Apparently, the Kingdom of The Fade used to be a Creators-blessed place to live, where children’s giggles echoed through the Ditch. Where the wispy watercolor sky inspired an era of music and arts.
Then our current king was sworn in, caring only for his military might.
I’d like to have seen Gore back then, when the kingdom was in its prime. Would like to have experienced the reality that was colorful to the core—not just on the outside.
I think that’s the living Fallon was referring to. Not this.
This can’t be it.
I swallow the rage boiling up my throat, certain there’s enough anger inside me to incinerate this city in a single blow of breath. Even so, I force myself to continue forward, ignoring the feral urge to stalk to the city hutch, hire a carter, and fly west to Drelgad. To where King Cadok currently resides, overseeing his militia.
Only a fool would believe I could get close enough to kill him without a fierce amount of backup, the tri-beaded male constantly guarded by dual-beaded elementals and his vicious dragon. Making my anger useless—at least until the Elding decides to stop clipping leaves off this malignant tree and start hacking at its roots.
Itake a zigzag path up the Ditch’s lofty interior, scaling thirty-one stories, scanning my surroundings as I cross a crumbling skybridge and step onto the side of the wall that looks out upon The Shade. I skulk down a rough-hewn wind tunnel that reminds me of a choking throat, the ground etched in bands of runes that trigger all sorts of terrible responses for anyone other than myself or Essi.
The immediate urge to shit themselves. The sudden loss of vision—like they fell headfirst into The Shade’s inky sky. And my personal favorite, the unnerving belief that a Moltenmaw just stuffed its beak down this very tunnel and is trying to pluck them out like a bug in a hole.
I pause by what looks very much like a rubbish chute for the velvet trogg and unlace my bodice, revealing a fadestone-brown skinsuit that’s snug against my form and much easier to climb in. Bundling my veil, boots, bodice, and supply bag within the folds of my skirt, I post the package, watching it shoot diagonally down, then disappear from sight.
Most prefer to make their homes on the other side of the wall, where sunlight shafts through colorful windows and fills rooms with warmth. Where folk can line their sills with potted vegetables that thrive in its constant flow.
Not me.
I like the cold, and I can’t keep a plant alive to save myself. Though none of that holds a candle to the reason why I chose the brisk, quiet side with the dusky vista.
Wind toys with my hair as I stop at the end of the tunnel with my toes hanging over the edge, looking out upon the snow-covered plains that stretch toward the south. The clouds have almost entirely cleared, allowing me an uninhibited view of the bruised horizon pocked with moons cast amongst a bed of distant stars.
Closer are the vibrant balls of fallen Moltenmaws, as if someone took the colorful clouds of The Fade, shredded them, then packed them into compact orbs and tossed them skyward. You can see the outline of their massive, majestic wings bound around them like feathered fans. The lanky plumes of their tails that sometimes fail to tuck in before the dying dragon solidifies, looking like flicks of paint.
Much farther in the distance are rounds of pearl, iridescent, and gray spilling shards of Moonplume light. Radiant bruises smudged against the otherwise dark horizon.
There’s something poetic about looking up and seeing that which has passed. A soft launch into grief for those who linger below. If I could ball myself up like a Moonplume and nestle amongst the stars when I know my time has come, I would. Not that I think many would seek me out, but I’d die knowing I left something bright behind in this beautiful world sketched in so many shades of ugly.
I also like the idea of being able to fall from the sky and squash somebody if they piss me off. I’d aim myself at the Fade King and obliterate him in a heartbeat for doing such a shit job of keeping his kingdom together.
Petty, but justified.
I seek out the small silver moon of an adolescent Moonplume that’s drawn my eye since I first looked upon the tombstone-laden sky, pulling my lungs full of crisp air, a true, untarnished smile stretching across my face …
Many call that particular moon Hae’s Perch.
It’s certainly not the largest, nor is it the brightest, nor the most magnificent to look upon. But for whatever reason, I can’t imagine not being able to open my eyes each aurora rise, look out past the ever-vibrant clouds in this part of the world, and see that little wonky moon with the malformed wing.