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1
GREY
“Nothing comes without sacrifice.”
The words drifted up to the loft, shackling themselves around Grey’s wrists, lightly stained with charcoal. He ran the stick over the paper, shadows dancing with each movement in the orange glow of the setting sun. Flittering, torn sheets of off-black fabric hung over his little nest, framing crumbling buildings slowly sparking to life with candlelight.
“We know,” whined one of the children clustered past the dilapidated railing.
“What’s that got to do with the story?” piped up another.
The husky chuckle of the older man soothingly clung to Grey’s soul, like smoke on his clothes from the clove cigars the man enjoyed every morning. “Tonight’s tale begins with a brave knight from all the way back when the world first fell to the Wild Hunt.”
Silence descended, save the creak of the older man’s wooden chair and Grey’s pale hand dragging against parchment. Soft blades of grass climbed upward with each flick, filling in his imaginary landscape of someplace far from here where midnight hues wrapped themselves around stones and trees circling this clearing—the one from his dreams.
“She was a fledgling macharomancer?—”
Grey quietly scoffed, shaking his head while he began smudging the shadows of his work. A bitter tang welled up from the back of his throat, and he swiped away a phantom twitch under his left eye.
“And her lover was a skilled austromancer princess, trapped by her own father, the king of their young little kingdom. Every few nights, the princess would travel via dreams to her dear knight, but every time she did this, it would leave her body weak and unrested. Eventually, the king became suspicious, and called upon his captive sciomancer to force his daughter into a deep, dreamless sleep.”
A little hand shot up, and Grey peered over the railing again.
“Yes?”
“Don’t sciomancers feed on dreams?”
“Ah, that they do.” He wagged a finger at the boy, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “And that was the king’s first mistake. He didn’t yet understand the true scope of his enemies’ powers, so he sat back, pleased he had solved his problem without realizing that he’d given his captive a wellspring of it.”
Grey wiped his hand on the knee of his pants and stood, wandering over to the large, metal lever. The crisscrossing bulbs drooping from the ceiling brightened in the wake of the fading sun, but the children were still glued to their storyteller like they were every night. He leaned over the railing, shaggy black hair dipping over his eyes as he let himself fall into the story as well.
“The princess, realizing something had gone horribly wrong, had suspected that the captive had been made to consume her dreams, and snuck down to the dungeons to bargain with him. She said that if he could allow her half of a night’s dream, he could have the other, and then they could both benefit. He agreed, and they plotted their escape with the aid of the knight.
“Every night, the princess taught the knight the layout of the castle, pointing out its weak spots when it came to enemy magic. And the knight gathered up a small army of mancers, who helped train her in exchange for a shot at looting the palace or taking revenge on the king from a past transgression.”
A shrill little voice cut in. “What kind of loot?”
“Yeah! Was it faerie treasure? Soul glass?”
“A sacrificial ruby? Oh! Oh! What about?—”
The man laughed and brought his hands down in a placating gesture. “That’s not really important, but let’s say it was a lot of alchemist gold.”
The children broke into excited whispers, and Grey hummed a gentle sigh, his fingers curling around the lacquered wood. All anticipation was ripped away with the squeal of a door and an older woman stepped inside, dropping a bag in the entry with a clatter of goods tucked within. Every eye snapped to her and her prominent scowl.
“Atticus, shouldn’t these children be home by now? The sun’s gone down.”
A chorus of tiny pleas cried out, and Atticus softly clapped his palms together. “I suppose this tale will have to conclude tomorrow. Aunt Ingrid is right. I guess I let time get away from me.” He rose, and his audience of pouting children clamored to their feet, trying their hands at one last attempt to convince him otherwise before Ingrid nudged them out the door.
“Honestly, Atti, you really shouldn’t be filling the neighborhood kids’ heads with fluffy stories?—”
“They’re not just fluffy stories,” he said, mirth creeping into his tone.
Ingrid’s eyes scaled the ladder, finally narrowing on Grey. “Is he lying?” Her tone flat.
Grey hesitated, pushing his hair to the side with a grimace. “I’m not sure, but… I don’t think it’s a great idea to be romanticizing other mancers…”
She shot Atticus a scowl, but the man simply rolled his eyes.
