Page 1 of Court of Twisted Angels

1

KYRIE

The packed dirt streets kick up clouds with each step as I slip through the slums of my little town - if I can even call it that. This far north of New Solas, it's really just dilapidated buildings sprinkled between the trees and leading up to the northern mountains.

Wooden vendor stalls line the cramped alleyways, their weathered awnings providing little shelter from the scorching sun. The scent of desperation mingles with spices and sweat as I weave between the masses of people, all of us just trying to exist in the xaphan's world.

A broken piece of mirror catches my eye from one of the merchant's displays - likely salvaged from the wealthy districts. My reflection fragments across its surface: auburn hair tangled from the dusty wind, deep green eyes that have seen too much. But it's the raised, angry flesh curving around the right side of my neck that draws my attention.

The memory crashes over me like ice water. Suddenly, I'm thrown back three years to the abandoned marketplace closer to the white washed city of New Solas.

I scavenge for supplies, looking for anything that we can use to survive when I hear cackling behind me. My whole body tenses, and I slowly turn to see a xaphan standing up the alley, his eyes on me.

I always knew they were cruel, but the way he's looking at me right now confirms that.

He steps forward slowly, wings spread wide and crackling with electricity. "Well, what do we have here?"

His voice drips with malice and I swallow hard, shrinking back. "I- I'm not trying to cause any trouble."

"No?" He cocks his head, a grin spreading across his face that has my stomach turning. "Too bad." He lifts a hand, the air turning charged. "Trouble was exactly what I was looking for.

The lightning had carved through my flesh like a molten blade, searing from my lower back up to my neck. I still remember the ozone smell, the way my skin had bubbled and split. The healers said I was lucky to survive.

My fingers trace the gnarled tissue. Unlike the clean, precise scars left by steel, magic wounds heal chaotically. The scar tissue spreads like branches of lightning frozen beneath my skin, a permanent reminder of that day. Of what the xaphan are capable of.

Around me, the crowd continues to surge through the narrow streets, slowly pulling me from the memory. A child darts past, kicking up another cloud of dust. The merchant who owns the mirror barks at me to buy something or move along.

But for a moment longer, I stay frozen, lost in the fractured reflection and the phantom sensation of wings casting shadows over me, of power crackling through the air and tearing me apart.

A commotion erupts from around the corner - raised voices cutting through the market's usual din and dragging me forwardonce again. I push away from the mirror stall, drawn by the growing crowd near the central square.

"Another trial!" someone shouts. "They're holding another wing trial!"

My heart skips. The words ripple through the gathered masses like a wave. The trials are brutal spectacles that the xaphan use to dangle false hope before us. They say that you can earn your wings and a new status. Most who enter never return.

I edge closer, shoulder past a cluster of wide-eyed teenagers. A town crier stands atop an old wooden crate, unfurling an ornate scroll trimmed in gold leaf - the unmistakable mark of New Solas.

"By decree of the Praexa Council," he projects over the crowd, "a new wing trial shall commence this week." Murmurs sweep through the gathering. "All eligible humans may present themselves as candidates."

This week. The last trial was barely half a year ago. They usually wait years between, until the crowds' bloodlust starts to stir again.

"Furthermore," the crier continues, "in addition to receiving their wings, the victor shall be granted a reward of one thousand novas."

The crowd erupts. A thousand novas could feed an entire family for years. Could buy medicine from even the most exclusive apothecaries in New Solas. Medicine that could save my mother.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. I stumble back from the pressing bodies, suddenly unable to breathe. The trial is suicide - I've watched too many friends leave for those golden gates never to return. Wings mean nothing if you're dead.

But Mother grows weaker each day. The healers say without proper treatment, she has months at most. And the only cure liesbehind New Solas's pristine walls, available exclusively to the xaphan and their chosen few.

I turn away from the feverish crowd, their excited chatter fading as I wind through the market's cramped passages toward home. But the crier's words echo in my mind, a thousand novas glittering like stars against the darkness of my thoughts.

The door creaks as I enter our small wooden home on the outskirts of the settlement. Sunlight filters through gaps in the roof's worn shingles, dust motes dancing in the beams. The scent of medicinal herbs - yarrow and meadowmint - mingles with woodsmoke from the small hearth.

"Mother?" I call softly, setting my market basket on the rough-hewn table.

A weak cough answers from behind the faded curtain separating our sleeping area. My heart clenches as I push it aside. Mother lies propped against threadbare pillows, her once-vibrant auburn hair now dull and limp around her too-pale face. Dark circles shadow her eyes, but she still manages a smile.

"You're back early, love." Her voice rasps like dry leaves.

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