Page 5 of The Merciless Ones

Katya carefully wraps a cloak around the Firstborn, smothering what remains of the flames. As they die out, the burnt odour deepens, and my body clenches in response. I swiftly begin counting, another of my comforts in times like these. One, two, three, one, two, three. I am in control, not my body.

I am in control… I clench my hands into fists, squeezing so hard, the flesh almost splits. It’s just enough to root me again.

Once I’m no longer trembling, I kneel in front of Melanis, careful to move slowly as I slice a shallow cut in my palm. A thin line of gold wells up, and I smear it across her chains. The moment the two touch, the links hiss and spark, immediately melting away. Celestial gold is made from ichor, divine blood, and my blood is the only thing that can destroy it. It’s one of the purposes for which I was created: to break the prison of ichor that trapped the Gilded Ones for thousands of years in the temple they now call their home.

My blood is an antidote to ichor: it melts divine blood wherever the jatu have placed it, as they usually do when they’re imprisoning our kind.

Melanis, however, doesn’t notice that she’s being freed, doesn’t seem aware of anything as she huddles deeper into the cloak. Something inside me tenses. I remember what it was to be like that, to be so fixed in my own misery, I could barely notice what was happening around me.

I inch closer until I’m just within her reach. “Honoured War Queen Melanis,” I say, trying to attract her attention. “I am Deka, goddess-born Nuru and your younger sister. I was sent here by our mothers, the Gilded Ones. I’ve come to take you home.”

It takes some moments before my words pierce the daze. Melanis blinks sluggishly, turns to me, sacs of watery white fluid where her eyes used to be. “Are you an apparition?” she croaks past a blistered and swollen tongue.

I shake my head. “I’m here.” I move nearer, place my hand just in front of her scorching-hot cheek so that I don’t upset the skin still peeling from it.

Fresh skin is already starting to grow underneath. Healed skin. No more bleeding; no more sores. This is the power of a Firstborn. The power that newer alaki, their divine blood diluted by years of interbreeding, can only hope to one day experience.

“I’m real,” I whisper, moving closer so that she can feel my presence.

Poor Melanis. How she’s suffered all these years. My heart aches for her. Who would have ever imagined this would be her fate?

The second of all the Firstborn, birthed almost immediately after White Hands, Melanis is one of the most beloved alaki to ever live. She’s the only alaki the mothers ever gifted wings, an acknowledgement of her benevolent spirit and inspiring nature. For centuries, her golden glow was the beacon that guided other alaki onto the battlefield, the light that heralded the glory of the mothers. Just one glimpse of her was enough to convince entire armies to throw down their weapons and join the Gilded Ones’ side.

Now that the goddesses are weakened, Melanis is even more vitally important. She is the living symbol of the alaki – the very sight of her will attract others to our cause, just as it did all those centuries ago. And more worshippers means more prayers for the mothers, more food to nourish them so that they can return to their full power.

Melanis, of course, doesn’t know any of this as she moves her face into my hand, tears mixing with blood as they flow from her eyes. “You’re here. The Nuru. You truly came, just as the mothers said you would,” she says, sobbing so hard, her tears stream down her cheeks.

One of them falls, a drop so small, I notice only because a tiny gold droplet of her blood is suspended inside it. Then the tear, like a glittering dewdrop, touches my skin. Lightning jolts through me, and my body jerks, my veins sparking and seizing.

Just like that, I’m elsewhere.

I’m in a chamber of unending white, one unlike any I’ve ever seen.

The crystal floor extends so far it becomes a distant horizon, its surface so slick I could slide across it as easily as I used to slide across the midwinter lake in Irfut. Surrounding it are high, arching columns, which hold up a ceiling that defies imagination. Instead of the usual tile or paint, a stunning sunset shimmers at its centre, the soaring red and purple colour trailed by soft, curling clouds. Divine power or skilful craftsmanship, I’m not quite sure which, but it seems strangely familiar… as does the man kneeling a small distance from me, pain in his eyes.

Those eyes – they are uncanny: black on black, with only the barest hint of whites. The rest of him is unremarkable. Short, slight, with bronzed skin and long black hair falling down his back. A kind face, soft, delicate, almost feminine, gold powder shimmering on his eyelids and cheeks. But his clothes – they’re all wrong. No Oteran man would wear a tunic so short. Tunics, like robes, must show dignity, not knees – that’s what Elder Durkas always used to warn the boys back in Irfut. Whoever this man is, he certainly has never heard the saying, because his black-and-gold tunic falls only to mid-thigh. Who is he? Why does he seem so familiar? And this place – where exactly am I?

Who exactly am I?

The question gusts through my mind, and suddenly, it’s all I can think of. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? For some reason, I have no idea. My body doesn’t feel the same as it usually does. There’s something strange on my back. Something heavy, and bristling with feathers.

Are those wings?

“Deka?” A voice sounds in the distance.

Britta’s. I distantly place it.

“Deka,” Britta’s voice cries again when there’s no answer, “they’re coming! Move!”

The press of hands on my shoulders is enough to jolt me back to reality. Just like that, I’m inside the Oyomosin’s inner chamber again, where the others are once more lowering their bodies into the battle stance. What just happened? Where did I go? I whirl around, confused, then turn to Britta, who’s still shaking me.

“Did you see that? I was in a white room. The ceiling, it was a sky.”

“The ceiling?” Britta echoes, perplexed, taking a step back. “Deka, wha are ye— It doesn’t matter. They’re almost here.”

“Who’s almost—” The question dies on my tongue as I feel it, that tingling racing up my arms and legs.

Someone’s coming. An entire group of someones, really. And they’re all jatu. Well – true jatu, the few men descended from the Gilded Ones. Our brothers. Tension grips me as I watch the door for their approach. True jatu are faster and stronger than alaki, although they die as easily as humans do. Worse, they have an unholy alliance with the priests and all sorts of strange and insidious arcane objects at their disposal. In the past few months, we’ve dealt with at least twelve groups of true jatu using different arcane objects, each one diabolical and perverse in its own way. Could their presence be the reason for what I just experienced – that strange waking dream? The jatu have been trying to capture me ever since I freed the mothers. Could they have resorted to using arcane objects to attack my mind as another of their battle tactics?