Where The Fallen Wait

Chapter One

Lyra

Mirrowen Square slept under a brittle dusk, its lanterns flickering uncertainly in the evening wind. It was uncharacteristically empty. A Tribute Eve always quietened the city – doors bolted, curtains drawn, conversations hushed. No one wanted to be caught wandering the streets when the temple guards were on edge.

Lyra Veylen kept to the shadows.

Her cloak hugged her shoulders as she moved along the edge of the silent square, each step practiced, fluid, all instinct sharpened from years of slipping past watchful eyes undetected. The houses around the square stood mute and dark, windows shuttered against even the hint of what might be happening inside the temple tonight.

Nine years since the Gate had last opened.

Nine years since a girl – no older than Lyra was now, if memory serves – had been led through in bridal attire, her family sitting in an adjacent room with hollowed eyes and ringing goodbyes.

Nine years since Mirrowen had last held its breath.

Lyra paused just long enough to glance toward the looming silhouette that dominated the far side of the square – the Temple, its pale stone walls rising. Behind those walls, the Tribute ceremony preparations would be underway. She could almost picture it: priests fastening veils, guards tightening formation and a single terrified girl rehearsing what would likely be her final steps.

But the Temple wasn't her goal tonight.

The Hall of Records stood in its shadow, squat and unassuming, as though its walls didn't hold the only truths the officials of Mirrowen had tried to bury.

Kalen had vanished three nights ago.

No farewell. No sign of where he was going. One moment he had been shrugging into his coat, promising he'd "be right back with whiskey for Father," and the next -

Gone.

The last person to see him alive – a timid temple apprentice who owed Lyra a few favours – had whispered under pressure:

They took him. Through the Gate.

Lyra had dismissed it as nonsense, as panic spinning a superstition into a hurried explanation. But it had lodged in her ribs as a splinter, refusing to dislodge.

She had heard rumours – the whole town had – of officials disposing of insurgents and troublemakers using the Tribute Gate as an impromptu execution site. No one ever proved it. No one had ever returned from beyond the Veil to confirm or deny it. The Temple and its high priests answered to no one.

Kalen had gone missing after reassuring her he'd be straight home.

And their father? Gone too. Not that it really mattered. The man had been a ghost in their home long before he'd disappeared – slumped at the table Lyra had set, his eyes glazed with drink, or sheepishly asking Kalen for what little coin they had that he would inevitably drown in the nearest bottle. Lyra had grown up with his absence a common occurrence.

Kalen, on the other hand, was the only family she had left.

Which is why she was here, slipping though the half-light with teeth clenched against the chill.

She needed answers. Papers. Records. Names. Temple logs. Literally anything that could explain what had happened that night.

She reached the archways to the rear of the Hall of Records. Two guards stood by the narrow entryway – rigid postures, hard expressions, hands resting lightly on their weapons. Tense. All the guards in Mirrowen were tense on nights like this.