Devil of the Spire || ONC 2024 || SHORTLISTED

01 | The News

The night they were taken from their home was the night Ilaria thought her life ended. Life has a funny way of proving people wrong. Some four years later, Ilaria found herself reminiscing over the events of that night. If things hadn't gone as they had, she wouldn't be where she was now.

She stood in her grandmother's living room at the upper end of Askiz, sipping on a cup of tea and enjoying an afternoon snack. She breathed in the lavender tea, relishing in the notes of vanilla.

Her eyes dragged over her surroundings, noting the sharp contrasts in her life. The walls were a rich burgundy color, accented by the gold that highlighted every all-mounted candelabra or mirror. Back home, the walls had holes in them. The light had been provided by a single wood-burning stove in a corner.

The floors were polished wood, dark and glistening. A thick rug made from the finest materials cushioned her feet. Once upon a time, the floors of her childhood home had been splintered, chewed on by rats, and filled with holes.

Life was good—great, even. She was living a life she never imagined for herself but at the cost of things she had known.

Her father had been sent to prison, locked away somewhere she wouldn't be able to place on a map, for conspiring with a gang who had been in some nasty business.

Her mother had lost her mind out of grief and was now only a shell of the woman she used to be. Ilaria glanced over at the woman who sat in a rocking chair. Her complexion carried an undertone of grey, her eyes were glazed over, and the only sign of life was the mindless murmurings that escaped her barely moving mouth. She hadn't been the same since her husband had been taken, lost in a catatonic state. She rarely broke out of it; when she did, it was to eat or drink.

And, of course, she had lost Appall. Ilaria's gaze turned to the window that overlooked the city. What had happened to him? She was sure she would never find out if he had indeed died that night, but hope still lived within the darkest places of her heart.

But what room did she have to complain? She was provided for, protected, and kept warm. A roof over her head, a bed to sleep in, and the finest clothes she could imagine. A rueful smile crawled onto her face. Yes...what room did she have to complain?

"Ilaria." Her grandmother's bell-like voice rang from the hallway.

"Yes?"

"Have you seen the newspapers?"

She drew her attention to the doorway as her grandmother glided into the room. Lady Dahlia was a force to be reckoned with when she was in her setting. Running the largest port in the kingdom of Urga was no easy task; because of that, her grandmother had quite a reputation. But here, within her own home, the Lady Dahlia was quite the companion. Who would've thought she would be so caught up in the latest drama or captured by folktales?

"I haven't, Grandmother." Ilaria set down her tea as her grandmother sat across from her.

"Well, there's some pretty big news in here." Lady Dahlia shook her head, tapping the open newspaper in her hands. "Seems like Lord Kiernan is on the move again."

Ah. The Devil of the Spire. Ilaria grimaced. A faceless man from Dorn who had risen to power within the years she'd been absent. He'd wiped out most of the kingdom's crime with a heavy hand. She figured it was a good thing, but he wasn't well-liked by anyone. Word was he was cruel, demeaning, and had dealings with things not of this world. Very few nobles had met with him, and none seemed eager to strike a friendship with the man.

"Grandmother..."

"I am just saying," Lady Dahlia's eyes flicked up to Ilaria, "maybe something could be worked out here."