1. Niamh

I must be shunned for my own benefit.

I've been told as much my entire life. That I am ugly. Ungainly. Unworthy. An abomination of my race. A fae's only purpose is to embody perfection, neatness, and order above all else. We are boundless. Eternal.

Any deviation from the path is a harbinger of death and destruction.

They tell me, and tell me, and tell me so…

Grateful for their shelter and protection, I have found it within myself to internalize those teachings.

I've made peace with my fate.

What I cannot stomach, however, are the lies. To be fair, I've only found one in my time exploring the alcoves. Just one. A tiny lie that disrupts order and contradicts the rules they enforce. A lie that entices me to entertain a dangerous line of thinking—what else might be possible?

There is a book that claims the vamryre never stray beyond their compound. How could they? Linked in their twisted mental landscape, they cannot bear to be separated from one another for even a second.

Even a second.

Yet he is always alone. With pale skin and cold eyes, he looks like them, moves like them. But his thoughts… They show across his face as if written there in brilliant black ink. Murderous intentions.

Violent fantasies.

He is all anger—not like the rest. They stick to their covens and enclaves, traveling in pairs of two or more, never alone. Never silent. It's how they function, you see. The vamryre. They are like bees in a hive, or that is how the old scholars referred to them as.

Together they hum with a buzz of emotions, the thoughts of many contained in one. According to another elder, if you cut one of the creatures they would all feel the pain. Never do they frown or pout or show any outward distress.

He is the exception.

Here, where no one else can see, he glowers at the world. The first time I saw his face still sticks in my mind. Beautiful beyond compare, yet frozen like the marble statues on the outskirts of the tower compound, battered and unfazed by time.

Initially, I thought he was simply curious. A creature compelled by his masters to explore beyond his boundaries. Upon finding this place, he probably wondered why a lone fae was allowed to stay here. Live here. Shelter in hiding and in secret.

Such a fool he was to wonder, or so I thought.

It wasn't until the third day that I realized the truth, and I felt a creeping, tingling sensation all over my body. The unease festered and festered until I came back here yet again and found him lingering on the outskirts of the courtyard.

The vamryre isn't here out of curiosity.

He is hunting. While the Citadel's law prohibits them from taking prey within its walls, they do so anyway. Vamryers, are incapable of adhering to boundaries fully, after all. It is in their nature to test all rules, other than those their masters give them.

He sees in me something to feast upon.

Yet it is hard for me not to feel pity for this beautiful, poor vamryre. If he seeks to prey on me, he must be weaker than the rest. Desperate.

Surely, he is an abomination too.

In any case, I am as curious about him as he is about me. How do the vamryre deal with one who makes a mockery of their laws? I am not sure. They are beholden to their own twisted set of values, far different from those that guide the fae.

The fae punish those who stray from the fold. Individuality is shunned. One might think vamryres do the same…

But he is here. My mind spins as I watch him stand in the same spot he always has—near the rear wall where the crumbling stone has left a divot in the once-impenetrable structure. He looks strong enough to have caused the damage, though I know a storm did years ago.

Still…

There's a softness to his beauty that I don't expect to find as I creep closer to watch him. Viewed from beyond my nose, he looks so small. A spot of glaring white on a gray landscape. Not like sunlight. Something harsher and destructive, like fire. Lightning. He burns my eyes, searing the longer I stare. A painful and beautiful spot.

Then he looks up.

My heart stops. I jerk back and nearly lose my footing on the slanted roof tiles. What does he see from down there?

A girl.

A woman.

A pale creature with long hair the color of midnight and sunken, mournful eyes that I sometimes glimpse on the polished floor when I've finished my chores. I am not bright like the other fae with their pink skin and flowing hair, the color of starlight and amber. They have wings as well, while my back is just a lumpy maze of bones and scars.

My physical appearance is how they knew I was different from the day I was born.

But my mother…

He moves again, snapping me back to awareness, the vamryre. He has such a penetrating gaze, like the ritual knife used to draw blood by the elders during their ceremonies. During their punishments. Sharp and precise, yet with a serrated edge meant to slice, cut, and butcher.

He butchers me. Slices through my core and eviscerates the fearful, furtive part of my soul accustomed to hiding. In the presence of other fae I must not be seen,but he isn't fae.

And he sees me. Those eyes suck me in whole, and I can't look away like I should. He is a curiosity, one far more interesting than any I could find in the archives.

Whatever interest I held to him, however, was fleeting. He turns and walks away, scaling the wall with an effortless ease. His red robe billows out behind him—the color all vamryre wear. I'm left staring after him, unsure if he was real or just a figment of my imagination. Years of isolation have rendered me so desperate for company I've imagined it.

Strange. I've never thought of my life in those terms before—isolation. Loneliness.

It is not my place to feel despair at my circumstances. They are what they are, and it is only due to the benevolence of the council that I have survived this long, sheltered in the walls of the Citadel. The vamryre wasn't the only one to slip into these ruins unnoticed. Another visitor sneaks in to see me, but he is different.

We are blood.

Yet I'm not allowed to think of him. Instead, I tiptoe back to the edge of the rooftop and follow it to where an incline of tiles forms a steep, makeshift path upward. From there, I must grab onto the edge of the nearest window overlooking the courtyard and pull myself inside. Once my feet hit the marble flooring I have to move quickly, dashing down the hall and up the lone stairwell leading to the bell tower.

This place is so familiar to me I could navigate the creaking wood panels in my sleep. Eyes closed, breath baited. I know how to avoid the loose floorboard that comes right after the doorway and how to tiptoe to avoid making too much noise and risk disturbing the workers below. I can even tell just from which direction the wind blows if a storm is on the way or what time of day it is.

And now, I can tell—as that gust of wind brings with it the sharp scent of incense—that I am not alone. Someone is here.

Someone important.

I drop to my knees instantly without bothering to face the newcomer directly. I know that scent and the air of authority it carries.

"L-Lord Master," I choke out the title. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting?—"

"Stand." Their voice radiates the command and wisdom garnered from decades of life. For the figure standing before me is the oldest soul of all the fae, transcending any other title or even gender. They simply are the Lord Master, their previous self irrelevant.

Tall, they threaten to pierce right through the low ceiling of the bell tower—and even the rafters seem to strain just to avoid the head of long, gray hair framing a set of silver eyes. Piercing eyes. They appear to see everything and nothing at once, gazing through me while rendering me frozen.

This figure has been the sole continuous presence throughout my entire life. Twenty-four years—a pittance in comparison to theirs. Yet they somehow have aged in that time more than I have, becoming colder and sterner with every passing year. Fae lack the persistent youth of the vamryre. How old is the white-haired vamryer who watches me? He looks to be twenty but is probably twenty decades or more.

"Your greeting, young one." Lord Master's voice is ice, washing over me in a callous sweep. As I process their words, my heart sinks and I shuffle forward, my head bowed solemnly.

"Greetings, Lord Master. I thank you for the blessing of your presence." Those are the words all fae must greet our wise elders with. Yet several more slip out of me unbidden. "I wasn't expecting your arrival today."

"Young child," the Lord Master replies. "Need I remind you? You are to expect nothing. Request nothing…"

Their subtle inflection is a demand for me to continue.

"Require nothing. Desire nothing," I finish, still eyeing the floor. "You are correct as always, Lord Master. I forget myself."

But I never forget anything—especially not when it comes to the carefully choreographed moments of my life. Only three days in my life matter each year, precisely three. One is the naming day, the anniversary of our birth. The second is the solstice to commemorate the births and deaths of all fae. The last and most essential falls upon the final day of the year—the commencement of the high council—the only one of those days even remotely close to today.

Those are the only times of the year when the Lord Master visits me. Never in between.

"You were gone, girl," Lord Master says, their voice eerily flat. "Where?"

"I…Nowhere." My heart won't stop racing as if betraying me with every beat. Liar. Liar. Liar.

"It is noon," the Lord Master says. "Your chores, child. What do they consist of?"

I swallow hard, relieved by a relatively simple question. "I clean the archives and dust the catacombs. I sweep and return the books to their proper shelves. I repair and catalog the older volumes."

And I read those volumes, huddled over candlelight—a skill that isn't allowed. When I was younger, the Lord Master taught me only the runes necessary to recognize a title and return it to its proper shelf. The bare minimum. Yet I went further. Not out of disobedience, I told myself then. I learned to fulfill my sole purpose all the better.

But a well-meaning sin is still a sin.

"The Citadel Mother was kind enough to show me to the catacombs and the archives," the Lord Master remarks, drawing my attention back to them. "You were not there."

I stiffen. "I… I was?—"

"Though you were born ungifted and forsaken, you do possess one small quality, child. What is it?"

I clear my throat and croak, "Honesty, Lord Master."

"Honesty," the Lord Master echoes, turning the word into a dirty sin. A lowly crown. A curse. "With that in mind, I want you to answer me now. Where were you, child?"

There is no point in lying. "I was on the roof, watching the courtyard."

Out in the sun.

The silence is deafening. I can't stop shifting my weight from foot to foot. The poor Lord Master is so stunned by my debauchery. It takes them several tries to choke out a response.

"Where you can be seen?"

I shake my head. "No, Lord Master. I remain out of sight always..." My voice breaks. I lied. The vamryer saw me, but no one is allowed on these grounds. No one. Therefore, it cannot be a lie to say…

"Is there an event taking place?" I ask. Suddenly, that lone contradiction makes far more sense. "One involving the vamryer? I am sorry if I?—"

"Vamryer?" The Lord Master's cold tone chills me to the core. "Recite your purpose to me, child. In full."

"I am an unwanted creature, claimed by no clan," I say softly. "I owe my life to you, Lord Master, and the sanctity of the Citadel. Honesty is my only quality, and obedience is my only task. I must never be seen and never be heard by those untouched by my wickedness."

"Does your task include venturing beyond those walls?" they ask, their voice an angry hiss. "Or questioning?"

"No."

Since I was a child, I have never left the grounds—at least not in the strictest sense. The roof is part of the tower complex, as are the winding caves beyond the catacombs. Never am I seen, therefore…

It isn't a lie to say as much.

"I am sorry, Lord Master," I say, desperate to fill the silence. "I shouldn't have?—"

"You must atone."

My heart drops to the pit of my belly. Atone. I must. For I have sinned, so I must atone in the hope of forgiveness.

"Did you hear me, child?" the Lord Master snaps. I haven't moved.

"Yes." I spin around and finger the front of my plain gray robes. They are so ugly in comparison to the Lord Master's—a brilliant white that radiates purity and perfection.

My cheeks flame as I unhook the metal clasps holding the front of my robes together and let them fall just enough to expose my lower back.

"Recite your purpose," the Lord Master commands, their steps slow and assured as they move closer.

"I…" My voice breaks. Shakes. But it mustn't. I must never reveal any hint of pain or fear. To do so is to sin. To wallow in wickedness. So, I swallow hard and say, "I am an unwanted creature, claimed by no clan?—"

Slicing pain cuts into the flesh along my spine. A sharp single line. The blade is polished—I know that much without turning around or looking back. Polished to shine and bestowed with ritual meaning. Every time I disobey, it cuts into my flesh.

Intentionally. Unintentionally.

In either case, atonement must be paid. Blood must be spilled. Scars must serve as lasting reminders.

"Enough," the Lord Master replies, silencing me mid-recitation. They step back. "Make yourself decent."

"Yes, Lord Master." I raise my robe and redo the clasps. Then I turn to face them, my head lowered, my eyes downward. Shadows play across the wooden floor as they stow their ritual blade back in their robes, still coated in blood. Always coated in blood.

My back sears. Eyes burn. But I mustn't ever show any pain.

"The commencement of the high council is nearly upon us," the Lord Master says, their voice stern.

I flinch at the abrupt change in subject. Has my transgression been forgiven? No, I sense. There is another motive for why the Lord Master made their way all the way here, beyond the high ramparts of the upper Citadel. A motive other than to catch my sin and issue punishment. But what?

"Yes, Lord Master," I intone in response.

"You understand what the ceremony entails, do you not?"

I nod and find myself wringing my fingers together, though I don't know why. "Yes, Lord Master. It is the one day of the year when the members of the high council gather before the entire populace and recite the rules that guide and fulfill us."

"Those of us who call themselves citizens," the Master corrects. A reminder meant to clarify one point—I am not included within that descriptor. I am a shadow hovering on the outskirts. So why remind me of such?

Unless…

A sharp, electric sensation darts down my spine, and I struggle to classify it. Excitement?

"That day is the most hallowed among our kind, and this upcoming one marks the centennial. A hundred more years of unity under one covenant. A glorious day. One I thought I would never live to see."

I nod again. As aged as the fae and vamryre are, it was only relatively recently that both races, along with the lunaria, finally made peace. Their covenant is fragile yet binding. A hundred years mark the first century of any real, lasting peace since the dawn of time. A testament to the wisdom of the elders that compose the council.

Or so the archives claim. Personally, I've read more than one account of the violence and bloodshed that raged before the peacetime.

"Do you understand me, child?"

I blink. "I?—"

"I know you haven't witnessed such a ceremony, but I believe you still understand the significance?" The Lord Master is wary. How stupid am I? Do I even know the customs of the world in which I am shunned?

Of course, I do. Every detail and every custom I know well.

"Yes, Lord Master. Every year, a youth from one of the assembled races is offered to stand before the council in a reenactment of the original signing of the treaty," I say.

Silence in response. My belly twists as the seconds scrape by, with only the crowing of birds high in the rafters to fill it. I'm uneasy. Sweat drips down my brow, and I watch a drop splash onto the wooden floor. A dark thought takes hold—that is my life in the grand scheme. A splash that will mar the world for but a second before fading into nothing.

A tiny, pathetic drop.

"You understand that for the centennial, certain exceptions can be made. Must be made. It is a special day, unlike any other. A day when even our flaws can be acknowledged."

I frown, unsure.

The Lord Master continues, "A day when even those who may not be accepted upon regular circumstances may be asked to participate."

My heart skips. Stutters. Stops. They couldn't mean… I couldn't…

I look up and meet their cold, lifeless stare with a hungry, questioning one. "Lord Master?"

"You must keep up with your duties," they say, that glimmer of hope forgotten. "On the eve of the ceremony, I may come for you again."

With that, they leave, their robes swishing out behind them.

But I can't forget it. The chance to leave the Citadel for the first time—and to see a ceremony up close. It's a cruel temptation, one I know I could never have. Yet….

I want it more than anything I ever have. Almost anything.

Still, I want it so badly it hurts.

I want it badly enough to forget that I deserve nothing.