Page 2 of Nocte

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.

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