The salt-laden wind twined through the narrow lanes of the Styx, carrying with it the stench of fish guts and the clamor of haggling voices. I clutched at Mother’s hand, the worn fabric of her skirt brushing against my knuckles as we moved through the marketplace horde. The docks of Findias were not kind to dreamers; their decay was a testament to the hard life they bore witness to, the splintered wood and rusted iron mirror to our own weathered spirits.
“Don’t wander, Aine,” Mother whispered, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of the waters lapping greedily at the piers and the shouts of merchants peddling their questionable wares. Through child’s eyes, I saw the Styx for what it truly was—a graveyard of ships too broken to sail, houses cobbled together from the flotsam of the sea, their inhabitants’ shadows that had learned to survive in the cracks of the world.
I remember spotting a doll, its porcelain face smeared with grime, one eye missing, lying forgotten amidst a pile of scavenged trinkets. It seemed to me a mascot for this place—beauty marred; innocence lost. My small heart ached for it, even as Mother tugged me forward, her gaze never lingering on anything for long, as though she feared the very act of wanting might snatch what little we already had.
We passed by the fishmonger, his stall a grim display of life’s cruel cycle—silver-scaled corpses arrayed for the taking, their unseeing eyes reflecting the pallid sun. Mother paused, bartering with the man whose hands were as rough as the language he spat out. His stall, like all things here, teetered on the brink of collapse, the wood eaten away by time and neglect.
“Watch yourself, girl,” he growled as I peered too closely at the catch, my curiosity drawing me into the orbit of his displeasure. I recoiled, but not quickly enough to avoid the slap of a wet tail against my cheek. The cold sting of it was a reminder—a reminder that even the dead could lash out in the Styx.
Beyond the market, the silhouette of the castle loomed—a distant promise of grandeur and warmth so starkly opposed to our reality. Its spires pierced the sky, the stone walls impenetrable and cold, holding secrets and lives far removed from the squalor that nipped at its heels.
“Keep close, Aine,” Mother’s voice was a gentle command, her eyes scanning the crowd for unseen dangers as we navigated through the maze of stalls. The castle’s shadow loomed at the periphery of my vision, its walls an unscalable barrier that divided us from the world of light and laughter—a world where Queen Mal’s edicts were law, and to be deemed ‘lesser’ was to be cast out, unworthy of the pure air that filled her sacred halls.
“Look, Mama!” I tugged at her sleeve, pointing to a stall draped with vibrant textiles. My fingers itched to touch the fabric, to feel the stories woven into each thread by hands roughened by toil and time.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she smiled, though the tightness around her eyes betrayed the weight of longing for a life beyond these crumbling streets. “But remember, love, beauty can be found even here, in the heart of the Styx. We are more than what she labels us.”
“Us, Mama?” I asked, my young mind grappling with the implications of being cast aside.
“Those of us outside her walls,” Mother explained, her gaze drifting toward the castle, “we are the unwanted, but we are also free—free to be who we are, without the burden of her crown shaping our fate.”
Her words were a balm, soothing the sting of exclusion. We turned away from the opulent tapestry of the wealthier districts, the rotting wood and peeling paint of our surroundings a stark reminder of the Queen’s decree. Yet in Mother’s presence, the Styx felt less like a prison and more like a secret garden, hidden away from prying eyes.
“Let’s treat ourselves today,” she said, her lips curving into a rare smile as she led me to a baker’s stand. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the briny tang of the docks, creating an aroma unique to this place of shadows and survival.
“Two sweet buns, please,” she requested, handing a few precious coins to the baker whose gnarled hands betrayed his gratitude for the simple transaction.
I bit into the pastry, the sweetness exploding on my tongue like a promise. For a moment, the darkness of the Styx receded, and all there was in the world was the warmth of the bun and my mother’s loving gaze, a beacon of hope in a sea of despair.
The laughter of the dockside market, a symphony of life amidst decay, shattered as terror descended with the beating of leathery wings. I clutched at my mother’s skirt, the sweet taste of the bun turning to ash in my mouth.
“Mother!” I cried out, but she had already pulled me close, her eyes scanning the chaos for an escape.
“Quiet, Aine,” she whispered, her voice a thread of silk against the cacophony of screams and the thunderous flap of wings. Dark shapes swooped through the air, the Slaugh—Queen Mal’s harbingers of death—casting their shadows over the throng of panic-stricken Fae.
“Find the child!” The command was guttural, ripped from the throat not used to human speech.
“Green eyes!” another screeched, its voice piercing the tumult. “The Queen seeks the green-eyed one!”
Around us, the world became a blur of motion. Stalls overturned; precious goods trampled underfoot as everyone sought to flee the sudden onslaught. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat screaming that those monstrous creatures sought someone like me—a child with green eyes.
“Keep your head down,” my mother muttered, tugging me along as we dashed between the fleeing bodies and the wreckage of scattered livelihoods. Her hand was a vise, gripping mine with a desperation that spoke louder than any words could. Above us, the dark sky filled with the silhouettes of our hunters, their bony claws outstretched, eager to snatch up their quarry.
“Over here!” The cry came from too close, the voice tinged with the promise of violence. One of the Slaugh had landed near us, its beak-like mouth agape, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting with malice.
“Run, Aine!” my mother hissed, shoving me behind a tattered canvas tent as she faced the beast, her body a barrier between me and the darkness.
I crouched low, the coarse fabric of the tent grazing my cheek as I peered through a tear in the canvas. The Slaugh loomed over her, its hollow eye sockets seeming to bore into her soul. She stood defiant, her silhouette etched against the backdrop of pandemonium, refusing to yield even as the creature reared before her, its wingtips stirring the dirt of the marketplace into a swirling dance of dust and fear.
“Where is the child?” it demanded, the sound scraping against the inside of my skull like claws on bone.
“Go back to your queen,” my mother spat, her courage a lone flame flickering in the face of the encroaching night. “You’ll find no one here.”
The world narrowed to that moment, the standoff between the light of my mother’s spirit and the darkened void of the Slaugh. My breath hitched, caught in the vice of impending doom, as the Styx held its breath around us.
I wrapped my arms around my knees, squeezing until the pressure anchored me against the tide of dread threatening to sweep me away. Through the tear in the fabric, I caught glimpses of the hellish ballet outside: flashes of silver, bursts of color that were too bright, too vivid to belong in the grey world of the Styx.
“Mother will come back,” I whispered to myself, though the words seemed to crumble even as they left my lips. I repeated the mantra, a talisman against the darkness that crept closer, inch by inexorable inch.
“Mother will come back.”
“Mother will—” My voice broke, the words tangled in a sob that fought its way up from the depths of my being. Each repetition was a plea, a prayer cast into the void.
“Mother will come back.”
The world outside the tent spun into chaos, a maelstrom of terror and violence that tore through the Styx like a ravenous beast. My heart hammered against my ribs as I peered through the rip in the canvas, praying for a glimpse of her—my mother, my anchor in this storm.
“Where is the child?” The voice was death, a hollow echo that clawed at my soul. I saw him then, one of the Slaugh, his bony form a grotesque shadow against the backdrop of destruction. My mother stood before him, a pillar of defiance amidst the ruin.
“Which child?” Her voice, usually so warm, now rang with a cold chime of courage. “There are many children here.”
“Green eyes,” the Slaugh hissed, the very sound a threat. “A girl.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling the gasp that threatened to betray me. Those eyes, my eyes, were a curse now—a mark that painted me as prey.
“I know no such child.” Mother’s lie was valiant, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear, a tiny flame almost smothered by resolve.
“Then you are of no use to us.” The words cut through the din, followed by a flash of silver too quick, too final. A choked scream escaped my lips as I watched her crumple into nothing but shadows, her strength seeping away into the dirt of the Styx.
“Mother!” I screamed, anguish giving way to instinct. I burst from the tent, my legs carrying me faster than thought, desperation fueling each stride. The market was a labyrinth of horror, but I knew its turns and alleys as well as I knew the beating of my own heart.
“Stop her!” The cry went up, a hunt master’s call, and I felt the pursuit as a physical thing—a presence hot on my heels.
I darted past stalls and overturned carts, my breaths coming in ragged sobs. I could not, would not look back, for to do so was to see the shadows reaching for me, to acknowledge the end.
Then pain—a white-hot lance that tore across my cheek, shredding the tapestry of my face from temple to jaw. I stumbled, my vision blurring with tears and blood. It was them, the Slaugh, one of their razor-sharp claws raking across my flesh as a reminder that none could escape their grasp.
“Little Fae,” the creature crooned, and I could feel its fetid breath upon my neck. “Thought you could run?”
“Let... me... go...” I gasped, defiantly a feeble flame flickering in my throat.
“Such spirit,” it mocked, the sound grating like stones. “But useless.”
With strength born of terror and fury, I twisted free, my attacker’s grip slipping on my blood. I ran, each step an agony, each heartbeat a prayer. Behind me, the darkness surged, hungry and relentless, but I pushed forward into the unknown.
“Survive,” I whispered through gritted teeth. “Survive.”
The world blurred into a smear of grays and browns as I careened through the narrow alleys of the Styx, the Slaugh’s venomous hiss trailing me like the whisper of death. My cheek burned with the fury of the stars, each pulse a reminder of the blood that now painted my path in crimson.
“Escape is futile, little one!” The mocking call reverberated off the ramshackle buildings, warping into a grotesque chorus with the creaking signs and shuttered windows bearing silent witness to my flight.
I could feel the raw power of Findias pulsating beneath my feet, an ancient magic that thrummed in time with my racing heart. The cobblestones were slick with refuse, but I couldn’t afford a slip, not when every shadow might conceal a predator’s form.
“Mother,” I choked out, a single word laden with sorrow and unspoken promises. The pain of her loss was a jagged shard lodged within me, but it also honed my will to survive to a razor’s edge.
A sharp turn took me down an alley too narrow for wings to follow, and for a fleeting moment, hope fluttered within my chest. But then, a shadow detached itself from the wall ahead, and I skidded to a halt, breath catching in my throat tight with fear. Another Slaugh loomed before me, its skull-like visage a portrait of malice.
“Cornered at last,” it rasped, spreading its tattered wings like the dark embrace of doom.
“Never,” I spat, gathering the remnants of my strength. Summoning a surge of my power I’d always kept leashed, I pushed it outward in a desperate wave, a silent scream of defiance.
The creature recoiled, wings flaring as it screeched in agony, the stolen powers it wielded momentarily turned against it. I didn’t wait to see if it would recover, bolting past it with renewed urgency.
“Survive” became my mantra, whispered through bloodied lips as I dodged and weaved through the labyrinthine streets of my forsaken home.
Ahead, the boundary where the Styx’s desolation met the forbidden allure of the forest loomed, offering sanctuary or perhaps new dangers. As I neared the threshold, a sudden clarity seized me. This was no mere escape; it was an exodus, a crossing into a future fraught with shadows and uncertainty.
“Survive,” I promised into the enveloping night. “I will survive.”
And then, the ground gave way beneath me.
