting it with undue harshness.
Isek straightens, panting. Still almost-imperceptibly shaking.
“Come,” Father says, motioning forward with two of his four arms again.
Isek’s fiery eyes meet mine, seeking understanding. I can almost hear him say, Why are we here?
I wish to the Beyond that I had an answer.
Like all nightfolk, I know the events of the Cataclysm as surely as I know my own name. Once, when time yet mattered and the planet yet spun, the asteroid Diakópsei struck the planet Pagomènos. Its surreal power, beyond human understanding, rewrote the very nature of the planet and its inhabitants.