Chapter 1 – Fistful of Dreams

Aeva had always felt uneasy in human cities, but Northmark was worst of them all. A packed rat’s nest, millions huddled together in their lifeless stone shelters.

She looked out over darkened streets from a concrete roof, shadows chased away by globes of light affixed to metal poles. The tall skyline was framed by the smooth, pale disk of the moon. Gjurin’s eye.

In the distance, the humans’ infernal machines zipped along a larger, intersecting road—constructions of cold metal which moved on rolling spheres, leaving bright trails on her retina.

The stench of moldering refuse and burnt fuel was inescapable. She missed the clean air of Anderland’s forests. With any luck, she’d be back there soon.

Her mother, Soeva, and the two tribesmen, Raegar and Mord, lingered beside her.

They watched the unassuming building on the opposite side of the street. A two-story brick residence in poor repair. A few of the windows were smashed, hastily repaired with plastic tarps which moved like ghosts in the breeze.

It held what they had traveled across half a continent to find. The reason why four wildkin had ventured to the midst of human lands.

It had to be worth it.

“Can you feel anything?” Soeva asked.

Aeva strained every fiber of her being, attempting to attune herself to whatever divine spark had touched her the first time. She closed her eyes, claws curling around the edge of the roof.

“Nothing,” she said with a shallow sigh. “Mother, I am not certain…”

“The runt is mistaken,” Raegar hissed. “The Crown has to be here. This is the location we were given.”

Soeva nodded. “We will see.”

She leapt off the side of the building. The tribesmen followed. Dark cloaks flapping, they hurtled several meters through the air and landed nimbly on powerful hind legs.

Aeva looked down over the edge of the roof. Her vision tunneled at the sheer drop. Falling from this height, broken bones would be a certainty.

“Come on, half-horn!” Raegar called up to her. “Quit stalling!”

Aeva, a half-blood, could not reproduce her tribesmen’s feat. She swung over the edge of the roof and clambered down the side of the building, using her clawed hands and feet to find purchase. She fell the final distance and landed with a stumble. A shock went up her body that rattled her teeth. Mord pulled her straight with a growl that betrayed little patience.

“Curse my thin blood,” Aeva muttered. “Curse my human sire.”

Being in this cesspool only served to remind her of the failure she represented.

She was too short to be a wildkin. Her face was too smooth. Her mouth was too flat. Her ears were too round. Her horns were too stunted. Her arms and legs were only covered in a light dusting of hair whereas any true wildkin was furred all over.

She had lived twenty-two summers without marking her body once. Soeva, an elder, was crisscrossed with ceremonial scars, symbols of significant events in her life that exalted her honor. To be without any at all meant great shame.

How ironic, then, that a failure such as herself could represent her people’s last hope. She had seen prophetic dreams of Gjurin guiding her to these human lands. Soeva, upon descending into a trance to question the Moon-King, had received assurance of their accuracy.

Aeva followed her mother to the building. Soeva tried the door. It wasn’t locked, so they entered the dark hall. Raegar and Mord stayed outside to watch for threats.

The house seemed empty. Despite her light step, the floorboards creaked under her. Mold and rot marred the walls, a fine layer of dust covering the aged furniture and crooked paintings.

“Show yourself!” Soeva called.

Aeva, more versed in human customs, tried speaking Attean. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

No response.

Soeva drew a long, slender blade which glinted in the moonlight, stance low like a wolf about to pounce.

Aeva pulled out the pistol she kept at her side, built from scrap by her own hands.

Her second shame. Lacking the strength and speed of a full-blood, she was forced to utilize human weaponry.

They proceeded through the house and came into a small kitchen dominated by the smell of rotting foodstuff, an odor so intense that it left a taste on Aeva’s tongue.

A man sat behind a table, tending to his nails in the dark. He switched on a ceiling magelight when they entered with a muttered command word, casting the room in stark light.

He was short—even for a human—and balding, with a shirt that barely buttoned over his corpulent bulk. He scanned the two of them with boredom.

“Didn’t expect wildkin,” the man said in Attean, his voice nasal and grating.

Soeva looked to Aeva, relying on her to translate.

“Is that a problem?” Aeva returned in the human tongue.

The fat man’s eyebrows shot up and he shook his head, jowls quivering. “No, no. Not at all. Just remarking. We don’t get many of your kind in Northmark, what with the war.”

“We did not come for the sights,” Aeva said. “Do you have the Crown?”

The fat man shrugged. “Sure. I got it.”

He leaned down, picked up a rough sack from behind his chair, and set it down on the table. He upended the sack, letting a simple, seven-pointed band of tarnished brass roll onto the tabletop.

It took all of Aeva’s restraint not to lunge across the room and grab the Crown. She managed to hold back the red, balling her hands into fists, and let out a deep sigh.

This had to be done right.

“Where did you find it?” Aeva asked.

The fat man licked his teeth and folded his hands over his stomach. “Where did you come from? Gaerwyn? Let’s just both agree not to ask too many questions.”

Aeva’s mouth went into a line.

“Good,” the fat man continued. “Now, then. Payment first, then you get your tatty antique.” He slid a silvery bar onto the table and a hardlight screen flickered to life on top of it, pale blue light arranging in letters and numbers. A focus. “Five hundred glints, as promised.”

“Tatty?” Aeva said, taking a step forward. Her nostrils flared, and she balled her fists so tight that her claws drew blood from her palms. “Do you have any idea of the importance of this—”

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up. Soeva shook her head.

Aeva let her shoulders slump and collected herself.

“Since you seem so attached to it,” the fat man said, pulling the Crown close, “I’ll have one thousand glints.”

The man likely thought he was being clever. He had no idea of the value of what he held in his hands.

The power to thwart an occupation.

The power to liberate a people.

In exchange for that, one thousand glints was a meager price.

Aeva switched to Gjosi. “Mother. The tribute. He expects one thousand.”

Soeva stepped forward and picked a number of glowing, differently colored cubes from a leather pouch—blue, green, and red—and dropped them onto the silver bar. The focus absorbed the cubes and the numbers on the display ticked up with a series of soft clicks. The device was made to count, store, and dispense eastern currency. Even the wildkin used them at times.

A self-satisfied grin spread over the fat human’s face, and he took back the focus before tossing them the Crown.

Aeva caught it in both hands, teeth gritted. Her fingers locked tight around the dull brass, protective. She closed her eyes and sighed in utter bliss.

Finally.

A chance to serve with meaning. An end to the shame of her birth.

She searched herself for some indication, some proof that this was the real thing and not just a swindler’s bauble.

She strained her mind.

But there was nothing.

“Elder!” Raegar shouted from the hall. “We have trouble!”

Aeva opened her eyes. The fat human male peeked through the windows as bright, moving lights streamed from outside, creating long shadows that slid over the walls.

“You idiots!” he squealed, scrambling off the chair. “You got the MOW on our backs!”

Soeva and Raegar moved to the entrance of the house. When Aeva tried to follow, her mother held up a hand.

“Stay back,” she said in a tone that offered no room for negotiation. “You are the Chosen One. You must be kept safe.”

Raegar motioned for Aeva to hand over the Crown. “Give me that, half-horn. Your very touch sullies the heavenly metal. I will put it to better use in our defense.”

“The visions were clear,” Soeva said. “She is the Chosen One. It is her charge to bear the Crown, and hers alone. We must keep her safe until we can leave these cursed lands.”

Aeva gritted her teeth. “This is my fight as much as yours, Mother.”

Soeva ignored her. She turned and left the house, Raegar at her heel.

Aeva crept to the doorway and looked outside. A semi-circle of sleek, mobile machines—rumblers—had assembled in front of the house. Humans in long, black coats and round, wide-brimmed hats used the vehicles as cover, brandishing pistols and rifles.

There were over a dozen of them.

A human male stepped out in front of the impromptu barricade, holding a stout assault rifle aimed at the ground. He was large and broad, well-muscled for a human. His face was blocky and angular, with sunken, beady eyes and hair buzzed to the scalp, a bushy mustache covering his upper lip.

“We are representatives of the Ministry of Welfare,” the man said. “I am Executor Berron Storm. You are under suspicion for the murders of ten Ministry officials. Surrender for interrogation or you will be terminated.”

Murders? Aeva thought. We only just entered the city a day ago.

Raegar let out a war cry and dashed forward, two hand axes at the ready. He leapt onto the nearest rumbler and swung at a black-clad human. The person dispersed in a trail of glowing glass shards, dissolving into nothing but a fine cloud of dust. Dumbstruck, Raegar stared at the empty spot.

“Good choice,” the foremost human said with a smile.

He turned to Raegar, put the rifle stock to his shoulder in one swift motion, and fired a barrage of shots that set Aeva’s ears ringing.

Raegar fell off the machine, howling as his clothing bloomed with red. The machine he had been standing on faded into nothing just like the human had. Raegar tried to get up, but his legs didn’t support his weight.

Soeva and Mord ran into the fray, splitting up to the left and right.

Aeva cried out to her mother, telling her to stop. Retreat seemed the wiser course of action. There was no use, however. Once a wildkin saw the red, there was no stopping them.

The human commander felled Mord with a three-round burst. He twisted as Soeva bounded towards him and put a bullet in her leg. She carried through into the commander. They tumbled to the ground together, limbs entwined as they struggled for domination.

Aeva looked down at the Crown in her hands.

It was the one she had seen in her dreams.

She placed it upon her head.

I must save them.

Gjurin wills it.

I am the Chosen One.

A deep, visceral hum went through her body as soon as the brass Crown settled between her horns. It grew in intensity, and a glory of light spread out from her, bands of indecipherable letters spinning in lazy patterns around her arms and legs.

She lifted a hand’s breadth off the ground, held afloat by a force that cradled her as gently as a mother’s embrace. It prodded her body, searched every fraction of her being.

You are not worthy, a voice whispered.

She dropped to her knees. The light dissipated.

The human threw Soeva off, drew a knife from his belt, and pinned down the injured wildkin by the throat with his free hand. Soeva held his knife hand at bay with one of her long arms, but her strength was fading. He wrenched his arm closer, closer, closer, until the blade sank into her throat.

Soeva let out a few spluttering breaths, blood spilling from her neck, bubbling out of her nostrils. Her eyes fixed on Aeva, pupils narrowed down to points.

“No!” Aeva screamed.

She rushed forward. The Crown slipped off as she scrabbled for her pistol. Her gaze was intently focused on the human commander, crouched before her mother with a blood-specked grin. The sight stained her vision red.

She aimed the pistol.

A shot rang out.

Aeva’s hand contorted with pain, spurting blood, and the pistol fell from her twitching fingers. The arm flexed, cramped, and she bit back a scream.

All at once, the soldiers assembled before the building vanished along with their rumblers, leaving no trace. In their stead was a slight, dark-skinned male clad in a black coat much too large for him, eyes hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

“All targets neutralized, sir,” he said, scanning the bloodied street.

The commander wiped his knife on the edge of Soeva’s cloak. He slowly stood and looked over his shoulder at Aeva.

“One’s still alive,” he said. “Bag her.”

“Will do.”

The dark-skinned human approached Aeva, pistol in hand.

She dropped into a low crouch, clutching her injured hand with the other, and prepared to tackle him.

He raised a thin hand. “Ila Sovi,” he said.

A ripple went through Aeva’s body. A dense fog seeped into her mind. Her body tingled, growing numb. She needed to stay standing. She fought the desire to lie down and sleep.

No. Have to keep fighting.

Baring her teeth, she lunged at the human.

He side-stepped easily. She hit the asphalt.

Asphalt? No. It couldn’t be.

It was soft.

So soft…