Ira crouched at the entrance to the Chrome Caverns, cool air on her face, desert heat at her back. Shiro stopped beside her, passing the order down the line to their cadre of ninjas.
Though far from home, Ira never heard a word of complaint from her loyal Crimson Haze. They had stalked the creatures of the Night of the Dark Tide devotedly. Home was but a faded memory, obscured by the gathering mists of many years.
She looked to Shiro and nodded ahead, where the tracks they followed were swallowed by the open maw of the cavern.
“We have our quarry cornered,” Shiro said.
“Yes, but the tight confines make our numbers count for less.”
Shiro nodded with a grunt.
Ira entered, the Crimson Haze following close as her shadow, footfalls silent over stone worn smooth by monsoon floods. Either side, the walls were stone tendrils like ribs curling from a spine, the sky above visible, as though chewed through by a giant moth. Stranger beasts than that lived here in East Volcor.
Ira drew her blade, the engraving along the length of Edge of Autumn glowing golden in the low light.
At this, a guttural laugh emanated from deeper in the cavern. “So, you have chosen to die in darkness.”
Ira spun, the voice behind her. A towering figure emerged from the shadows. Standing several feet taller than Ira’s biggest ninja, the creature held an ornate claymore in its corpse-gray hands. Upon its head, a mass of tendrils writhed like maggots on rotting meat, framing a rictus death mask—eyes as black as a grave.
One of her Ninjas had crept up the wall like a beetle, hoping to flank their foe. Now she leapt from her perch, Kodachi poised to strike. Runes flared along the enemy’s sword as its wielder pivoted with inhuman speed to cleave the woman from the air.
The Crimson Haze reacted in unison, flowing forward to press the attack. Arcane energy burst from the monster’s body, forming runes in the air that blocked the assailants’ blows. Between those swirling shields, the claymore struck out, slicing, disemboweling, until four more ninjas lay bleeding upon the stone.
Ira and Shiro shared a resolute glance before leaping into the fray. Shiro ducked between the runes and rained short, sharp strikes against the creature’s sword. Ira sprinted across the cave and ran straight up the wall, following a rib of stone that curved up over the monster’s head. The remaining ninjas used Shiro’s distraction to hit and run, carving deep wounds in their enemy’s foul flesh.
The beast roared, and its runes exploded, sending the ninjas flying backwards. But Ira descended through the maelstrom, the okana luminous on her bandaged arms, protecting her from the withering potency of Edge of Autumn as it sank, point first, into her enemy’s right shoulder.
A clang resounded throughout the cave as the claymore hit the floor. Ira gripped hard to the handle of her sword as her weight dragged the blade down through the monster’s long back. She pulled her sword free, the sound like the ripping of rotten canvas. Beaten, the fiend released a gurgling sigh.
“Tell me what I need to know,” Ira said through gritted teeth. “I’ll make sure your death is fast.”
The creature’s laugh was a dank rattle in its throat. “Grave dirt is cold, and worms are hungry. That is all you need to know.”
“Slow it is then,” Ira said.
Screams echoed throughout the cave as tentacles shriveled and fell away. Skin flaked off in dry sheets that drifted to the floor. Flesh cracked and wounds ran with sepulcher dust. The cries weakened, then stopped. The creature’s body collapsed in on itself and the death mask toppled into the desiccated remains.
Ira bent down and picked up the skull, one finger through each of its eye sockets. She turned it in her hands, curious, then ran her thumbs over the runes engraved in bone.
Ira wiped a rag along Edge of Autumn’s full length, cleaning dried gore from the blade. The sword had been in the Ikaru for generations, brought with them from across the sea. Some said it was a sliver of devastation. That it splintered away from the cataclysm that took their homeland. The sacred okana, written upon her bandages by the Blind Ferryman of Skylark Peak, acted as wards against the weapon’s withering ways. Anyone touched by Autumn seldom saw another season.
Shiro returned from burying their dead and settled with a groan by the campfire.
“Those were strong words you spoke, strong enough to carry their spirits into the cosmos.”
“The dead have no use for words,” she murmured.
“Ira.” Shiro sighed. “I have followed you long enough to know when something haunts you.”
“The Night of the Dark Tide haunts me. It always has.”
“But this is different.”
Ira nodded. She sheathed her sword and rested it across her knees, running her finger over the cherry blossoms engraved on the leather.
“Since we started hunting that creature, I’ve been dreaming it, every night, the dream growing more vivid the closer we got.”
“Tell me,” Shiro said.
Ira glanced across the fire at him, his eyes heavy with concern and compassion. He was the oldest of the Crimson Haze, his face etched with fine wrinkles, but he was as capable as any in the group. He was also her second, the one she trusted most.
“People are screaming all around me, fires burn across the village, and shapeless monsters stalk the shadows, killing everyone they catch. I’m there with Jing. I don’t know where Xilin is. Perhaps he is already dead? Jing and I are adults in the dream, but nothing else is different. We’re still overwhelmed, still powerless.”
She had seen Jing only once in recent years, the lower half of his face hidden behind the mask of the Aui's Scales. But she would recognize those eyes anywhere. The same eyes as their father. She grimaced thinking of him and his betrayal.
“What does it mean?” Shiro asked.
Ira’s head hung low, eyes stuck to her sword, remembering the shrine it had laid in, the shrine that Xilin died in.
She knew exactly what the dream meant. The House of Blossoms called to her and it would not stop until she returned.
“Nothing,” she said instead. “It’s just a dream.”
Shiro looked at her, brow furrowed in doubt.
Before he could speak, Ira stood. “Goodnight, Shiro,” she said, turning from the fire, taking her sword and the saddlebag laden with the rune-covered skull.
Shiro wouldn’t try to stop her. He knew better than that. But he would insist on the Crimson Haze accompanying her on the journey home. Best not to let him know. It was her home, her family, her nightmare to face.
And she would face it alone.
Ira stole away from camp before dawn, taking a longma for the arduous journey from Volcor to Misteria. Her heart swelled when in the distance she saw sunlight shining through the mists, villages and mountain peaks hidden within.
She was almost home.
Ropes criss-crossed the mountains and valleys, connecting the region and its people, even those of the hidden villages. She could find a quicker route to the House of Blossoms along rope and path, but it seemed important she follow the trail of that dark tide which had swept through Misteria all those years ago.
The longma slowed as they ascended toward the mountaintops and into Misteria proper, unaccustomed to the cooler climes. The locals openly stared at the woman atop the strange and massive steed. They passed through villages, past farms and rice fields—places spared from the violence of that terrible night.
Soon they found themselves on the same path the monsters had taken, the remains of destroyed homes, teahouses, and shrines barely visible beneath the sprawling, tangled foliage—time and nature seeking to purge these lost places from the land, and from the memory of its people.
Animals startled at their approach, the only life left in these once vibrant communities. It wasn’t just her family’s house that had been destroyed that night, but their very name; the respect they had cultivated over generations wiped out in a single night, along with almost all who had needed their protection.
Finally, Ira and her longma reached the outskirts of the Ikaru estate as the sun hung low.
“Woah, girl,” Ira said, patting the thick dark fur on the longma’s snout, the beast exhaling wisps of smoke. She tied it to a tree on a long rope so it could forage while she was gone, then took her saddlebag from its flank. She checked the skull was still inside, and slung it over her shoulder.
From a high spot, Ira looked down into the clearing that had once been the central square of the estate. It was strangely barren compared to the overgrown villages she had passed. For a moment, she was a child again, standing in that exact place, watching monsters destroy everything she had known. To the right was the entrance to the tunnel she and Jing had used to escape the monsters that had slain her family, caved in, the formless monster that had killed Xilin entombed beneath tons of stone.
Fear gripped her, remembering Xilin’s sundered body, the grasping hands of the monster reaching to grab her, the tunnel collapsing as she and Jing fled. She rested a hand on Edge of Autumn’s hilt, drawing solace from the family weapon, the fear still present, but dulled. She was a child no longer. She would face whatever she found here.
Ira took the saddlebag from her shoulder and placed it on the ground. A purple glow shone from inside. Ira opened it and retrieved the skull, the bone-engraved runes glowing bright with dark energy. It leered at her, as though this had always been its plan.
She affixed the skull to her belt, running the rope through one eye socket and out the other, then carried on deeper into her family’s estate as the sun dropped beneath the horizon and darkness fell.
The air was still, a heavy quiet smothering the night. If anything still lived in this place, it stayed silent as Ira walked carefully through the grounds, approaching the charred ruins of the main house. It stood dormant, rafters exposed to the sky as it had all those years ago when she’d returned to bury her dead. She navigated the broken steps to the open doorway. With one hand tight around the grip of her sword, she crossed the threshold, the skull lighting her way.
Her childhood home was eerie in that infernal light, familiarity corrupted. She expected to see the space that lived so fully in her memory. She expected to picture it as it was, bustling with family and staff, her and her brothers rushing from room to room, chasing an imaginary villain, perhaps, until someone would sternly order them to play outside.
Yet, something was different. She pushed deeper into the house, footprints tracked in the thick layer of dust on the wooden floor, the skull luminous, guiding her toward the rear.
The skull flared brightly as she neared an old storeroom, partially caved in. She cleared away the charred wood and fallen slate, finding a trapdoor she had never seen before. A secret cellar, perhaps? How had she not found this in her youthful explorations?
She brushed away the ash and saw that the trapdoor was etched with Misterian okana. The writing was black, burned into the wood. Deep magic. Blood magic.
Ira read over the message: To our dear children, Xilin, Jing, and Ira. Know that we did not do this lightly. We would protect you from all the horrors of the world, but here we have failed. You will know when you are ready. Let this be the proof. Stop the darkness that we could not. End it, and those to come.
Ira’s breath caught in her throat. Her parents sacrificed themselves to contain something terrible, some evil that continued to poison the land. The Night of the Dark Tide wasn’t over. Not yet.
Ira rested a hand against the surface and the okana beneath her splayed fingers began to glow a mystical blue. The glow spread up her arm, igniting the okana on her bandages, then spread up and around the doorframe, each character in her parents’ message shining bright.
At that, a loud thud rattled the door in its frame. Ira drew her sword in anticipation, the steel song cutting short as the door splintered apart with a powerful crack.
A repulsive creature emerged through the opening, resembling a mass of human bodies held together by some monstrous cancer, an enormous eye in its center above a slavering mouth. A Puppeteer Beast. Ira had only read of these creatures.
Insectile limbs around its mouth unfolded, each one reaching for her as the monster rushed forward. Ira somersaulted back away from its attack and swung her blade in mid-air, slicing through the beast’s jagged arms. They began to wither, then detached, falling to the floor. More limbs emerged to take their place, the graveyard inside its flesh filled with countless bones for it to use and discard.
It mattered not. She would plunge her blade deep into its eye, pierce whatever passed for a brain inside that beast. It would die.
She ran up along the wall and pushed off, dropping like a falcon onto her prey. Yet even as she descended, a wet body sagged out of the monster’s gaping mouth. Xilin.
Ira faltered and pulled her sword back, dropping awkwardly to the ground. Xilin lurched to his feet and stared at her with dark, unblinking eyes.
“Why did you let me die?” the thing asked in her brother’s voice. The same voice that had scolded her for sneaking into his room. The voice that had taught her silly songs by the great hearth at night.
“I didn’t,” Ira stammered.
“You did, little sister. You ran. I protected you. And what did you do?” His face hovered before hers, his eyes weeping black tears, his blue lips twisted with grief. “You left me.”
“I—”
Skeletal fingers choked the words from her throat. Pain drove the false memories from her mind. Too late she tried to raise Edge of Autumn, only to find her wrists trapped in vices of bone.
Xilin drew back towards the monster’s mouth, the cadaverous form dragging Ira with him. She struggled, to no avail, as the creature’s jaws widened to receive her.
“Welcome home, Ira,” Xilin hissed. “We shall be a family—”
A whistle of steel cut through air. A blade punched into Xilin’s face, splitting the skull between his eyes. The effigy didn’t scream, but behind him the Puppeteer did. Its claws released her and Ira scurried back, her mind now fully clear, her brother just a fleshy apparition, hanging dead on the end of the Puppeteer’s appendage.
“Sister!”
Another voice. Another brother. This one as alive as Xilin was long dead.
He perched in the charred rafters overhead, dressed in the garb of the Aui's Scales, but without the mask covering nose and mouth. Jing jumped down, landing beside her, and offered a hand. She ignored it and got to her feet.
The Puppeteer screeched and smashed the Xilin puppet against the wall to free its flesh from Jing’s throwing knife.
“What are you doing here?” Ira shouted over the din.
“My spies saw you on the road,” he answered.
“And you thought I needed your help?”
“No, I expected trouble would follow you.”
Jing’s knife clattered to the floor. The beast drew Xilin back inside itself, then swelled grotesquely. It vomited, entire people slipping from its mouth slick with slime. Puppet after puppet spewed forth and rose stiffly to their feet.
Ira recognized the faces of these foul effigies; they were the tutors, maids, guards, cooks, and other servants of the massacred Ikaru household.
Jing drew two long knives from his belt and glanced at Edge of Autumn. “Planning to return my inheritance?”
Ira managed a smile. “It chose me, remember?”
The puppets rushed forward in a wave of horror. The siblings stood side by side, blades singing as they sliced through shadowed flesh. Bodies fell at their feet, faces they had seen every day, twisted in hatred, each cut destroying their childhood for a second time.
They fought fast, they fought hard, but there were too many. Their arms grew leaden, and soon they stood back to back, surrounded by leering doppelgangers.
“Lower your weapons, children.”
Out of habit, familial instinct, Ira and Jing obeyed as their mother stepped out from the shadows.
“We’re here now,” their father said, appearing beside her. “We’ll take care of everything.”
Something inside Ira’s mind snapped, a scream strangled in the back of her throat.
“Jing…” she whispered.
She felt her brother tense, words failing him.
The father leaned forward to peer at the sigil on Jing’s tunic. He laughed, as if Xilin had told him one of his jokes.
“You must not know the history of the symbol you wear,” accused their mother.
“The sign of betrayal,” said their father. “A tribe that bargained with Shadow and allowed passage through Misteria to Solana.”
“We protect Misteria,” Jing stammered.
“They had only one demand,” their mother continued. “Destroy our rivals.”
“That’s a lie!” Jing fell to his knees.
Ira’s hands tightened on the handle of her sword. All these years seeking vengeance, yet she had never known the truth. The Scales had engineered the deaths of her family and destroyed her life.
In unison, their parents uttered that ancient and hated proverb, their voices distorted, the Puppeteer’s own voice leaking through.
“The feather shall break in the grip of the talon.”
As if to punctuate the statement, their father turned to their mother, a grim smile on his lips. He gripped both hands tight around her head, gouging her eyes out and crushing her skull, sending the effigy back into the shadows.
The gruesome spectacle knocked Ira off-balance. But rage soon replaced shock, her anger unflinching. With a roar, she stepped forward and swung Edge of Autumn, cleaving her father’s head clean off his shoulders.
The beast’s remaining puppets surged forward. Jing leapt to his feet, and together he and Ira littered the floor with dismembered memories. Until Jing’s daggers were wrestled from his hands. Until Ira's arms were wrapped in their cold embrace. Until sister and brother were drawn, inch by inch, toward the Puppeteer’s slavering maw.
“Ira!”
Shiro raced into the room, the Crimson Haze behind him. They threw themselves into the fray, cutting down the monster’s puppets.
Freed, Ira howled in wordless fury and charged at the Puppeteer. In her path, the creature disgorged one more body. A girl, hands raised, as if in surrender. It was herself, delicate as a blossom, the tender age she had been on the Night of the Dark Tide.
“The Shadow shall return,” the girl intoned. “In the dying Light, all will be—”
Ira stepped past her younger self and brought her sword down, severing the Puppeteer’s gross appendage, ichor leaking from the cut as it flopped on the floor. Her childhood self wilted and died like a cut flower.
She drove Edge of Autumn deep into the Puppeteer’s eye. The orb shriveled and the creature collapsed backward, choking as it withered.
Around her, the sounds of battle fell away.
Silence settled over the ruined house, heavy as a funeral shroud.
Heavy as revenge.
Ira, Jing, Shiro and the Crimson Haze gathered in what was once the Ikaru gardens. Wounds were tended, simple meals cooked over small fires, horses and longma fed and watered after their long race to Misteria.
“Thank you, Shiro,” Ira said. “I shouldn’t have left how I did.”
“Sometimes you forget, it’s our vengeance, too. We were all affected that night.”
“I won’t forget it again,” Ira said.
She patted Shiro on the shoulder and approached Jing sitting alone at a fire, staring deep into the flames. She sat beside him.
“This is the moment where you tell me ‘I told you so’,” Jing said.
Ira frowned. “True, I never trusted the Scales, but I never doubted your intentions.” Jing had dedicated himself to peace in Misteria, that much she understood. “It’s a worthy cause.”
Jing nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Will you leave?” Ira asked.
“I can’t leave.”
“Even now?”
“It is worthy work we do. Whatever has corrupted the Scales will be excised. That is my path. What of yours?”
“You know my path, Jing.”
“I have certain resources at my disposal,” Jing offered, speaking as spymaster rather than brother. “If you need help, I will do what I can.”
“And if you need the Crimson Haze, know we are here. I’m sure you will have spies nearby.”
Jing smiled. “I’m sure I will.”
He stood, and Ira did the same.
“You’ve never been far from my thoughts, little sister.”
“Nor you, brother.”
With that, Jing nodded and walked away. Ira watched him slip into the night. Nothing would ever break their bond as family, but once they had been friends, too. Ira could see a path back to that for the first time in a great many years.
But not yet.
The Crimson Haze had shadows to defeat. And defeat them they would, to halt the dark.
