Vörös Áron

The figure trudges into the room. He makes no effort to light it, moving around in the darkness with unerring precision. A blue cap is hung on a bedpost, a satchel bag strung from another. A weary sigh is let out as he unbuttons his long, blue coat. Eventually, he falls onto the bed, face towards the ceiling. He had never been a heavy sleeper, but neither was he accustomed to comfort in his lodging. He permits himself to sleep, the only sound being the distant waves lapping on wood.

Áron looks over at their brother, childish glee spreading across his face. Miksa returns the gaze and grin. Their father walks in, ruffling the hair on Áron's head.

“What are you two laughing at?”

“Oh, nothing,” they both reply in unison. Their giggles echo around the kitchen.

“You know, it's such a shame we'll never get this again,” Miksa comments, “now that you've killed me.”

“I… no…” Áron looks down at his hands, the bloodied knife in them. The body of his brother collapses to the floor. Behind him, he hears a crackle, a glinting of red. He runs away, pushing open the door of the house.

Behind him, the great conflagration rises, smoke peeling away and rising into the sky. He stares, transfixed on the sight before him. The traveller standing beside him cackles maniacally. He turns to catch them but they are too fast, running away, bloodied knife in one hand, tinderbox in the other.

“No!”

He calls after them, but the person has disappeared.

Turning back, he sees another figure striding out towards him from the flames, dragging another by the scruff of the neck. Although it takes time for the upright silhouette to become visible, he would recognise the gait of Glória anywhere. The figure in her hand coming into view, Thalia Rixlaw. Her face, dirty from the mud on the ground, welling up with tears. A pleading expression. Or perhaps the face belongs to Cordus Dristori. It could also be that one that Áron never learned the name of, that Wyrd-seer, separated from their circle. Or maybe even of Simeon Ravenheart. They all blend together.

“You know what you must do.” Glória asserts. “Deliver the judgement you were told to do. If you had done so sooner, we might have avoided this matter of fire.”

Áron lifts up his top hat, pulling the gun out from underneath. A single shot. The body collapses to the gravel, unmoving.

A fox burrows out of the undergrowth running with haste towards the horizon. Glória turns to look at it, calling back to Áron:

“No witnesses. Remove this obsta–”

The sword is buried in their chest before they can finish. The body, erupting into flames, consumed within seconds as the forest goes dark. Only one sound breaks the silence.

“No.”

The dreams never stop. How can they? When a ledger is dripping with so much blood. But somewhere on it, there was a line. And that line was never crossed.

Written by Harry W.

Dalus Parlac is an unassuming, easygoing person. Regular casino-goers laugh that he’s almost too easy to be around—easy to speak to, but equally as easy to overlook at an inopportune moment. Sometimes people tell him more than they realise they should have. Sometimes people forget he’s there, listening.

This is a happy advantage for Dalus Parlac.

Dalus walks with the ease of a person unperturbed by stormy seas. They dress in blue, a seemly reflection of the ocean shifting beneath the Market’s boards.

Sometimes, however, Dalus bears faint shadows just beneath his eyes.

Sometimes, Dalus looks up at the sign that reads Fate’s End with the tiniest trace of satisfaction.

Sometimes, Dalus and Miksa sit together and stare out at the horizon until the sun dips beneath the sea.

No one notices any of these things, except those he allows to—that particular group has grown large, as of late, though he won’t admit to the small smile that sometimes rises in him at the thought of all of them.

When the songs and stories drift in, Dalus Parlac listens. They hear of the fall of Fate’s Palace and the people that did it. Often, they hear the name of the Inquisitor Hesket Lyal echoing upon a myriad of foreign tongues.

Dalus shows little acknowledgement of the name, though his family can’t always help theirs, ever-prone to brief, involuntary glances. No one ever notices.

Dalus prefers to remain unnoticed. It leaves them to their peace, imperfect as it is. It leaves them learning to nurture the things they now have.

A home.

A family.

A brother.