Nocte stood before an ocean, a sky and a wide beachfront. She silently watched as the waters seemed to pull the blue from the sky and push it onto the sand in large sweeping waves, over her toes and past her ankles. There were cliffs to her right, jutting out and over the waters, breaking up the picturesque blue sky and the whites of cumulous clouds. To her left, there were the beginnings of a forest, a tree line that seared toward, behind and past her in a zigzagged formation. Above her stood a blazing sun, beaming heat and fire upon her crown of long, tangled and blood-matted hair. She squinted at the magnified pinpricks of light (her glasses had been broken and lost some days ago) as a rush of wind flew up against her, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed, a fresh and delicious spray along her perfect rows of teeth; her retainer was in the drawer of her dorm… or so she hoped.
She wore a downtrodden coat, a thick parka that had thinned considerably in the past hour or so. It had rips and tears along the sides, back and sleeves—gouged in the stomach with the stuffing pouring out. Her mangled snow pants were in the same pitiful state, a whole leg unravelling from the seams. She had lost her scarf a long time ago, pulled and torn from her throat. Her gloves were mere scraps, pieces of fabric held together with brittle threads and frozen to the wounds on her palms, along her knuckles and between her fingers. The only (relatively) presentable article of clothing on her person were her boots, scuffed and scratched, but not incredibly worse for wear—a testament of the quality (and expense) of the wares.
A seagull crowed and a bee buzzed by; water sprayed into her face and drowned the world out.
An Ice Sword slipped seamlessly into her right palm and she spun to place the blade under the stranger’s chin.
The stranger did not move, did not blink; Nocte’s lower left side ached at her movement, but did not protest overly much.
She was getting hot in this balmy weather, swathed in her arctic gear. There was no snow or ice or cold to be had, not the winter she had walked and fought in. She did not understand how she had arrived in this place, with waters so familiar, land so familiar and air so familiar. And this stranger, this elderly man, so familiar, did not seem to be in a hurry to provide sufficient answers.
Nocte was calm, but she was beginning to feel the prickling of irritation.
She never did like the summer.
“Lady Necromancer,” the elder acknowledged.
He knew her, but that did not make the situation less abrasive, nor did it lift her sword from his throat.
“I do not know who you are,” she said. Her throat was scratchy after moving from the extreme cold to the extreme heat; a drop of sweat melted into the collar of her parka. It was both uncomfortable and loathsome.
Her hand nearly jerked with annoyance, nearly shaved the man’s long, white beard from his chin.
“I am Ān Guó,” the elder said.
She knew the name. It was neither a common nor uncommon name, but it was a name many have heard of and recognized, spoken respectfully among the higher echelons of society and taught in all the schools. She looked him over carefully, at his long white hair half drawn into a top knot, and then to his faded blue Xonese robes with the navy blue button knots. Her eyes then fell to the jade pendant at his belt, a green so deep and exquisite that she found herself lingering a little longer. It was priceless—so was the character etched on the precious stone.
“You are the Xonese Councillor of the Erisiren Council,” she stated.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I do not believe you.” She had lost herself in illusions before.
“Sōng shù.”
She stared at him—hard. He was difficult to read; his age and experience proved a capable mask. With his eyes wrinkled shut, his hair thin and white, and his eyebrows long and trailing, nothing gave him away. He was like one of those Xonese sages from the legends, just as soundless and indecipherable. Slowly, she lowered the Ice sword, but did not dissipate it. Slowly, she stepped back, but did not turn her eyes from him. There were still many questions left unanswered.
A crane circled the treetops and a pine tree swayed in the background. The elder waited a tremendous beat of nerves and tension before moving forward in a slow and patient stroll. Nocte watched him from the corner of her eye as he walked toward and then past her to the water’s edge, halting only when his slippers touched the ocean’s rim. A wave rolled onto the beach and soaked her snow pants, but he remained untouched. Another wave, and the spray of sand and water brought to her the image of a misshapen castle —pagodas, marble columns, snow-bricks and glass doors.
Six thrones in a cylindrical room.
She had been here before.
She had seen it—felt it—in a dream.
“Where is this place?” she demanded.
“Eris.”
She tensed. “Then this is...”
“Erisire.”
“Truly-”
“Yes.”
“And Earth-?”
“Saved.”
She paused, incredulous, hopeful and suspicious. She did not trust his words. They could be lies and illusions verbally woven to trap her. Although the island was familiar—it was only a dream. Although his words were sweet—they were only words. Truth lied within herself, and Nocte would not believe Earth to be safe until she saw and touched the planet herself—her skies and soils. It would not be so hard to believe him if she were there now, holding the girl’s hand, smiling with the brother, gathering around a beautiful, two-tiered strawberry shortcake.
But she was not on Earth.
She was, supposedly, on Erisire.
There had been a plan: save Earth, return to Erisire. Now the plan had been foiled, and she was left angry, confused and displaced. How did she return? Where were Witley and Doctor? Why was an Erisiren Councillor present to greet her? She did not know, and the heat did not help her temper.
“I Summoned you,” the councillor spoke, as if reading her thoughts.
She turned sharply and narrowed her eyes. His back was facing her, but she had no desire to see his face. He was hard to read, but she had no doubt that she wouldn’t be. If he were truly Councillor Ān Guó, then Nocte had no preconception that she could meet him on equal footing, even if she was the Lady Necromancer… even if she were a Yin.
“Why?” she questioned, low and hard.
He turned then, a slight shift of his feet to meet her in the eye, his gaze sharp and concerned. “We are at war, Lady Necromancer. Time is of the essence, and we could no longer wait for your natural return. Even stalling for a day is detrimental to the well-being of our people, for the battles have become unpredictable, spontaneous and incorrigible.”
He faced her fully and she tensed, an uneasiness pulling through her in tight knots.
“The powerhouses have taken positions both destructive and violent,” he explained. “They no longer understand the words of ‘moderation’ and ‘patience.’ There are no boundaries to the destruction, for it is not a restrainedwar, but a very strategic, very devastating attack on multiple fronts, on multiple lands, and on multiple peoples. I do not have to tell you how startling it is to see villains so united, and heroes so scattered. It is startling… and dangerous.”
She pressed her lips, but did not otherwise move; she would keep her own counsel.
“And the Yin-”
She nearly faltered.
“-has been imperative to the disorder,” he continued. “They have been uncharacteristically reckless, providing supplies, soldiers, and subsidies almost carelessly to a cause unknown. Where before they would listen to reason… today they would slay whomever came to them in good will.” His features turned hard. “We both know that the Yin has the farthest and most potent reach across the globe: Xon, Lamise, Yhaes—even Iavindat with the betrothal between the Yin and Kheftey. We both know how perilous the Yin can be.”
Nocte shifted her gaze from his face to the ocean behind his shoulder, enough to keep her disquiet at bay. He was deliberately culling on the Yin to move her, to make her act in ways he wanted her to. She did not need him to tell her how perilous her family could be or what they were capable of; she had lived all her life watching, and sometimes participating, in their atrocities. She, above all, understood how her family worked more than a stranger and outsider. And yet he had deemed it necessary to Summon her to tell her this, a spell that was not to be used on another human being, not for one Unbound, unknowing and unwilling.
No. The elder was playing games with her.
She looked to him again, calm and even. “Why am I here, councillor? If you are, indeed, a councillor?”
He paused, his eyes flickering with troubled clarity. As she expected, he noticed the change. As she expected, he hadn’t expected her to hold her ground, but he most certainly knew of her sharp wit.
Slowly, he shuffled from the water’s edge, a careful, two-step from the ocean, his countenance firm and walled. “Despite the severity of this war, Lady Necromancer, we, the Erisiren Council, are bound to the Islands until due duress. We can only watch as others strive and die, and hope for the best. The most we can offer Erisire in her time of need is simply advice. Advice to kings and queens, to heroes and villains, to whomever willing to listen.” He looked at her pointedly. “Do you understand, Lady Necromancer?”
As she had predicted: he brought her here to move her.
She tightened the grip on her sword, the dried blood on her palm crusting around the make-shift hilt and reopening strips of her skin. Even with the pain latticing up her arm in thorns and cuts, her countenance remained blank and stone. Even with the chill running up the back of her spine and her heart shuddering to a halt, her poise remained straight and still. He had Summoned her, without her will, her knowing, her Bound—twisted room and manipulated space just to speak with her. Even if he were to fail at scheming, he was powerful enough to hold his pieces together.
Nocte could not say the same for herself.
“What do you want from me?” she gritted, something cold and heavy sinking into her stomach.
He stepped forward and Nocte had the uncanny urge to pull back, despite how frail he seemed and how resolute she felt. He held her gaze—watching, waiting, wrenching. When he next spoke, the sun was shining in his eyes like a beacon and the wind carried his words like the gods’ missive.
“I want you to contain your clan,” he instructed.
Almost immediately Nocte smirked, a humourless and ugly quirk to her lips like a jagged and painful scar. She was sarcastic and caustic when she scoffed, “I apologize, Your Grace, but they are not my clan anymore.”
He held her gaze, a long and quiet contemplative stare. His eyes, a fathomless but not malevolent darkness, bore into her own, an understanding that made her want to flee. He could read her, but she could not read him…
“Is that what you truly believe?” he enquired of her.
She cast her eyes to the ocean again, at that frail rim of the horizon, a slip of a line that threatened to snap and leave her drowning in the sky and waters. The Yin. She blinked, long, slow and hard. The Yin was not so easy to snap and break. The Yin was not so quick to leave and vanish. They were a part of her as much as she was a part of them—they were in her veins and cells, in her every breath and heartbeat. She had tried running, tried hiding, tried fighting… had compelled them to turn their backs on her… but they would never truly not be hers.
Nocte had never managed to think of herself as not-Yin.
Nocte had never stopped thinking of them as not-family.
If they called for her, she would come. If they wanted her, she would consent. If they hated her, she would surrender. Anything, she thought, anything to make them happy. That was the curse of family, the curse that ran through her body and cradled her soul, for when a Yin had their clutches on another, they never let go. And Nocte Yin, she knew well, was obstinately adherent. She was not as willing to let the Yin go as she had thought. She held onto the Yin to hold onto Nocte, for Nocte and Yin were synonymous.
Nocte Yin was Nocte Yin for her very existence.
They could never be apart.
And it hurt for them to not want her.
Nocte met the elder in the eye, trembling but resolved. He already knew, but he was neither conceited nor vain in his knowledge and better grace. He let her decide how they were to continue. They knew that she was involved even before she was involved, but how to proceed would be up to her.
“I cannot contain them,” she told him.
He contemplated this, wary and confused.
“Not for you,” she said.
He understood then.
“But for me and my own,” she concluded.
Nocte Yin did not play anymore; games were for fools and children.
Councillor Ān Guo carefully ran a hand down his arm to smooth the wrinkles from the sleeve, his eyes trailing along the edge of the cuff before he nodded, almost absentmindedly, to himself. Nocte feared that he may hold her to his devices, but he did not seem keen to do so. Holding her would destroy her, and any hope or chances of restraining the Yin. The Yin, Nocte knew, was the only clout she had over him.
The elder lifted his head in measured paces to face her with an expression of forbearance. He consented to her design, whatever that may be. “I believe that our conversation has come to an end,” he said mindfully. “I see that you are determined and that I cannot sway you otherwise. I can only hope that you are open to my advice.” He paused. “May I give you some advice, my lady?”
She waited a beat, and then a succinct nod. “You may, councillor.”
He seemed abated for now. “I suggest you give your sister a visit. A witch can be lonely, even when surrounded by family.”
“I will take your words into account,” she spoke curtly.
He politely yielded and raised his right hand, palm facing upward to the sky, and the sands started to shift to the left of her. Nocte gripped her Ice sword as she watched, with restrained alarm, as a door slid up from the sands and stood erect on the beach. Its dark mahogany gleamed in the sun and its brass features glared, an obvious abnormality amid the beach and ocean.
The councillor slipped his hands into his sleeves and looked to her unabashedly, a complete calm in face of her alarm and confusion. “I thank you, Lady Necromancer, for your time and patience. The world does not slow for conversations like these, unfortunately, and it is here and now that we must part ways.” He directed his chin to the door. “The door will lead you to the place you must be, and the place you are most expected. Please, do not mind the awkwardness.”
She narrowed her eyes, the better alternative to raising a brow, and did not move from her defensive position. She did not know if he meant to trap her or aid her, only that she did not know him and that their talk had been most obtrusive and abusing. When she did not move, neither did he. A cricket sounded, a high-pitched chirp that irritated her eardrums. She—they—could not wait forever.
Carefully, Nocte moved to the door and turned the knob. She glanced back at the councillor, who gave no indication of either good or bad, and then pushed the door open. She stood back and faltered at the sight. It was her room, the room she shared with Pyralis back at Evil Academy. Even standing at the door, Nocte marked the Pride emblem on the throw lying aesthetically on the high-backed chair in the corner-
She did remember having that peace lily in the corner.
“Good day, my lady,” the councillor bid farewell.
Nocte turned back and was not surprised to see the most graceful Councillor Ān Guo gone. She was familiar with powerful men doing whatever the hell they wanted and getting away with it.
She faced her dorm again and skimmed her thumb over the Ice sword’s hilt, cautious and anxious. With a slow exhale, she stepped through the door and into the dorm. She looked back and saw the beach and ocean—felt the wind and tasted the salt. A dry swallow and she closed the door, hearing the click as the mechanisms slid into place. She waited a heartbeat, and then another, and opened the door.
It was the adjoining bathroom.
Of course.
Nocte closed the door again and shut her eyes against the light and noise, needing a moment to gather her bearings before facing reality again. For certainly, the beach and ocean—the misshapen castle and the six thrones in a cylindrical room—were a dream.
For certainly, an Erisiren Councillor would not make the time to speak with her, even less to even advise her.
She heard the lock at the front door click and she knew it was the knell for her wake.
Nocte lifted her hand from the bathroom knob and let her Ice sword dissipate into the air. She hissed at the open wounds on her palm and, all at once, was suddenly aware of her aching joints and battered flesh. She carefully shifted to prop herself up against the door, struggling to breathe. She had forgotten that she had just left a battlefield—the land of dreams must have altered her.
The door to the dorm opened and Nocte turned to the newcomer, struggling to keep her legs upright. She was not surprised—certainly relieved—but not surprised to face her roommate, and neither was Pyralis surprised to see her.
Slowly, very slowly, Pyralis closed and locked the door behind her. She lifted her satchel off her shoulder and placed it on her desk, carefully setting a flask down beside it. Almost methodically, and nonchalantly, she worked off her wool coat and boots next, but as ordinary and ambiguous as those actions were, Nocte did not miss the way the alchemist’s dark eyes darted to her poor condition, her bloodied clothing and wounded hand.
“You’re back,” Pyralis said, dull and very ordinary, her eyes looking to the peace lily.
Nocte did not remember a peace lily having been there.
“Yes,” she replied, her lungs rattling with effort.
Pyralis nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Welcome back,” the alchemist said at last.
Nocte smiled, but winced when her chapped lips cracked.
“Go to sleep,” Pyralis said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Nocte could not tell the time, the curtains were drawn and the clock was too far for her blurry eyes. She would need replacement glasses soon. She squinted, hoping to catch the clock, but then her knees gave way and, suddenly, Pyralis was at her side, arm around her back and bracing her weight. Nocte’s breath grew haggard and she hardly understood how her roommate had gotten her into bed, only that she was swiftly in her bed and under her covers.
“Sleep,” Pyralis instructed this time, firm and annoyed.
Nocte did not argue, knowing that arguing with Pyralis would be pointless, and made an obedient show of closing her eyes and nodding off to sleep. She thought of Chantée. Of Alex. Of Doctor and Witley. She thought of Gash. Of Dire, Occult and Ebony. She thought their mother, their poor, half-wake mother, and then she thought of Aman, Corliss and Pyralis. She thought of the father who was not her father.
Unbeknownst to her, amidst all that thinking, Nocte really did sleep but a minute later, fitfully surrendering herself to the darkness.
She was always fighting something.