All-knowing and all-powerful—that is the Deity.
The Deity sits above the twin [Worlds], distant as a cold star no hand can touch, no matter how mighty or dazzling the ones below become.
Yet Its power threads both [Worlds] with ease, like a needle through silk—affecting, commanding, erasing—every thing and being that dwells within the [World].
It sounds like a paradox, but it is not: [It] can touch you; you cannot touch [It].
Such a Deity shows no seam, no crack to pry.
But a flawless face worn too long means that when a flaw does appear, the Deity itself may not notice—especially when [Its] whole gaze is seized by something new.
...
The ones with flaws are humans.
Because of those flaws—because they try to protect something, a life of another or their own—they live like candles in a gale, treading thin ice; some hide their names, some feign madness, some even stoop to be dogs.
Yet it’s that mangy, driven life, like a stray lashed by rain, that hones them sharper than others—sharper even than [It].
When [It], for the first time ever, fixed all attention on an ashen flower of Misfortune—
On the [X] layer of the [World]—the [World] humans inhabit—something shifted without a sound.
It was a tiny shift, with no clear thing or coordinate; perhaps a green leaf fell too soon, a patch of cloud tore like paper, a wave that should have folded back to sea leapt toward the sky—small changes light as dust, easy to miss.
He caught it in an instant, nerves like tight strings plucked by a ghost.
He shouldn’t have; no matter how strong a human is, he can’t watch the [World] at every breath, or the flood of moments would pound his skull like hail and drive him mad.
Even if he chose to endure that brain-scorching pain for years, what would it buy him, and for what cause?
For—
“For—” His Majesty rose to his full height; he smiled, the smile like a blade catching dawn. “For this very—”
Just before daybreak, the night was thick as ink.
Wind came from the far rim of heaven, sifted through a thousand filaments of cloud, crossed serried mountain spines, ran straight down the palace avenue past gate after gate, and reached the imperial hall.
His golden robe billowed like a battle banner; his untrimmed hair finally uncoiled and streamed back, wild as a river.
That straight-backed figure, in his minister’s eyes, was free as a hawk and fierce as a storm—and cold with killing intent like winter steel.
“Y-Your Majesty—” The man stepped back without thinking; the swagger drained from his face, leaving fear and doubt like frost.
Then he saw the Emperor wasn’t looking at him but far away, where dawn pressed at the dark; a red sun was rising, and every strand of red light slid out like a sword drawn inch by inch from its sheath, its ring cutting the night.
Gold, a thread of sword-glint, ran in that red.
It poured before the hall, bright as hammered bronze.
It fell into the Emperor’s eyes, keen as an edge.
Breath stalled. To the minister, His Majesty now was that very sword, a peerless blade scrubbed clean of rust and filth, finally freed of its scabbard.
“The [Celebration]. The true [Celebration]—”
The smile deepened on his face; the killing air swelled about him—anger and grief pressed down for who knows how many years chose this moment to erupt like a volcano.
“It begins.”
...
There shouldn’t have been sunlight.
The [Witchwood Forest] lies forever under clouds thick as leaden ink, untouched by the sun.
But when the red sun split the horizon, ten thousand rays surged and spilled across the layered sea of cloud; two brutal forces crashed and grappled, and at last a streak of red shot with gold tore the heavy black and fell upon the girl who hugged her knees, lips bitten, endurance frayed.
In that instant, darkness gnawed at her heart; blow upon blow in so short a span twisted her feelings out of shape, and sixteen years of foul sediment rose to burst free; ragged with wounds, she was about to say the one thing she, of all people, should never say—
“I—”
“Me—”
“This ‘[Hero King]’ business—I don’t—”
“I don’t even want—”
The light struck her then; a warmth both familiar and strange poured in, and once again—roughly—stitched her shattered heart shut.
Sunlight stroked her; without reason, Aerin felt her spirit jolt awake.
But the uplift came too sudden, too eerie, too crude; with her wound sewn by force, she felt a vast hollow open inside, like an empty hall after a feast.
“Something… is…”
She lifted her head from her knees, eyes dazed; Aerin pressed her palm to her heart.
“Gone.”
That hollow, though, made her forget the twist in her chest for a moment, and the courage to spit those words out slipped away like smoke.
Just then, a pair of shoes stepped into her sight.
They were black as pitch.
Before she looked up, a voice reached her—familiar, warm as coals.
“Aerin.”
