Where are you, Enva?
Iris shuddered as she entered the building, but she felt the weight of that phrase as she ducked beneath the lintel. Someone must have painted it hours ago during the night, because it hadn’t been there yesterday. She wondered who they were, and if they truly wanted to put Enva back into a grave, dead or sleeping. Were they someone who had lost a loved one in the war? Someone who was weary of fighting for the gods?
Iris couldn’t blame them; she was conflicted daily when she thought about what had happened to her brother, all because Dacre had woken and Enva had strummed the truth of the war. It made her angry, sad, proud. Devastated.
Despite it all, she also wondered where the Skyward goddess was. Why was Enva hiding? Was she truly intimidated by the mortals who were eager to see her gone?
Where are you, Enva?
While Iris was disquieted by the blood-red taunt, she still expected the Tribune to be humming like a hive. She expected to see the editors typing and the phone ringing and assistants hustling around desks with messages. She expected to see Attie, already three cups deep in tea, typing out her next article.
Iris was greeted by a solemn, still office.
No one was moving, as if they had been charmed into statues. Smoke was the only thing that cut through the shadows, rising from cigarettes and ashtrays. Iris stepped into the quiet, her breath skipping in alarm. She could see Helena standing in the center of the room, reading a newspaper. Attie was beside her, hand covering her mouth.
“What is it?” Iris asked. “Has something happened?”
She felt countless eyes turn to her, gleaming in the lamplight. Some with pity, compassion. Others with wariness. But she kept her gaze on Helena, who lowered the paper to meet her stare.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Helena said.
Sorry for what? Iris wanted to ask, but the words stuck in her throat when Helena extended the newspaper to her.
Iris set down her typewriter. She reached for the paper. Helena had been reading something on the front page.
It was the Oath Gazette. Iris’s old place of employment. How strange to hold this paper now, in the basement of the Inkridden Tribune. It almost felt like Iris was dreaming again until she finally saw what Helena had been transfixed by.
A headline raced across the page in bold, black ink. A headline that Iris never expected to see.
DACRE SAVES HUNDREDS OF WOUNDED IN AVALON BLUFF by ROMAN C. KITT
Iris stared at his name, printed on the paper. His name, which she had never thought to see bound to a headline again.
Kitt is alive.
The relief ebbed, leaving her cold and shaky as she began to read Roman’s words. Iris could feel her skin prickling, her face heating. She had to read the same string of sentences multiple times, trying to make sense of them.
There are two sides to every story. You may be familiar with one, told through the lens of a goddess who has drawn many of your innocent children into a bloody war. But perhaps you would like to hear the other? One that would see your children not wounded but healed. One that would see this land mended. A story not just confined to a museum or a history tome that many of us will never touch, but a story that is in the process of being written. Written now as you hold this paper, reading my words.
For I am here at the front, safe among Dacre’s forces. And I can tell you what you long to know from the other side.
“No,” Iris whispered. She could feel bile rising, burning through her chest like fire.
“I’m sorry, Iris,” Helena said again, the light vanishing from her eyes. “Roman has turned on us.”
{4}
Spider Silk and Ice
Roman stared at the typewriter and its blank page. He was sitting at a desk before a window that overlooked a golden field, and the afternoon was waning. Soon it would be night; the stars would pierce the sky like nails, and he would light the candles and write by fire because the words came easier in the darkness.
This was always the hardest part for him. Beginning the articles. It hurt to write, and it hurt not to write.
The frustration felt familiar. Roman must have spent hours of his past staring at a blank page, deciding what words to strike across it. But despite the days that had passed since he woke, he still couldn’t remember those old moments in detail. He flexed his hand when he thought about what Dacre had told him.
Only trust what you can see.
The god didn’t have to worry about Roman’s memories. It was hard for Roman to remember what had happened before he had stirred below, like mountains had grown through the mist of his mind, blocking off years of his life.
“It’ll take time,” Dacre had said, “but you’ll remember what’s important. And you’ll find your place here.”