As the sun slips over the horizon, so too does the bright world slip slowly and slowly away. The lever cranks as if in protest. Going down is still easier than up, though—againwiththewitchdoctorisnotwisetodabblewiththesekindsthe-lowerlevelsallhateusyouknowthisofcourseyoudo–

I shake my head, trying to will the voices away for just a moment.

“What are they saying?” Linus asks, eyes gleaming with interest.

“They say the same as you. You might as well be in my head, too.”

“I told the clan you’re visiting the untouchables as a gift of charity. The grace of your presence, and all that.”

“I’ll remind you that you’re meant to sound sincere.”

“You wouldn’t respect me if I did. But really,” his tone grows serious,“I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

The sounds of laughter and music die as the elevator descends. Through the wooden slats of the door, the blaze of sunset also fades, until we reach the darkness. I smell it before I see it–stinkingwretchesbestkeptinthissunlessplaceletthemrotaslongaswecantsmellit–it smells like waste.

Linus cranks the door open. Shapes of bodies cling to the walls—some move, some don’t. In the dark, they might as well be faceless, but when I hold my torch in front of them to move past, I see sunken, pallid faces, gawking. We come to a door with a crescent shape painted over it. 

“This is the place.” I knock.

I hear muffled, guttural singing, then the faint clatter of glass as he scrambles to the door. 

His hair is somehow even more matted than when I saw him last, a nest of silver stained with the colourful dyes of his many tinctures. His face is engraved with patterns of wrinkles, almost like sigils. Pale, milky eyes stare through me.

“Again, again, again. He comes again. Born again in shadow. Come in, come in, come in.” He ushers us inside.

The stink in here is even worse than outside. The smell of herbs mixes with the overwhelming scent of decay, sickly sweet. Linus shoots me a mocking glance. There’s no light, save for the weeping candle at his cluttered workstation. Shelves of unmarked vials line the walls. In the corner, I can make out a makeshift lavatory, and a tangle of eagle fern, hay, and feathers for a bed. Flightlessbird–

“You have the tincture?” I ask.

He wets his lips. “Ah. Yes–” he snatches a vial of cloudy white liquid from the shelf, ”here, here, here–” and gives it to me with cold, calloused hands. A shiver runs from my fingertips to my gut. “One sip, once the sun has turned its face—the voices will stay quiet,” he bares his rotten yellow teeth, “no more, or the brief oblivion will be an endless one.”

I nod, slipping the vial into my pocket. “Your payment, then,” I reach for my coin purse. 

He shakes his head. “No, no, no,” the sound of his wet smile turns my stomach, ”the debt is already paid.”

“Very well,” Linus interjects before I can question him. “Let us be off.”

youdishonourusyoudishonouryourselfourancientcustomsthedivinergiftyouholdinourwordsfecklesspupcowardlyratstayindarknessstaythen–

As we walk back to the elevator, a thousand old voices jolt in my mind, louder than ever before. I clutch my head, caving in on myself. Linus rushes to my left side. We don’t notice her as she flanks my right in a screeching, rabid flurry, clawing at my face, sinking her teeth into my shoulder. I wrench her off, and she takes a chunk of my skin with her, swallowing it. Linus gets to her before I do, lifting her by the throat, and breaks her neck with a flourish. Dazed, we both stare down at her. Wild, bulging eyes pierce back at me. 

“I told you,” Linus ushers me to the elevator, ”this place is cursed.”

Few words pass between us as we make our way back to the palace. I welcome the hot, arid streets of the top level, its familiar, sunblessed faces, the ever—beating drums. When we reach the sandstone facade, its intricate carvings and patterns seem to bear words of welcome. A reverent hush falls over the chattering voices inside as I pass through the door.

“Lord Maskah, nineteenth Guardian of the stratocracy of Apaachiri,” the gatekeepers call, their voices echoing through the vast cavern. 

My eunuchs, concubines, and sworn warriors race to greet me, fussing over the bleeding on my shoulder. Before I can give orders, they’ve already wrapped the wound. 

“My lord,” gasps First Concubine Levaia, “who has hurt you? Please,” she grasps my hands, planting fervent kisses, ”tell me they are dead.”

“Of course they are,” scoffs Second Concubine Kiva. “Our lord would not let them live.”

“I wish to retire for the evening,” I say, gently nudging them away.

“My lord,” chimes Head Eunuch Calvus. “I understand you must rest, but let us discuss tomorrow’s contention first.”

“Fine, fine.”

The women disperse, and the men move to the strategy hall. My favourite room in the palace, it’s adorned with the contracts of legislations I’ve fought to pass, the armour of my fallen enemies, and relics from the first Guardian of the city. Most impressive, however, are the monolithic crystals grown only in the underground depths of Apaachiri, where our monks spend decades willing precious stones into existence through neverending meditation. 

allthisgloryalllthishistorylivingaroundyoulivinginsideyouandyouwishtothrowitaway–

“I’m not going to throw it away!” The words leave my mouth before I realise that I’m thinking aloud.

“My lord?” Calvus eyes me with concern.

“It’s nothing. Now, you were going to brief me about tomorrow’s contention?”

“Yes, my lord. The petition for this contention is rather unique. They haven’t given us a name, a clan, or any prospective legislation.”

“Ah. A break from the ongoing monotony. So they aim to surprise me. The audience will love the intrigue, surely.”

“Yes, my lord, but how are you to properly prepare for an enemy you know nothing of? And to fight against legislation you aren’t even privy to?”

“What does it matter? The legislation won’t pass unless I die. Do you not trust in my abilities?” 

“Of course, my lord.” His eyes widen. ”I mean, of course not!”

“Then there is nothing else to discuss.” I rise from the table.

“My lord, I bade Kiva attend your bedchamber tonight. There is the important matter of producing an heir,” he wrings his hands,”and it seems Lavaia has been unsuccessful so far. Perhaps you might–”

“Fine, fine! Would you like to check my bedpan to ensure that I’m regular as well? Goodnight! Goodnight.”

For a moment, in the cool dark of the halls, all is blissfully quiet, save for my lone footsteps. I draw in a long breath.

Ifonlythosevileeunuchsknewhowmuchyouhadincommonwhatgoodisacockifyoucantevenuseit–

Before I can think, the vial is in my hands, the milky liquid sliding down my throat. I wait for the familiar volley of voices, but nothing comes. Peace. 

Inside my bedchamber, Kiva is sprawled naked over the pelts and blankets on my bed, like another piece of fine furniture. 

“What a long day it’s been, my lord. Won’t you come and rest with me?” 

All I can see are the carved petroglyphs looming above her. In the middle of the wall is a large sun, encrusted with agate. Each ray stretches across the wall, melting into depictions of history—the nameless first Guardian’s construction of the city, the defeat of the matriarchal Lahaians to the east, the founding of the Crystal Order. What tales will they tell of me?

“My Lord?” She places a wet cloth on my forehead, and removes the singular pauldron on my left shoulder. Her hands descend to my breeches. 

“Try to relax, my lord,” she breathes.

My thoughts drift to Linus—his broad shoulders, his full lips, his square jaw. For a moment, it seems to work, but then I get a glimpse of her body.

“Let me–” 

“Leave me.”

“My lord, I could bring another–”

“Leave me!”

She scurries from the room. Quiet. True quiet. I slump into the bed, and close my eyes, eager for sleep to come. Yet it doesn’t come easy—the silence is empty, lonely. Each time I get close to darkness, I remember the voices are gone. A strange melancholy spreads over me.

“Kiva!”

She shuffles inside. “Yes, my lord?”

“Hold me.”

I turn on my side, and she presses against my back, her soft singing lulling me to sleep.

I wake with a start, gasping for air. For a moment, I can’t register who or where I am, and as I recollect myself, the dream comes back, too. The crazed woman from yesterday, those same dead eyes locked on mine as she choked me, my soul slipping away from my body and into her dark, cavernous mouth. 

Kiva is still in bed with me. Yet her skin, so warm the night before, is cold. I roll over. Her face, usually a sunkissed gold, is pale and drained of colour. Her eyes bulge like the crazed woman, frozen in fear. A necklace of purple, hand-shaped bruises adorns her throat. A knock on the door rouses me from my shock. 

“My lord,” Calvus calls. “We must dress you now.”

“Send the rest away!”

“Of course, my lord.”

He opens the door, and closes it behind him carefully. His eyes fall on Kiva.

“Oh. It seems that Kiva has fallen ill, my lord.”

“Y–yes. Get Linus to remove her. Tell no one.”

“Of course, my lord.”

After I’m dressed, the clan is gathered, and we lead the ceremonial parade to the arena. The upper level is a burst of people, music, and colour—the favoured few who live here always revel in the festivities of a contention day. I try to match their excitement, but my mind feels cloudy, as if still in a dream. 

When we reach the arena, the clan take their seats and I descend to the bloodworks with Linus. While we wait for the rest of the audience to file in, he straightens my armour—gold plate emblazoned with sun motifs, that covers all but my torso and head. He hands me my greatsword, Dawnshatterrumoured to be the favoured weapon of the first Guardian.

“Good luck, my friend. Let history be on your side once again.” With a kneel, he walks away, and the gate opens. 

The arena roars with anticipation. The announcer’s voice is louder still over the deafening crowd.

“And now, Lord Maskah, the Nineteenth Guardian of Apaachiri, against an unknown combatant! No name, no clan—and his proposed legislation? A mystery! Now, watch as they bind their souls together in ancient, sacred ritual—the defeated will live on in the mind of the victor, with the souls of all the storied warriors who fell before him!”

Across the swirling sand, he stands—slender, masked, draped in loose garb, a long spear in his grip. We move to meet each other, beside the Crystal Order priest in his billowing red cloak. He hands me the customary gold chalice and dagger. 

My combatant extends his hand, and I cut his palm swiftly. He drops the blood into the chalice, which sizzles inside the syrupy gold liquid which binds us together. I give him my hand, and when he cuts, I feel a powerful jolt, as if fire is coursing through me. He watches me steadily. We drink.

“BEGIN!” 

He strikes. 

I raise Dawnshatter, catching the spear’s thrust. Sparks fly as steel screeches against steel. He pivots, his movements fluid like water. The spear lashes again.

“He’s relentless! Look at that form!” the announcer roars.

I grit my teeth, stepping back, swinging wide to force distance. But he weaves around me, unscathed. Each time I brace to strike, he’s already moved, his jabs forcing my defense left.

My right side aches, unguarded. Then it comes—a feint high, a twist low. 

The crowd gasps.

“Incredible! A perfect strike!”

My knees give out, my fingers slacking around Dawnshatter’s hilt. His lithe form looms over me, blotting out the sun. 

“Lord Maskah, Guardian of Apaachiri, defeated! Citizens, behold your new Guardian!”

He removes his mask. Then his cloak.

Long, black hair. Smirking, crimson lips. Pale eyes. She laughs, over and over. It sounds like music.

The crowd moans. Thousands of voices, wailing. The world sways, and all that I am wisps away. Into her.

Awomanawomanhowcanthisbeitcannotitwillnot–

                 I reach for his garish sword, laying limp at his side, and thrust it into the air.

                     The sky grows dark.