Who am I?
The Lord of Night stood at the very summit of Erebos, the great mountain east of Grimoire. Normally, one could not actually see Grimoire from the summit — trees blocked the view.
The Lord of Night had done away with those trees. He wanted to survey the tiny city of his birth from the highest point possible.
And…
He was in a strange mood.
He’d annihilated the Paladin horde sent against him with tremendous glee. It had been so exciting to flex his immeasurable powers on such a grand stage, against so fervent and powerful a foe. And it had felt like the fitting beginning of the story’s climax, a climax centuries in the making.
Here, Grimoire, was to be the final battle. The great and marvelous homecoming…
Before the fall of the Endless Night.
But he hadn’t taken a direct route to Grimoire. That, in itself, had already raised questions within him. Put simply…
“It wasn’t part of the script,” he said softly, only to himself.
It wasn’t. And yet he’d done it.
But by the time he’d arrived here, looking down at Grimoire, he’d begun to understand. He’d answered that question.
He knew why he’d gone off-script. And he wasn’t the least bit concerned about it, not anymore. He understood, and that understanding brought him closer to answering his current question.
Who am I?
Absurd, so absurd of a question… at first glance. He was Alexander Salazar — no. Not anymore. He enjoyed bringing out that name for its dramatic heft, and it helped to make the conflict with the Greysons, the perfect heroes, his perfect opponents.
But, no. Off of the stage, he’d discarded that name long ago. Sal. That was his name.
And yet… he was also the Lord of Night.
What a fascinating contrast.
The Prophecy of the Endless Night. He’d read it, one of the very few to have actually seen the full text. He knew what people expected from the Lord of Night.
So he’d taken a different approach. Like every actor, he had his own interpretation of the character. And he was confident he’d successfully surprised those who now knew that Sal and the Lord of Night were one and the same.
A dramatic turn, exactly what I’d hoped for.
Only…
“Father?” asked the one other on this mountaintop with Sal. Sen, the greatest of his Sons of Night.
Sal grimaced slightly at the word, though he swiftly hid his reaction, and replaced it with a sigh. “No one’s immune to playing to stereotype, I suppose,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” Sen said.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Sal said, turning to face Sen — the warrior, the perfect warrior and soldier, a physical specimen, broad-shouldered, tall, muscular, his chin held high, the great dark sword as long as he was tall planted beside him, ready for use when the time came. Soldier, warrior… and that was all. Perfect at what he was meant for, exceptional at following orders, and equally exceptional at improvising on the battlefield when necessary. Perfectly, wonderfully dependable.
And perfectly, wonderfully boring. Especially at a time like this, when Sal’s mind and heart turned towards the greater plans, the higher things in life.
Even so, even though Sen was far from the ideal audience, he was, in fact, the only audience Sal could have for his whirl of thoughts and questions. And while silent thoughts were effective, there was nothing more effective than vocalizing one’s thoughts with an audience, even if that audience couldn’t grasp the thoughts in question.
“We stand on the edge of the final act,” Sal said, turning back to look down at Grimoire. “No, beyond the final act — the climax. As if we’ve had one final intermission before the very last, most important, most exciting moment of the entire show, the entire story. There lies our audience, waiting to see what comes next.”
“Audience?” Sen asked. “Our foes lie down there, preparing what defenses they can against what you have planned for them.”
“Yes, they too await!” Sal said, turning back on Sen. “The great heroes of our story. Not all of them have arrived, yet — not all of them will, in fact, but that’s what we’ve planned. Everyone is moving towards their proper place. But… can’t you feel it, Sen? Can you not feel what burns within your father’s heart?”
“I… do,” Sen said slowly, staring at Sal with a level, serious gaze.
And yet Sal could see that in those eyes lay no understand. “Trying to appease me with lies is cruel, Sen, terribly cruel,” Sal said with a heavy sigh. “Luckily I can see through your attempts. I know you don’t understand. No one seems to understand, but that’s just as well, I suppose. True genius is never understood.”
“Father… you do not seem yourself.”
“Don’t I?” Sen laughed lightly. “No, perhaps not. You’ve never had occasion to see me like this. Not since before I became the Lord of Night… but that’s because of this incredible moment, don’t you see? This is the end — the end of all that I’ve worked for, planned, prepared. Everything has gone according to plan. The script was perfect. The stage has been perfect, and the actors, too. Everything has gone exactly as intended, and now we stand on the precipice, in the midst of the deep breath before the plunge into the perfect finale.”
“Then… what is the problem?” Sen asked.
“The problem!” Sal cried, throwing up his hands. “The problem. Ah, you do not see. ‘All according to plan’ is exactly what I endeavored not to do! My own brilliance is my undoing! You know why I became the Lord of Night, why I accepted this role and strove to fulfill the Prophecy of the Endless Night?”
“To upend the natural order of the world,” Sen said with a nod. “To prove false the seemingly preordained ending of the Light triumphing over all and the Darkness being vanquished forever.”
“Well, you at least have an excellent memory,” Sal said, allowing himself a smile. “Yes. And that is exactly where things have gone terribly wrong! Sen, you must see, now. To upend the natural order. Yes, that is the line for the stage, and there is truth in that ideal. But where did that come from? What lies beneath it, what is the more important motivation that led to that ideal?” Sal opened a small portal of darkness, reached in, and pulled forth a tattered, leather-bound book. He gestured with it at Sen. “Stories, Sen. Stories are the most powerful, most beautiful, most amazing things in the world. But a story that is predictable. Oh, that is a dreadful bore! And there is nothing worse than boredom, Sen. And the epitome of boredom, what is that? It is things going exactly according to plan. Have you never heard the marvelous military axiom, ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’?”
“I am not familiar with mortal phrasings,” Sen said.
“No, no, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Sal said with a sigh. “But Sen, that is the beauty of so many military engagements throughout history! Great, brilliant, beautiful plans were spun, genius was put to crafting the greatest strategies… and they did not go according to plan. In the end, those stories are great because of how the plans were changed, how leaders and soldiers, the directors and players and writers if you will, were forced to adapt, improvise. And do you know what I haven’t had to do even once since becoming the Lord of Night?” Sen stared back at Sal’s eager, energetic gaze with a steady, but dreadfully blank, gaze. Sal sighed, bowing his head, continuing in a softer voice. “I have not once had to improvise. I have occasionally done so, on a whim, just to toy with things. But that is far different from needing to improvise.”
“You… seemed to enjoy the journey so far, if I may say so,” Sen said.
Sal strode past Sen, planting himself down on a rock in the center of the plateau, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, very nearly pouting. “Yes. I did enjoy myself, for a long time. Because the script I’d written, the story I’d planned, was marvelous. It was absolutely exquisite to see things turn the way I’d hoped, because the way I’d hoped things would go was exciting! But… and this is the key thing here, Sen, I need you to understand… that is not good enough for the finale. I’ve realized it now, my great folly, the one failure in this entire masterwork of a story!”
“You’ve… failed, father?” Sen asked. His voice actually trembled, concern and fear just barely revealing themselves.
“I have,” Sal said, chuckling — a self-deprecating chuckle, a laugh at himself, at his own foolishness, at being too blinded by brilliance to see where things would inevitably lead. “The finale must be more than what I’d planned, more than where I’d intended to go. Don’t you see, Sen? While the story I crafted and brought to perfect fruition was exciting and marvelous, it was also perfectly executed. Nothing — nothing — in it surprised me. Not once. Not ever. And only now, here at the end, do I see that I’ve deprived myself of the one thing I craved! Sen! We must alter the finale!”
“You wish to change the plan now?” Sen asked.
“Yes!” Sal said, leaping to his feet. “That is the only way! That’s it! We have to alter the plan. It has to be better, it has to be brilliant, it has to be perfect! But not perfect like everything else has been, no — it has to be beyond me, something that is certain to surprise even me.”
“We could attack now,” Sen said, grasping his sword.
“No!” Sal said, waving his hands. “No, no, that would never do! Don’t you see? That would lead, without fail, to an anticlimax! That’s the whole reason the original plan had us waiting until the pieces were in place, until all of the actors were where they needed to be. The goal isn’t victory, Sen, and I see you bristling at that, I know how much you prize victory. Oh, but you and your brothers have been the one thing that’s marginally surprised me. None of you turned out exactly as I’d designed, but then, that is how real children are, isn’t it? But I digress. Sen, victory alone is useless. That is what I mean. We have to craft the most exciting, incredible, surprising story that has ever been seen — one worthy of supplanting the story they all count on, of the Light triumphing, death and Darkness being vanquished forever. Victory alone is not enough. It is diabolical, detestable, absolutely disgusting for a boring story to sit on the highest pedestal. Do you know how horrific it is for popularity to be the only thing people care about? Quality is ignored, and that would be our fate — victory, without the quality worthy of the victory. Sen, Sen, you must understand me.” Sal strode to Sen and, standing beside him, not looking at him, placed a hand on his shoulder. He had to reach up — Sen was marvelously tall — but he didn’t mind. “Your talents belong on the greatest stage. For you to shine, you must not simply win. You must do so against the greatest odds, you must do so in ways that no one expects. You cannot show your full potential by simply charging in and claiming victory against a foe unprepared for you. Don’t you agree?”
Sen cocked his head to the side, his face registering the slightest hint of confusion. “I… am trying to, father.”
Sal let out a heavy, dejected sigh and removed his hand from Sen’s shoulder, striding past him to the precipice, to look back on Grimoire far below. “I do appreciate the effort,” he murmured. And as he stood there on the edge, he didn’t really look at Grimoire. He looked inward, murmuring to himself, planning, adjusting, thinking, plotting. “If we attack only there, break those defenses and then see how they react as we pull back and watch… but no, that’s too obviously holding back, and we can’t hold back intentionally, that’s just being a weak villain, no one wants to see that. We can’t toy with them, not obviously… hmm. A wave, then another, to see how they react, how they respond — no, that’s already so similar to the existing plan. If we could draw Shana and her Dawn Riders to Grimoire as well, if we could bring all of the key players together… but her powers aren’t fit for this kind of conflict, she needs to be where she is for her part in the finale to be as dramatic as it can be. Perhaps I should call Dullan and Valgwyn from their roles abroad to join us here… that certainly sets the heroes up as the ultimate underdogs, but it could also leave me with nothing to do, and I simply must be involved in this battle. You can’t have a final battle without the primary villain, after all. What would be surprising? What would be… yes, we could do that, bring that higher, see what that does to them. Oh, right, that’s it! Even I don’t know what would happen. I can think of possibilities, but predicting exactly which one will… yes, right, that can work, that can be an adjustment. But it’s not enough of an adjustment. Isn’t there more we…?”
And then Sal’s eyes brightened, and he ceased his murmurings. Slowly, he fixed his gaze on the city far below, and smiled.
“Oh, why didn’t I see it sooner?” he asked. “That’s it. That’s it!”
“What’s it?” Sen asked.
“We don’t rely only on the plan,” Sal said. “Yes, of course. It isn’t a proper finale if you can’t trust the heroes at least a little bit.” He chuckled, watching the city, his final stage, waiting for the final actors to arrive. “Don’t you dare disappoint me, Greysons.”
Who am I?
The question came once more, and Sal didn’t have to dwell on it, not anymore. He’d been curious, and that curiosity was sated. Analyzing the stage, standing on the edge of the great finale, he suddenly saw things perfectly clear.
He held up a hand, and watched as his fingers trembled.
He was more excited than he’d ever been before.
“Greysons,” he said softly, “it takes more than one man to put on the greatest finale of all. Don’t you dare disappoint me. If you do… well, you think things are bad now. You think my potential victory is so terrible already. I’ll make sure it’s even worse than you imagine.”
Chapter One
Grimoire. A city famed for its Lunar Festival, and for many other places and events named in honor of the Lunar Architects.
But also in honor of the moon itself. You could even see it in many bulletins, posters, and texts within Grimoire: here, in this city, the “Moon” was always written with a capital M. It held a special significance to the people of this small city. The Moon seemed larger when looking up at Grimoire’s night sky, seemed silvery, beautiful, bright, majestic.
Or, it did normally. Tonight — like every night since shortly after the most recent Lunar Festival — the Moon was obscured by an ashen sky. Darkness cloaked the world, bringing night sooner than it should, even in these frigid winter days.
Olivia Scarlett Quinn stood upon the roof of Crowley Manor, gazing up at that ashen sky from beneath the hood of her white jacket. Faint, pale glimmers of silver could be seen occasionally, diluted by the veil that hung over the world. Soon even those would vanish — clouds were rolling in, bringing a fresh snowfall with them, no doubt.
The Moon was still there. Even when the clouds would fully obscure the faintest traces of its light, it still shone, as if with its own light. Whether it could be seen or not, it was always there.
Olivia stood alone on the roof, its tiles lightly dusted with snow. She thought on darkness, on light, and on…
So very, very much.
She had come to Grimoire with Fae, Sonya, Madeline, Mercury, Neptune, Jupiter, Toryu, and Ciel mere hours ago. It had been a return for Fae, now with her soul properly within her own body, and they’d all come from the warm, serene embrace of the Orphan of the Dawn.
None of them had been prepared for what awaited them. The bond that tied the seven girls’ souls together was more powerful — and difficult — than they’d known in the Orphan of the Dawn’s protection. Mental feedback had lashed at all of them, thoughts exploding and running over each other in wild, unrestrained cacophony.
Fae had collapsed under the strain. Mercury and Jupiter had been soon to follow. Olivia, Neptune, and Madeline had held up the best, while Sonya barely maintained consciousness, and Madeline suggested they should go to her home.
Crowley Manor.
It was closer to the Bay, where they’d arrived, than Greyson Manor. And it was powerfully fortified, even when Jacob Crowley wasn’t there — and he rarely was, practically living at Hunter headquarters these days. Olivia had helped Toryu, Madeline, and Neptune carry the unconscious members of their party back to the Manor, and all the way, she’d wondered.
Why doesn’t it bother me so?
She had barely been affected by the sharp explosion of thought from six different minds flying through her own mind, by the wild storm of varying emotions that weren’t hers swirling in her own heart. She felt quiet, and steady, even as all others were falling beside her.
By the time they reached Crowley Manor and put the unconscious girls to bed, Sonya collapsed as well, and then Neptune. Madeline held up a while longer, watching over them, but had soon fallen unconscious as well.
It was too much to handle for all of them. So why…?
A soft, sharp sound, like a match being struck alerted Olivia that she wasn’t alone. She turned slowly to find Toryu seated on the roof tiles a ways behind and above her, lighting his pipe. He smiled, nodded once to her, and puffed a few times. The incense-like smell wafted to Olivia, a pleasing aroma of lilacs, cinnamon, and vanilla.
“You wonder why you can still stand?” Toryu asked.
“Not just stand,” Olivia said softly. “My mind… is at ease.” She looked away, taking in what she could hear and feel. “I still hear their unconscious thoughts, still feel the pain and fear they’re facing. But it… does not wound me.”
“Is that surprising to you?” Toryu asked.
Olivia stared at the Dragon, but found no answer to the riddle in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be?” she asked.
“You have already come out from under a great and terrible new weight,” Toryu said. “And that did not break you.”
Right. Olivia turned away, gazing across the low, hilly Grimoire skyline. When she’d broken the seals on her memories with the Blade of Dawn, all of her life, everything she’d lost, everything that had been locked away when she’d become the Sealed Vessel, had come rushing back to her in a flood. Not just the visuals, the sounds, the recorded memories, but all of the feelings and emotions associated with them.
She’d felt stunned by the weight of all that she’d lost. Of all that she’d never properly appreciated until now, until it was long past too late. She still felt that weight, and was torn between properly taking in all that she’d regained… and being left numb by just how much, how heavy, how full it all was.
“I think… I’m still processing all of that,” she said slowly. “But even so, all of that is me. Everything else, what cripples the other six… is each other. But somehow, their pain and thoughts, pain and thoughts that are not my own, don’t weigh so heavily. They don’t cut so deeply.”
“Perhaps you are stronger than you knew,” Toryu mused.
“Perhaps,” Olivia said, closing her eyes. A chill breeze swept across the roof.
Grimoire’s winters are not like Renault’s. But this cold is still refreshing.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. “What can I do for them?” she asked, half to herself.
“That, I do not know,” Toryu said. “I will continue to monitor their situation, and work what healing I can. But the pain is not of the body, internal or external. The mind and the heart… those are delicate things. There is little I can do.”
“I…” Olivia started. She held out her hand, and her alabaster scythe materialized. She gripped it tightly, its form and feel comfortingly familiar. This scythe had been her weapon longer than she’d even realized, for so long not knowing the true number of years she’d been gone from her home. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of Hunters preparing, beginning their patrols. Hollow Hour — much more than an hour now, and every night lengthening — would begin soon. “I can protect them from terrors without. That is what I’m best at. But… the Manor will protect them just as well. I need not fight.”
“But will fighting for Fae’s city ease your own mind?” Toryu asked.
That, Olivia hadn’t considered. And there was a strange tension in the air. It felt as if more than Hollows would be coming soon. A great storm was approaching, with Grimoire as its target.
Something terrible would occur here soon. Something that Crowley Manor might not be able to defend Fae and the others from.
“I don’t need to ease my own mind,” Olivia said softly, so softly that Toryu probably didn’t hear. If he did, he did not respond. “I need to ease theirs. But how…?” She closed her eyes, bowed her head, took in the wild, subconscious nightmare thoughts of Fae, Sonya, Madeline, Mercury, Jupiter, and Neptune.
Do not be afraid. It’s difficult to bear each other’s thoughts, each other’s feelings, but this is what we all agreed to. For Fae’s sake, we have to endure. We have to find that harmony we found at the Orphan of the Dawn. No matter how different things are here… that harmony must be the same. We just need to find it again.
She thought she felt a slight easing of their thoughts — but only slight. There was so much pain, such an instinctive rejection of the constant flow of so many other thoughts and emotions through the most private places, the mind and heart, that should only contain the thoughts and emotions of the one, of the self. The Orphan of the Dawn had protected them, but that wasn’t all. Olivia didn’t think so.
She let go of her scythe and let it vanish, turning her hands instead to the case that was slung crosswise over her shoulder. A blue case, a familiar case for a familiar instrument. From it she produced a viola and a bow, and raised them to her shoulder.
I’m not so good with words. But maybe words aren’t what you need most to heal.
And Olivia began to play. From the very first note, tears stung her eyes. It was still so overwhelming, having her instrument in hand, being able to play once more.
Music was the language of her heart. Perhaps, through these songs, she could reach Fae and the others where words failed her.
Somewhere, a clock struck nine o’ clock at night. The new Hollow Hour began. Monsters roamed the streets, and Hunters pursued. The night became alive with the light and sound of battle.
Hollows occasionally came near Crowley Manor, but they could never get within its grounds, or upon its roof, thanks to its potent magical defenses.
And on that roof, amidst the sound and fury of battle, a somber, hopeful song rang out in the night.
Seven hearts, and seven minds, took a tiny step towards peace.