Stranger In The Night

Earth, Somewhere over the Pacific, July 2, 1937

Where was it? Where were they? They shouldn’t have taken off in this weather, the clouds making everything difficult, and now they had to spot a tiny island in the middle of nowhere. The navigation charts were accurate, they had to be! Amelia and Fred had gone over them meticulously multiple times before taking off from New Guinea.

So why was it that Amelia had this bad feeling that something was wrong?

She did her best to follow her intuition. Obviously something was wrong! But it was just this nagging feeling that her current predicament wasn’t the most pressing of her concerns.

Ridiculous!

She thumbed her transmission button on her control panel, pressing the microphone against her lips as she reached out to the Itasca with a positioning report.

“We are on the line 157 337. We will repeat this message. We will repeat this on 6210 kilocycles. Wait, we are running on line north and south.”

This was the sixth transmission she was making to the sea cutter, but each message they received was garbled and broken. There shouldn’t be much problems with the radios, as the low bandwidth allowed for easy over the horizon transmissions.

She spoke up on Intercom once again to Fred who was perched in the rear of the aircraft behind the auxiliary fuel tanks.

“Give me some good news, Fred.”

“I’m trying, Amelia. But the clouds are making this tough.”

“I know, I know.” She tried to maintain a calm demeanor, but her voice betrayed just the barest hints of how tense she was. Fred was one of the most experienced navigators she had the honor of knowing. If he was stumped, then there was good cause to be nervous. Even his own more reserved voice was strife with frustration.

“Here’s what we are going to do Fred, I’m going–”

Amelia felt a pull, one that some would describe as their soul wrenching in another direction. But this feeling was centered on her entire body. So quick and seamless was it that she was still talking even when the sensation ended.

“–to descend in altitude…”

She hadn’t even blinked. It was like a camera shutter, but without the break in between photos. She had been looking at some of her center console flight instruments, and now she was looking at a rough stone floor. Where the air in her Lockheed Electra had been stale after sitting in there for more than eight hours, now her inhale brought with it the musk of a damp cavern. She was still sitting, her bottom oddly comfortable in whatever material the cushion of the chair was made out of. Ever so slowly, mind reeling, she glanced at her hands, which had been gripping the control yokes of the aircraft. Now they were wrapped around…nothing.

Amelia was used to being calm and level headed. This sudden change in perspective gave her vertigo, her brain not understanding how to process everything. She numbingly took in the rest of her surroundings, old habits kicking in, telling her body to always be aware of her situation.

She saw what looked like members of a clergy, slowly lowering their arms which had been outstretched, heads coming down from their inclined position. Their faces were covered by cowls of the robes that took up the rest of their body. It was then that she saw the glowing script that made up the circle she was centered in.

None of this helped to allay her shock, of course.

The sound of footsteps from her right had her turning her head to look at the newcomer. Amelia took in a man she could only describe as ruggedly handsome. Tall, maybe around six feet two inches, pushing three inches if she had to guess. He held wide shoulders, but where she expected his face to be paired with an equally rugged and strong body, she was instead met with a lithe grace that reminded her of a stalking cat.

“Hello there, I’m Fenric.” He said the last bit as he bent down, putting himself at eye level with Amelia, his smile gentle and warm. Usually, the smile worked wonders with the ladies of the city. It held an untold warmth that made them feel safe within Fenric’s presence.

Not that he was actually gentle and warm.

But as Amelia stared back at him, she could only ask one thing.

“Where’s Fred?”

“...who?”

“Fred Noonan, my navigator. Where is he?” she asked, turning somewhat frantic.

The bag under Fenric’s left eye twitched, and he cursed before turning around and striding away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Get her ready for the connection, I’m going to see who gets the new Trait.” he said, as he wondered why they ever stopped just knocking them unconscious.

Even though he said this to no one in particular, two Inquisitors detached from the shadows of the walls, seemingly materializing from nowhere. They blurred towards the helpless victim, who only started shrieking as they hauled her up by the elbows with contemptuous ease.

“WAIT! WHERE IS FRED?! GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME! LET GO!” Her screams faded as the Inquisitors suspended her off the floor, disappearing with her down a side tunnel leading further into the cave system, her echoing screams fading to nothing.

***

Aerowyn Night, Advisor to the Court

Aerowyn made his way through the halls, the sealed summons he’d found in his study now tucked away in his robe pocket. He hadn’t even bothered to read it, the wax seal depicting an arcraen perched atop a runic shield was only used for one occasion.

Had he been living in the glades a few days' ride outside the city walls, the seal’s image would have been no more than an everyday occurrence. But within Primlon? There was only one Graven walking these streets, and there was only one reason that man would be reaching out to Aerowyn.

He stopped in front of a set of inconspicuous wooden doors, the usual maids wandering the halls absent. There wasn’t even a guard outside the doors, a show of strength and status for the individual no doubt waiting on the other side. Aerowyn raised his withered knuckles to rap on the door when a gruff voice broke out from the other side.

“Come in, Aerowyn.”

With a smirk, he opened the door enough for him to shimmy on through, closing it behind him. Turning around, he found Colin Graven sitting at his desk and leaned over some parchment, silhouetted by the light of Rynor setting on the horizon through the window behind him. As he shuffled to one of the two leather seats placed in front of the lacquered wooden writing table, stoic eyes across the desk studied his every movement. Colin waited for him to lower himself into the chair, groaning in effort as his hunched back protested before settling into a blissful silence.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The young Graven was no more than 22 or 23 cycles of age, with a cleanly shaven and strong jaw, broad shoulders, and obsidian black hair—normally pulled up into a bun—now loose and wavy around his shoulders. He was at the age where the passive Auris flowing through his pathways would slow his aging relative to the amount of Auris he could handle. Thankfully, he was one of the most Auris-sensitive people Aerowyn knew, so he’d live for a long time—assuming no harm came to him.

Though not the most talented individual, Aerowyn himself was nearing 190 cycles, his body still somewhat spry for his old age.

“Come to think of it… before you, do you know the last person that seemed to have a seventh sense for my movements?” asked Aerowyn, eyebrows raised in expectation.

For a couple seconds, Colin just stared at him, almost like he wasn’t in the mood to play such petty guessing games. Seeing that Aerowyn wasn’t budging in the slightest, he sighed and leaned back in his chair, arms splayed over the armrests in mock impatience. “Humor me.”

“Your Great-Grandfather.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “You’ve told me this before—”

“And it’s hard not to tell you every time we cross paths,” said Aerowyn. Leaning forward, he continued, “Every time I look at you, I remind myself you two are in fact different people. It’s uncanny, Colin! Neither your father nor your brother carry the same resemblance. Especially not the same level of aptitude in Auris manipulation! Why do you think you’re here?!” He assumed a faraway look, probably comparing the family members in his mind. “...I’m thankful you didn’t inherit his cruel nature, though.”

At this, Colin sat up, interest spiking. “Cruel nature?”

Aerowyn kept speaking as though Colin hadn’t asked him anything. His eyes turned more serious, demeanor shifting to match the subject “I know why you brought me here.”

Colin narrowed his calculating eyes at Aerowyn, not deciding to push the subject, even if he was hearing something Aerowyn never mentioned about his ancestor.

Leaning forward once more, he looked down at the parchment on the desk as he spoke, not willing to meet Aerowyn’s eyes. “Valdoc says it’s time.”

“I figured that, you dolt. But why so soon?”

“Apparently, the current one isn’t taking so well to the connection. They’re aging too quickly.”

“Are we sure it doesn’t have something to do with their Trait?” Aerowyn asked pensively.

“There’s no way of knowing for certain, but some of the runemasters don’t think it is. They’re saying it’s a bad match, but I’m not well versed in the inner workings.” Colin looked back up at Aerowyn. “They want to do an early transfer, and Valdoc says he feels strong enough for another invocation. You–”

Aerowyn held up a hand, stopping Colin from continuing. “I already know, and I’ll stop you from asking me directly. I’ll get it done.” His shoulders seemed to sag further than his hunched figure could handle, a weight of responsibility settling on his person.

He laid tired eyes on Colin. “How long?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, at the latest.” came the response from the young man, eyes pained.

This was going to be Colin’s first time.

The experience changed a man.

Just seeing it had changed Aerowyn, so much so he had never gone unless asked to. But he could never forget, his own role too important in the process.

He reached across the desk, placing a gentle hand on Colin’s arm. He couldn’t see it, but he could certainly feel the emotions raging through the young man. The clenched hands and trembling arms was another indicator that Aerowyn had shared during his first experience. “You’re not alone in your thoughts, young Graven. You weren’t the first to have such feelings, and you won't be the last.”

Colin didn’t respond, eyes downtrodden, thinking about what was to come.

With one last sigh, Aerowyn put his hands on his knees for leverage, heaving his way to his feet, another grunt escaping his lips. He gave another concerned look towards the stricken man, opened his mouth to offer some words of comfort, but ended up deciding it was better to allow Colin to undergo this mental struggle alone. So he turned about, shuffled to the door, and left to find his cloak.

He had to search for some poor soul before the night was out, and there was only one district where he could find those aplenty.

***

Iris

What a day.

Not only had Iris managed to tick off Amara due to her mere existence, but now she had to deal with the consequences of being labeled as a thief by the watchguard.

Her capture had led to an abrupt change in her living assignment. Instead of the dusty and near-barren room she called home back at the church, now she sat in a similarly empty room located in the heart of the Reaches. One corner of the square room was unmistakingly for her to relieve herself—if the smell was anything to go by. There wasn’t even a bucket, just what the prior denizens of this dark room had designated as the waste corner. Unlike her room back in the church, however, there was no worn cloth for her to lie on, just the cold and unforgiving stone. The only light she had was the sconce outside the metal bars that separated her room from the hallway.

Yep.

She was in a cell.

She sighed. At this point, she wasn’t sure what to do. There was no scenario where her escape was possible, and there wasn’t much she could say to the guards to make them rethink her capture. There were only two within the hallway, both seated at a table underneath another sconce, playing some game to pass the boredom. She had tried reasoning with them, hands grasping the bars, face pressed into the narrow opening between, but that idea was very quickly shunted into the void.

Her pleas were met with one of the guards picking up a small pebble and hurling it her way with unerring accuracy, striking her in the head and making her fall back on her ass. Not hard enough to cause severe damage–mind you, but it did lead to some slight bleeding, and a pounding headache Iris wished would go away.

Right now, she felt like all she could do was stare at the wall, back leaning against the bars, awaiting her eventual death from execution, or worse, starvation. That’s right! When you have an entire district already struggling to make ends meet, why would they feed a criminal?

She watched the shadows cast across the opposite wall, the light of the sconce setting the shadows into a perpetual dance from the flickering flame. Her shadow sat at the bottom of the gold and black puppetshow, and she once again saw how emaciated her figure had become, not even the bread from the morning helping.

On top of that, there was no way to tell what time of day it was, either. With no window, the intermittent waves were just reminders that life was going to continue to pass on the outside, no regard to the tanned orphan rotting away in a cell in the heart of the Reaches.

She looked down, finding her chipped nails to be more interesting than seeing her pitiful form on the shadows of the other wall. She totally wasn’t doing it to hide her tears, not that she had anyone to hide them from.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” yelled one of the guards from the table. There were sounds of movement as they scrambled to their feet.

Oh, so now she couldn’t even cry in peace?

She looked up towards the lightshow she had been watching before, and in the dancing absence of light, she could no longer see her own sitting form. Now, in its place, there was a larger shadow, maybe half her height taller, and definitely twice her width. She furrowed her brows in confusion, craning her neck to see what was blocking the light from the torch.

Her eyes sluggishly trailed up the figure behind her, only stopping when they reached the face, which she could barely make out in the shroud of the figure’s cowl.

But…the eyes.

They struck a fear within her not even the watchguard who had captured her had instilled into her. They were colder than the most frigid mountains, more calculating than a coiled snake’s, cycles older than Elder Varron. And as she frantically scrambled back from the bars, in such a haste she hadn’t bothered to stand up, the figure reached up and removed the hood from his cloak.

When Iris finally got a look at the unnamed individual, she could feel the pressure within her gut, screaming one instinct into her weary mind.

Run.