Kalou vaulted up the ladder, letting the glass fall on his shoulders. He scrambled over the top to his brother, who lay in a sputtering heap, bleeding and bruised. Kalou glared at the gaping hole the creature had left. His men were after it. The few remaining now stood behind him, tense and awaiting orders. "Fetch the King and the physician," Kalou turned to a younger soldier. "Help me with that chandelier."
The three descended, though not without difficulty. Stolas would have laughed if he could stomach it. They entered the hallway, and Kalou set his brother down. Here he could see the extent of the damage. Stolas' chain mail looked to be no match for the creature's claws, the slits in the metal utterly seamless. Kalou slipped off the tunic with his shirt. Along his torso, twenty small puncture wounds blemished his skin. Ten under the arms and ten in the waist, also pristine save for one. While the others bled very little, this wound was bloody and torn and something black protruded from within. Kalou bundled his brother's shirt and stuck it on top to stop the flow. Stolas yelped.
"It hurts." he moaned; his voice raspy.
"You're fine," said Kalou. Despite his brother's worry, Stolas experienced the rush of relief. It's gone, he thought. Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Kalou's men accompanied the physician, who appeared to be also in a state of moderate undress. Doctor Harowe; an unassuming woman of small stature yet with immense intelligence. A respected figure within the palace court. A look of horror plastered her face as she laid eyes on the library guards with their throats slashed. She skidded to a halt. As Kalou had done, she assessed Stolas' wounds with confusion but gave in to her curiosity.
"Stolas, who did this?"
"I don't know," Stolas replied, attempting to prop himself up against the wall. He neglected to mention the lack of a face. The diagnosis of an ill mind would be troublesome on top of it all.
"You mustn't move," she said, urging him back down. Harowe turned to her assistant who appeared behind her, a young girl dressed in an apron. "We will do the surgery here, go fetch my tools," she hesitated. "And wine."
Stolas retreated from the pain into his mind once more. Blocking outside influences. His consciousness remained submerged in an endless blank void. On the surface, Harowe began cleaning the wounds, dousing them with alcohol. Stolas twitched. His eyes fluttered and his breathing spiked. Kalou and his crowd of men looked on in distress. With a steady hand, she slid the needle into his flesh, letting the bloodstained tip emerge on the other side. Stolas' frown did not falter. She addressed his bizarrely minor wounds and turned to his ripped chest. Kalou's care mitigated the bleeding, revealing the obscured item. A great black claw. The point embedded in his rib. "Pliers," Kalou gaped. Harowe's assistant handed her a vicious-looking tool. "Kalou, would you hold him down? If he loses focus and moves, he could make it worse."
"Yes, of course," he said, taking hold of his brother's good shoulder and waist. Harowe plunged the pliers into his flesh, gripping the claw at its base. She yanked it from his bone in one swift movement. Stolas jerked. Kalou bit his tongue. The claw clattered to the floor beside the corpses. Stolas' delicate shield of meditation teetered on a knife's edge. Dulled sensations returned, and he struggled to maintain his barren mind, yet the bleeding remained stable and Harowe smiled, satisfied with his condition. The claw caused minimal damage. Although appearing pained, Stolas regained his equanimity and settled. The rest of the surgery passed, and he awoke surrounded by worried faces, the entirety of his torso and left shoulder wrapped in bandages.
"What were you doing to me? I have not struggled to focus like that since I was a child." Although joking, he spoke with a troubled smile as his gaze fell to the deceased guards. Pale. Slumped against the wall in a puddle of blood. He sat up, gritting his teeth. Even the movement associated with breathing hurt.
"We had to get this out," said Kalou, passing him the obsidian-like talon. It was long, slim and hooked at the end. As if it were a compound between a human nail and a giant dragon claw. "Stolas, what ha-"
"Where is our father?" Stolas interrupted. "I would like to discuss it. The three of us, alone."
Kalou threw open the doors to their father's study, with Stolas slung over the same young guard's shoulder. The King sat dressed at his desk, writing, relaxed. "Did no one tell you a thing?" said Kalou, turning him around.
"Did no one teach you how to dress?" returned the King. Kalou looked almost as dishevelled as his brother, his dark hair wild and loose on his shoulders, furrowed brows shadowing tired bloodshot eyes. The King sighed. "Yes, I was told. I had faith Harowe and yourself could handle the situation, and I was right. What help would I have been except to put pressure on you both? Stolas is fine, and I also sent out my battalion to find the person responsible. All I could do, I have done."
"Thank you, father," Stolas replied, awkwardly slipping into a chair. Kalou dismissed his aid. "However, I don't believe what attacked me was a person," his voice grew grave. "Apart from the claws, the creature was in a state no human could survive. It looked starved, old, and had a shadowy black mass for a face. Like fog. There is no way this-" Stolas placed the claw on his father's half-finished manuscript. "-came from a person." the King's eyes widened with recognition. His face drew sullen and twisted into horror. With shaking hands, he reached for the claw, observing it in disbelief. He didn't blink. Stolas observed a mere shell of the man he was moments ago.
"You shouldn't be alive." the King whispered. He jolted upright and grabbed Kalou by the shoulders, yanking him forward. "Call everyone back. Do not pursue this creature. They are chasing their deaths." Flustered, Kalou agreed and rushed out the door. The King's contagious panic spread, and they heard his manic voice barking orders outside. Stolas shuddered.
"What was it that attacked me, and how do you know about it?" said Stolas weakly. He tensed as much as his body would allow. The King slumped back into his chair and held his head in his hands.
"It was an angel."
"What-" the King cut him off.
"If you remember the legends I taught you from before your awakening, you will know the only ones on Kraeta, are the bad ones." Stolas nodded. The memories were faint. Whispers of his father's voice paired with images of his bedtime storybook. The holy book of Lazeria. One that told of the God of creation, the great war of the ethereal realm and the subsequent damnation of those who opposed him. The fallen. The damned. The corrupted. "Few have ever seen a fallen angel and survived, and that can only happen when you..." the King trailed off and his gaze wandered to the window. They settled into a very long silence and watched as the sun broke over the distant mountain tops. Light spilt into the snow-laden valley, and it glowed a warm scarlet. The vale resembled the great red-sand deserts of the south. It was a spectacle to behold, but the King lost himself in a world of his own making, one of the past. Stolas would get nothing more out of his father now, as much as he desired to.
With the help of Éirean, Stolas returned to the library. For the next two weeks, he allowed himself to heal but broke back into a familiar routine, following his obsessive need to consume excessive amounts of knowledge. Instead of the usual academics of biology, Stolas scoured every text with any subtle mention of mythology. Legends, folklore, everything that could shed light on the mysterious angels he memorised. There was one sure fact he learned from it all: "This library is pathetic!" he exclaimed as he threw a book across the room, softly wincing at the pain in his side. Éirean scrambled to dodge the oncoming projectile. The soldier became a glorified combination of a personal guard, a servant, and now accidental target practice. "There is nothing of substance here, no facts. All of it is vague guesswork and speculation." The research had amounted to nothing useful. I need more, thought Stolas, running his hands down his face. He debated questioning his father further but settled on it as a last resort. Now he was out of options. With a deep sigh, Stolas discarded his spectacles and reached for a tunic among a discarded pile and slipped it on before heading out to his father's office. Éirean followed closely behind.
"Your royal highness, wear a tunic more often. It suits you better than a nightshirt," he said in a cheerful voice. Stolas scowled.
"How much money does my brother pay you to lecture me on my habits?"
"A fair amount," he replied as they reached the study. Éirean stationed himself outside and Stolas barged in.
"I'm tired of that now." the King growled. He sat in an armchair tucked into the corner, with Kalou perched on the adjacent windowsill. Balled up pieces of parchment surrounded them, and both looked drawn out and sleep deprived. The strategy to find the missing people was not going well ever since a lack of an appearance for the Trade two days ago. It was a misplaced hope formed amid their initial panic. Anyone vigilant enough to put this together would have spies, Stolas realised. When no one came, it only worked to solidify the theory he developed.
"Father, I need to know more about the angels," he said, striding over to join the two. "I have a hypothesis. About them and the missing." the King raised a brow.
"Oh?" he gestured for an explanation as Stolas sat down next to his brother.
"I think the angels are the ones responsible for stealing our people. I won't pretend to know why or even attempt to guess, but it makes sense. There is no way that everything that happened in those two days is a coincidence. I reveal my power to the world and then am awoken the next night by a monster who you said yourself, father, that no one survives being seen by. Yet, I have healed well from my injuries and can go back to my everyday life with little hindrance. I think they wanted me alive. Again, I do not know their motives, but my power is the only thing that excludes me from anyone else. And how would they know about it if they had not already been watching? It may be simple conjecture for now, but I'm sure if I can find out more about the angels, their reasons behind this, then I can prove it was them and rescue those we have lost." the King smiled.
"No."
"What?" exclaimed Stolas. "But-"
"I said no. How do you expect to rescue our people from the angels when you don't know how to kill them or fight at all? No number of books can teach you combat. You need much more experience, which you don't have, and I am not willing to send any of this country's soldiers to fight those monsters. That's assuming the angels have them. It could be many militant groups trying to work against us, much less likely the damned. It was a freak attack. You got lucky."
"Wow. In all my years, I never expected you to be a coward." Stolas spat. The words escaped his lips before he even contemplated his thoughts. Kalou gasped. The King laughed, his voice reducing to a deep, grating snarl.
"You would dare speak to me this way?" he challenged, his blue eyes alighting with rage. Stolas immediately recognised his mistake and backpedalled.
"I'm sorry father, it was a slip of the tongue I-" he stuttered, but the King rose from his chair and cut him off.
"I am not just your father, but your King. What kind of importance do you bestow upon yourself to think you can behave like this?" He approached, stopping an inch from Stolas' face. His voice diminished to a hissed whisper. "Perhaps this public adoration has got into your head. Are you so arrogant to believe that your divine intervention ranks you above all others? What you did for this country begets no small amount of respect but if you think for a moment words like that are acceptable then spend your time relaxing in the dungeons!" Stolas could not help but avert his gaze from his father's formidable form. His hands shook slightly as he clenched them.
"Sorry," He murmured through tightened lips. His heart pounded, though not in fear. "I'm sorry you do not value your citizens enough to help them when their need is greatest," Stolas met his father's tone. "Their blood will be on your hands."
Iordan calmly returned to his chair, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote up another plan. Stolas gritted his teeth and stormed out of the office, seething. "Fine, I will save them myself."
Stolas spent the rest of the day preparing for his journey, despite his father's protests. First gaining and dressing in a set of peasant clothing; a simple cotton shirt, a leather belt, plain brown trousers, a pair of worn-in boots and a thick, black wolf's pelt cloak. As he approached the gate to fetch a mount, Éirean ran up beside him, sweating and out of breath.
"Your royal highness," he panted, hands on his knees. "There is no need to go into town. The King has already prepared a horse for you." Not one of the pampered purebreds from the royal stable, but a skinny, overworked thing that needed grooming. Dirt matted its white fur, making it appear a muddy grey colour. A slight touch would send a plume of dust into the air. His father expected him to come crawling back in a few days, Stolas couldn't help detecting the passive aggression in the gift, yet this could be defined as a victory, somewhat. I will have to prove humouring me was a mistake, he thought, the sparks of residual anger from the earlier exchange not quite settled. Despite its poor condition, the saddlebags packed with spare clothes, food, and heavy coin seemed no issue and neither did Stolas. "His majesty ordered me to give you this too." Éirean passed him a note written on a creased piece of parchment that his father had undoubtedly plucked from the floor and flattened out. On one side etched crudely crossed bullet points and on the other, three words: Caine VanCourts, Woodpine.
By the time he equipped himself and sat upon his horse, the sun set. The sight beyond the palace gates was one Stolas rarely laid eyes on, and one he appreciated. Small plumes of smoke emerged from tall chimneys, and soft candlelight illuminated the windows of nearby houses. The cobbled streets seemed inviting as small lanterns hanging from squeaking signs dimly lit the path ahead. A small pinch of anticipation summoned a smile as Stolas turned to say goodbye. "If anyone tries to hurt you, come back alright?" Kalou begged with a solemn look.
"I'll be fine, I promise. Father's wrath is more likely to be the end of me than anything else in this world." Stolas laughed, although half-serious. "It's a three-day ride, nothing will happen, and if it does, I've stocked the city up with enough food to last the coming two seasons."
"Alright, but take this," Kalou unbuckled a small dagger from his belt and handed it to him. "Stab and twist, got it?" Stolas nodded and looked to Éirean, noticing a burn below his collar. The soldier rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet with a frown.
"What is it?" Said Stolas, rolling his eyes.
"Your royal highness, I would like to come! I could teach you to fight, you know, I have a lot of experience." Kalou muttered something intelligible.
"Thank you, Éirean, but my father was right about something; we can't let any more of our people die fighting for the royal family's mistakes, including you. Besides, I need someone to stay here to look after Kalou while I'm gone."
"I don't need a squire-"
"Consider it done!" Éirean beamed. Kalou let out a wry smile as a sinking feeling he could not define took form inside his chest.
"Alright then, wish me luck." With a light kick and snap of the reins, Stolas departed.
Echoes of twin steps filled the crumbling stone halls, and hushed voices in a foreign tongue told tales long lost to the world of man. Not grand stories, but ones that no one would think to record, or were told not to. Stories told out of boredom and for the sake of decent conversation, or perhaps to block out the soft pained sobs of the prisoners they guarded. Passing each cell, anxiety displayed itself at its finest. People hid away and kept to the shadowed corners. Large, starved eyes too big for their hollowed cheeks looked up as they walked by. The firelight of the dying torches reflected in the fear-driven tears that trickled down their cheeks. Their hands clasped together in prayer or sometimes jammed into their mouths to chew on the barren nail beds. Behind each barred door crouched five of these misery-stained souls save for the last, which when the guards reached it, they turned back. In that cell there remained one, alone, forsaken and resigned to their fate as another figure entered the dungeons. The starved prisoner swallowed hard as his stomach dropped, the door swinging open and the figure entering, cloaked in dark shades and its visage concealed beneath a cloud of swirling smoke. Without a word, it crouched down and lifted the weakened prisoner into its arms. The poor man lost the will to put up a fight, as his past cellmates had done. Futile attempts to flee resulted in only further suffering that he knew his body could not endure, and so as he travelled beyond the dungeon, he soaked in the sight of the sun's rays permeating through the cracks in the rock and the wild plants and trees that twisted up the pillars and thrived in the crevices. A treasured last look at life before they take it from him. His attention diverted as he entered what used to be a grand hall, and panic set in. At a round table grown from the live oak that dominated the room sat two beings dressed in white. "Ol blans el," spoke one, its voice booming from behind the feathers. "G canse unig a ugear." The other did not respond, but inclined its head to the prisoner, who shuddered and instinctively pressed into the chest of his carrier. He noticed a scowl of disgust form on its lips as it observed him through the meshed metal mask that shielded its eyes.
"Ol trian aziazor ge oi prdzar qaa. Larag symp, Tabaan," The being behind the feathers drew silent as the other abandoned its branched chair, "Ol trian niis zacam g a micalz el." It declared before the shadows of the corridor enveloped its slender form. Although lacking the understanding of this old language, the prisoner sensed his rejection and clung to the tiny string of hope. The feathered being shifted, and his carrier tensed. Its voice sank low and from it emanated a deep, haunting laugh that pierced through his skin and turned his bones to stone.
"Atraah tia de ol."
The feathers parted.