Pain had been a sensation he was never truly familiar with. Much of his life to this point, was merely spent enjoying the pleasantness of it. The joy of being the son of a wealthy merchant, meant that he would never want. With that life came an affability that he would fiercely fight to keep. But even when he lived that life. He knew in his heart he would never be a merchant, like his father and siblings were. He could never bring himself to deceive those lower than him, or those who could not afford the education to know when they were being deceived. So of the many sins he had partaken in with his family, it was there he would draw the line. For despite his appearance he was a man of faith—the faith of the Many Faced God. When he partook in sin, he would absolve himself at the Church of Multitude the following day. And that same night he would sin again, simply to repeat the process again the following morning. It was this cycle that he had created for himself, that he believed would protect him from any kind of divine punishment. From pain. For surely the Gods would not seek to punish one who everyday repented for the sins they committed? He would attribute such thinking to the foolishness of youth. However, even in the state he was in now. It was something he found holding onto. The memory of his youth. The only thing he could hold on to. The only thing she could not strip from him, from his flesh. He knew he deserved the pain he felt. If he could have only stopped his father from making a foolish decision. If only he himself were not there to hear the utterly blasphemous words of those who would betray the King of the Stygians. Even as he left along with his father, burning words of warning into his ear to decline the invitations of the usurpers. He could already see in the cool moonlight the bonfire of desire in his father's eyes. Given an opportunity, that very night he would have packed his things and disappeared deep into the wilderness of Iliad. To go as far south as he possibly could, beyond Neith, beyond Talterra. Across the raging seas to the lands that lay further south. But it would not matter. No matter how far he travelled, no matter how long he did. He knew if she sought him, he would be hers. She was not the kind to halt her pursuit. Nothing could stop her from seeking what it is she desired. Like the very shadows themselves, once seen, a part of you forever. His fate and that of his family were sealed the moment he heard the words of the usurpers. He had grown accustomed to the lack of sounds. In it he found comfort. Silence meant no more pain. Silence meant respite. But in silence others would come. And so they did. At first through his one working ear, he would hear the soft patter of tiny feet across cold stone. Or rather what he assumed was cold stone. For he hung from the ceiling. Both hands impaled by hooks not designed to be removed without inflicting as much suffering as possible. Through his one eye, he watched as the rats slowly crawled in through cracks in the wall. At first sniffing the air to familiarize themselves. And then eventually growing in confidence to approach. His positioning in the center of the cell made it difficult for him to ascertain all that was around him. From the time he had spent here, he knew only a large table and candle light were behind him. The light source flickered, sometimes going out plunging him in darkness. And other times it flirted with extinguishment; dancing off his body and projecting shadows on the wall in front of him. Sometimes these shadows would look and talk to him, tell him terrible things about what would happen to him. At first he did not listen, but he soon quickly came to understand what the shadows spoke were truths. Truths he could only heed. The rats came closer, his once healthy frame did little but obscure a small patch of ground in front of him. As though they did not enjoy being so exposed, they made their way across the shadows towards him. Soon they gathered all in his shadow, pushing and hissing at each other. If he still had the ability to throw up, he would. He did the first time he saw them eating upon his stripped flesh. Even through the buckets of vomit, they still continued to gnaw and chew at his decaying parts. Over time the pile of flesh grew, as she continued to strip more of him. Now as he looked at the rats eating their fill, he could see fingers, some toes, perhaps teeth? He could not remember what she did with his teeth. One of the rats momentarily paused from its meal to turn to him—its black beady eyes, a hint of pity within them. Or a greater desire to devour something fresh. But even as it drew near, its mouth mere inches from what remained of his feet. He knew it would never eat him, none of them would. She was his to do as she pleased. Even the animals would not dare oppose her, not even death itself. And through the hissing of rats and the consumption of his rotted flesh and parts. He heard it. The sound of damnation approaching. The footsteps of his torturer. Even the rats who had all been lost in hunger, began to disperse. They knew what approached, even their small minds could understand that the room where he hanged from—It was a place of death, and one of its greatest students approached. With what little strength he had left he had to fight the convulsions his body attempted. Any movement, no matter how slight, dug the hooks deeper into his hands and feet. But as the footsteps grew closer, the fear continued to take over him. His spasms growing wilder and more violent, until once again silence. He stared at the door handle, he did not know for how long. Waiting. Begging that the door would not open. That this was another trick of the shadows. But the turning of the handle was all the proof he needed that it was all real. The moment she opened the door, he could feel the temperature drop several degrees. It was as though she brought the cold with her. Despite all this time, he could never familiarize himself with it. He had experienced cold before, winters in Akkad were challenging at times. But this was different, it was as though all the cold was directed at him. As though he were wrapped in it. His own personal winter. Even though her face was obscured her violet—golden eyes carried with it such a pulsing glow. He sometimes wondered if she held the very sun within them. It was the only way to explain it. He had seen Stygians before, even lay with them on rare occasions that they would allow him to partake in their activities. But among the many he had seen and the few he knew. She was by far the most beautiful of them all. It was not only that her face aligned in perfect symmetry. It was as though each feature of hers—from her narrow eyes, to her full lips, the softness of her ebony skin—had all been expertly crafted by gifted sculptors. Her snow white hair was carefully braided and split into two parts that rested on either side of her shoulders. Within them he could see the stars twinkle with their glowing hue. This girl embodied the otherworldly beauty of the Stygians that so many bards sang about. He had heard many claim that King Antares Xerxes to be the most beautiful of all Stygians. But he could not imagine anyone surpassing the girl who stood before him. With a look of regal indifference, she approached. Revealing more of her appearance. He wanted to look away, but could not bring himself to. This girl had inflicted untold horrors upon him, with barely any reaction or word spoken. Day after day after endless day. But even still, he could not bring himself to look away from her. She extended a slender hand towards his direction. Fear gripped him tightly in place. She pulled out from his throat, an acutely thin frozen needle that was placed in his vocal cords. The release of pressure made breathing easier. "Tell me what you know." Her voice smoother than ice itself. She would only ask him once. She only ever did ask once. Everyday, he would tell her everything he knew. And everything he thought he knew. She would listen, digest everything he said and then place the long thin needle back into his vocal cords. And the pain would follow, as she ripped him apart. Slowly, carefully. Today would be no different. He knew not what else to tell her. He told her the names of the usurpers, Lord Aldios and Omiros. He told her the names of the merchants that attended that accursed night. He told her the names of his father and siblings, he told her everything. And it was never enough. Still everyday she would come bringing pain. He began to cry out of the one eye he had. And yet he made no sound. She placed the thin needle back into his vocal cords and he prepared for what was to come up. "My princess, the weave mothers call for your presence." He had first thought the voice was in his head, another trick of the shadows. But he saw her stop and turn around. The language of the Stygians was unknown to him but he knew the voice that spoke was not hers. It sounded distant, as though it came from somewhere far from here. He followed her eyes to her shadow. It began to twist and turn, until it was nothing more than a giant dark spot on the floor. From within slowly a figure began to rise out of it, as though being birthed anew into the world. Another Stygian woman appeared. She bowed in uttermost reverence. "And what of him?" his torturer asked. "Everything he has said is true. You are free to do with him as you please." The woman from the shadow spoke without raising her head. "Very well." He had never taken his eye off his torturer, and yet once he had realized what she had done it was far too late. The Stygian woman that appeared out of her shadow, dissolved back into it. And before she was completely gone, he managed to lock eyes with her if only for the briefest of moments. And within her eyes he saw pleasure. From there his torturer had begun to make her way out of the room. Something within him wanted him to call out to her. For what purpose, he was unsure. But he knew as long as the needle was lodged in his vocal cords he could not speak. So to his surprise he saw her still holding the needle. He did not care the consequence, he would call out to her all the same. And before any sound could leave his mouth. His skin along with every inch of him was frozen rigid. Call it mercy or happenstance; it was irrelevant either way. For in that moment Princess Anastasia Xerxes had lost all interest in her captor, and so by her generosity his life was finally allowed to end. As she closed the door behind her, a loud crash echoed in the room. The walk to the Room of Contemplation was a short one. She had only chosen to stop in that room on a whim. She knew she would have learned nothing new from the man. But her daily visitation with him turned into a habit. One she swiftly put an end to. She lightly tapped the needle against her thigh as she walked. Unconsciously counting the steps required to reach the room. The howling of the winds beat against the stone walls around her. True winter was still some time from now, but the early signs of it had started to take form around her prison. But the weather would soon be the least of her concern. For within these cold stone walls of White Mountain Prison, a great change had begun to take place–one she was unsure as the warden, was prepared for. At only thirteen she was made supreme commander of the Nightsisters. But now at eighteen, Anastasia Xerxes faced her first real test. "I do not react well to being followed, Mahdis." The warden halted her march. The candle lights that were carefully placed on either side of the long corridor flickered. With that, the shadows also danced. As each candle light was expertly placed just ahead of the next one. It allowed room for the darkness to exist. And it was within this darkness Mahdis found comfort and safety. But not this time. For as deep as she sank into the abyss, Anastasia could still see her. She could always see her. The shadows bonded together and from the ceiling, like a teardrop fell Mahdis Xerxes.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. "Most excellent princess," she did not raise her head. "I would not expect anything less." "I am in no mood for games," the warden declared. "I would never defile you with such a thing. I only mean to follow." There was sadness in her voice. That the warden could accuse her of such. "If you will permit me that is." Mahdis' long starry hair covered much of her face. Like all Nightsisters, their faces were rarely ever exposed. She remained there perfectly still. Not even her silver earrings dangled in the candlelight. The blackness of her attire made it difficult to see where it ended and the shadows around her began. To Anastasia she was more akin to a floating head than a real person. But nevertheless, she granted Mahdis her desire. "You forget your place. To follow without addressing me first." Anastasia turned to face her. Mahdis shivered ever so slightly. "I will not allow it a second time." The older Nightsister revered in the mercy of her supreme commander and dissolved herself back into her shadow. And like that Anastasia resumed her journey to the room. But as she walked she could not help but acknowledge that Mahdis only ever came to her when she sensed trouble. It was something the princess had learned during their third meeting. A trait she tolerated in Mahdis because of the results it yielded. So now here, she knew there was something more to her call by the weave mothers. She needed to prepare for what is to come. "What do the weave mothers want Mahdis?" her voice barely above a whisper. "Great princess. They are lost. They debate ceaselessly shaking the foundations of your prison. The weave mothers seek your wisdom," returned Mahdis, her voice coming from the shadows. Anastasia unflinching, "What have you heard?" "It is the king," she whispered quieter. "They know not what to make of his actions." Anastasia suppressed a growing rage that threatened to explode. The first time she saw her brother again, was the same day she lost her father. She should have killed him then. The thought surfacing again. His disheveled look made him no different than a common beggar. Not someone fit for the duties of the throne, let alone to acknowledge as a brother. She could scarcely stomach the sight of him after what he had done, for what he had done to Nykolas. For their father to forgive him for that, to the warden of White Mountain it was a step too far. And now just as she had told the weave mothers, and those who would listen. He would drive them all towards destruction. Antares was no savior. Irrespective of what anyone said, even their own father. He further proved it with his marriage proposal to a witch. His existence was a desecration of their ways. One Anastasia sought to rectify. "I have already given council on what should occur." She could see the large doors in the distance. "They wish to further hear your reasoning." "Then I will give it," Anastasia assured. When they reached the large entrance to the Room of Contemplation. The Onyx door loomed great over them. All manner of foul beasts and monsters looked to be trapped and chained into it. Each one of them caught in untold agony and despair. In each of their eyes precious violet gemstones. They danced with the light of violence, despite being bound. For anyone else it was an ordinary door. But for the Nightsisters, it was a reminder of how much was given to protect their realm. The sacrifice carried out by their fellow Nightsisters and the Lords of War they fought alongside. It was only in the pursuit of rumination through one's own actions–the chaining of the monster within. Could the power be found to vanquish anything that stood in one's path. The doors to the Room of Contemplation opened. Unlike most of White Mountain, the floor of the Room of Contemplation was marble black. Stygian symbols painted and woven into the rock hummed with ancient power. The interior of the room was massive, able to fit in a great many people. Each corner of the room was held up by towering pillars that spiraled in an array of intricate and detailed shapes. The room was shaped like a five sided object. And each of the five sides had a massive curtain draped over it. From where they stood, each curtain hid a raised platform. What lay behind was shrouded in mystery. The center of the room was bathed in a singular light that came from somewhere beyond the ceiling. It burned away the darkness encroaching on either side to offer a beautiful image of light piercing through the unknown. Anastasia stepped into the room where none but the Nightsisters were granted entry, not even sound itself. Mahdis emerged from her princesses' shadow. Her full form visible now. She only stood a few inches taller than her warden. She bowed in the direction of the light and slowly made her way to the shadows that tossed and turned around them. From there, other Nightsisters began to emerge from the dark. Anastasia turned to watch them form. The grace and ease with which they exited the shadows showed their skill and mastery over it. It was as though they removed a second skin. And as each Nightsister rejoined the physical world. They all proceeded to sit uniformly on the ground. With their faces all covered, Anastasia looked on at a sea of stars all around her. The very cosmos at her feet. The Supreme Commander of the Nightsisters, effortlessly made her way into the light. And it is there she sat postured, ready for what was to come. "How long will you continue to ignore us?" The voice boomed directly into her head. "A great debate rages on and you seek to busy yourself with common trash?" Anastasia calmed herself. "I do not ignore you. My position still remains the same." She was careful to remove all traces of emotion in her words. "I simply have no interest in debate." The voice scuffed, and another came to take its place. "Your arrogance is unbecoming. You talk about killing a crown princess like it is child's play." "And what do you suggest? We allow him to wed a witch? And continue down this path of desecration?" her words flat and clear. "Are you so sure it is a path of desecration he walks?" Anastasia held her tongue. For such a question to be asked after all Antares had already done. The death of Nykolas was more than enough to show that the path her brother walked was an abomination to their ways. To allow a Lord of War that had killed his own to sit atop the throne was an insult to their ancient rites. One she did not understand how the elders and even the weave mothers were so eager to overlook. "There is still no word from Mashu Hursag," the voice continued. "If they have still not decided to intervene then why should we? Why should we be the first to act?" "Because it is our way," Anastasia stated clearly. "Your vigor for duty is admirable Princess Anastasia." This voice was different, she recognized who it belonged to. "But your desire for blood has clouded you. To so confidently say your king walks down a path of desecration? A king who is a Lord of War at that. What right do you have to say such a thing?" "My right?" she repeated those words. "My right is that he is my brother. This shame I feel is because of what he has brought down upon us all." "Is that so?" the voice asked. "And what of Daimion? Do you feel shame for his actions? Is that why you chose to torture the captive personally?" She said nothing. "Minerva, you are far too critical of her," another voice interrupted. "There is some truth in what she says." "The boy already believes we are responsible for the death of his mother." Minerva reminded all present. "The consequences of spilling royal blood, even if it were a witch, would be too high. We could take her life with ease and none would dare doubt us. But he would. And he would come here for war." Minerva's words rattled around the minds of all who were in attendance. They would never say it out loud, but many Nightsisters present still doubted if they truly had no involvement in the death of Queen Myrra. For it was thought that so many who dared think it believed they did so. For what purpose? Many have speculated on it for decades. But nevertheless they all knew the hatred the king, their king had for the Nightsisters. For his foremother, Minerva. To incur the wrath of someone they had sworn themselves to was unthinkable. It was why these debates had raged on for so long. "Then why not tell him the truth? He has the eyes of the Akashic. He will see reason." Another weave mother offered. "Not when it regards her. Like his father, the boy sees no reason when it involves Myrra." "That damned queen, even in death she still disrupts our plans." A different weave mother croaked. "What will you have me do then?" Anastasia asked, breaking the back and forth. There was a long silence before anything was said again. Anastasia could hear the hesitation in their voice. They did not have any desire to act. Uncertainty gripped their actions. Once they were made aware that the elders allowed the king to move forward with this marriage, it had troubled them even more so than the potential union itself. For the elders more than most sought to disparage any idea of witches involved in the royal line. A belief that they had held for multiple millennia. But now, after all this time. They had begun to change. It unsettled Anastasia greatly. Her brother's return had sent ripples through her people. The first to show effect where the elders, now the Nightsisters, teetered. And would Mashu Hursag and the rest of the Lords of War do the same when they finally decided to make themselves known? A great many things were in motion, and it all centered on Antares. "Nothing," Minerva stated flatly. "Ultimately the choice to act is yours alone. We only ask for… mercy. If the elders have shown it so can we. Let us see what path the king walks. And what the little witch will bring with her." "And if she leads him astray?" Anastasia already knowing the answer to her question. She needed to hear Minerva say it. "We will weave her a tale most splendid. One none would soon forget." Minerva's words echoed with nearly a millennia's worth of experience. "That is not all," the weave mother added. Anastasia raised her head slightly. "You must return west, back to Akkad." "My place is here." "It is. But you must curry favor with the king," a different weave mother spoke up. "Yes, oh yes. You must," added another. "I am the Supreme Commander of the Nightsisters," Anastasia Xerxes declared. "Such a thing is beneath me." "The warden of White Mountain does not go to curry favor," Minerva corrected her. "It is Princess Anastasia Xerxes, sister of King Antares who must return." The thought of returning home caused her distress. She could not know if she would ever be able to possibly look at her brother's face again. So much had happened five years ago that she still did not know and was unable to wrap her thoughts around. His return from exile only made matters worse. There were far too many questions she wanted to ask. Things she deserved to know. But to live within that castle again, with him. With the man who killed Nykolas, her beloved. The demands of the weave mothers proved to be far greater than she liked. But she knew the benefits of rekindling such a relationship with her brother would prove beneficial to the Nightsisters. So long had they been forced into the periphery of the minds eye of the Stygians. The great civil war that tore the realm apart centuries ago, proved to be their near undoing. A path had opened for them with Antares ascending the throne. The very man she wished to destroy could now be the only one capable of saving them. Anastasia did not know whether to curse the ancestors or the fates. So she did both. "It shall be done."

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