The black cliffs of Thenion cut out of the night mist like mountains from another realm. Everything around here was black. Black was the sea, calm and serene like the surface of oil, black was the sky and the clouds, and black was her heart when she was coming for revenge. Darkness was so opaque, you could taste it on your lips. Like a kiss from the wrong person or a leery fume of a liquid containing covert poisons. The night had always been different here; it was thicker, more secretive. Shadows lingered. Every corner you looked at could shelter unseen eyes or lurking daggers ready to be plunged into spine.

It has been ages since Ráehel was last on a ship. And ages more since she last saw the second largest city on Thenion, the Great Thenian City of Urū. She never thought she would return as a traitor, a backstabber of kings. Then again, she vowed never to return regardless. Someone inhabited the high societies of the Thenian Court, someone she wanted nothing to do with, unless she had a very good reason.

It was risky to return to Thenion. Many things could go awry. Ráehel was not sure what she would prefer less: for the Bladebrethren sentinels to uncover her identity, or Her. The first would frost-cuff her, then send her straight back to the Sand Kingdoms in a block of ice. Or, worse yet, flung her into the infamous dungeons of Urū, the Moon Pits, where multitudes have lost their wits in the crushing dark. Ráehel wasn’t keen on experiencing the hospitality of Thenian prison-vaults any time soon. But She, well, She had a flair of stirring up emotions she didn’t want to feel, not ever again. It was an onerous choice between the two. But with a bit of luck, none will heed her presence in the City. 

She will be in and out, like a thrust of spear. Quick, precise, then back on her run.

The Moon glimpsed from behind the murky screen of clouds and its silver rays flickered on her face for an instant. Ráehel instinctively pulled the rugged black scarf higher on her face and scanned the crew for unwanted attention. Nobody was looking at her. Thenian ship-master was busy with his lively appreciation of the moonshine and other hired hands were upon the sails, catching as much of the dull wind as possible. She was alone, high above them, atop the mast, standing on the main sail. She stood there without moving, just gazing at the blackness in front. She had stood there all night or possibly longer. The Moon Goddess of Thenion yet again renounced the gift of midnight light. Ráehel relaxed. When the clouds were as thick as thieves, the night in the region seemed to last for weeks, and currently, what mattered most was anonymity. If she remained nameless, she would survive. The lowly sailors couldn’t possibly cause her any significant nuisance whilst she had her blade a-ready. But you never knew who might be watching. 

She fixed her eyes on the upcoming port. This port laid within a huge black hole, which gaped at them from the colossal walls surrounding the domain. Thenion was established in the sub-terra of a volcanic form; the light of luminescent crystals of the in-cave already shone through the mist. Their shaded rainbow hue offered unequivocal contrast with the vivid black of their surroundings.

When they slithered through the rocky arches of the port, it was akin to sailing into a dream. Colors danced and shadows vanished and a distinctive buzz dominated the air – the grand cosmopolitan echo of nations interconnected, all co-existing in one vast, gargantuan cave. Ships were copious: they ranged from petty local fishing canoes to cruising vessels from the high seas. Their bulky hulls and sails were more numerous than Ráehel’s boat had oars.

“Dooooock!” shouted the first officer, when they reached their appointed pier. “Ropes!”

Ráehel jumped from the mast. She felt the fabric of the sail give way under her as she slid down, landing gracefully on the bridge. She threw a swivel of rope to one of the Thenian dock-workers who was waiting on the pier to secure their ship.

The City of Urū was just as much of a chaotic, energetic melting pot of cultures as she remembered it to be. It seemed boisterous in every aspect, now even more so that she was in the middle of it. She took a second and analyzed the layout. Unlike many other Thenian cities, Urū had a precisely defined structure – the grounds of the cave comprised of levels. She made way to the central square, the Agora of Urū. Everything appeared to lead here, since it was positioned at what seemed to be the very centre of the cityscape. The Agora was an open space, dense with multifarious stalls and market houses. She did not lose time in the frenzy of the coin that ruled this place. Her eyes gazed toward the edges of the square, where the entrepreneurial part of the City towered one level above it. That’s where the Guilds were stationed. The Consortium of the Cloth (temples and buildings of religion) – although less politically influential than their commerce-driven counterparts – was positioned one level above the Guilds. The city was mostly cloaked in crispy orange where the Guilds were, while the Temples bathed in blue and hues of florid purple. Below the Agora, in the lower levels, there were the districts of pleasure called the Love Quarters, where the luminescence of the crystals turned reddish-pink as if to mask up the decadence that saturated those parts. As a contrast, the higher you went into the City, the brighter and more luxurious were the colors the crystals emitted. In the upper levels macabre red and deep purple flooded the scenery. The royal court, which was at the very pinnacle of this storied city, was illuminated crimson red. It was named the Moon Palace.

Everything seemed fine-calibrated and in order at the first glance. But Ráehel knew that if one glimpsed behind the curtain and caught the intricacies of dogmatic tensions between the players of power, one could change their minds apace. Between the appetite for coin of the Guilds, pious authority of the Cloth and the dominating clout of the Great Mother – the Matriarch of Urū, the margin for political maneuvering was close to naught. One might grasp that despite no open war nor bloody conflict ever shook the cavernous cities of Thenion, they still had their own problems.

The matriarchal bedrock of the black island of Thenion was being threatened by numerous forces. A few greedy males wanted to take up the reigns again – they wished to relinquish the century-old constitution of Thenion as such that “only those who give life can decide on life”. They aimed to build a different order and aspirants of patriarchism were beginning to sprout in distant provinces. But they were not the lonesome competitor in the game for merit. The Guilds were also manipulating for greater jurisdictions. In Urū, their leverage was standing atop the opulent soul stone veins that are under their exclusive management. The mines of Urū boasted with the most mana-rich stones in Calad and the Guilds grew filthy rich on them while the city grew in size due to this. The Cults of the Seven Patron Gods, the people of the Cloth, were gaining influence across the island as well, threatening to debase the delicate balance. Yet they still seemed to work hand-in-hand more often than not; the Guilds had always celebrated their all-mighty patrons, while the Temples welcomed the gifts and patronage of the Guilds. At the juxtaposition of the Guilds and the Temples was the Mother – juggling between their influences like a serpent flutist.

Ráehel drew her hood even lower on the eyes. In a city such as this, where touristry flourished and everything was for sale, her identity was at most risk. Risks were guaranteed, but there was no more time. She must start looking. Now.

She glimpsed up toward a Temple of Honor, celebrating Anras, the god of war and pride, corresponding to the Helian god Hairon. Ráehel had always found their gods intriguing. Though they were an extreme image of indulgence, they were in fact generous. Thus, they had the people on their side, which were merry-making in their name. In front of the Temple stood a large statue: Anras prideful in his expression, yet humbly kneeling in front of his goddess Luna, silently protecting her honor. Cold blue light was drawing eerie symbols on the temple’s grandiose design. Although Temples in general piously followed the ideal their gods embody, this temple was ironically the first place in Urū where you could get a knife in your back. She would have to be careful if she started searching there. But it is hard to be careful when you’re alone, yet need to find something that only a few know where to find. She decided to return to it later if her search elsewhere proves to be unfruitful.

She next thought that Free Market surrounding the Agora was not a bad place to start her pursuit. You could find anything there; from gems you inserted into your armor to make it impervious to toxicity of local luminescent subterranean beasts, to state-of-the-art mana-infused ore for blacksmithing a superior enchanted weapon. You had bands of Thenian mercenaries at your disposal, should your purse be deep enough. Forbidden poisons, assassins-for-hire, dealings in rare occult herbs and bones from abominations of all types and variety were all easily accessible in this black market. But Ráehel was not interested in exotic weapons or hired swords. She was looking for a fiend to kill. Now, where would a monster hide in a City such as this? Where would it be able to cause the most harm? It needed to be someplace else, where people were more exposed to danger.

The truth of the world is always dual. You could find most pain where there was most pleasure, and vice-versa. Thus, she thought that the pink district revealed itself to be the optimal first route to find the fiend. Shrouded in illusory pink light, the Love Quarters were, in her mind, a nefarious place indeed. It was a scandal-driven, shocking place, full of hedonistic freedom unknown to her. Participants could find their every need sated, no matter how dark, rare or twisted, should they manage enough coin. She watched as races from all parts of the world – rin, humans, hybrids, demi-humans like satyrs, kitsune, and many more than she could name – were flooding into the Quarters to meet with the wine, their friends, potential lovemates, and the legendary concubines. The Treasury of Urū was growing fat on the backs of their spent coin, no doubt.

The hidden back-alleys in the Love Quarters that few had access to, that’s where the pinnacle of wretchedness took place. In those private, secluded crevices, you found the kind of gluttony, lust, and greed that even the gods averted their eyes from. That is where the monster would go. Those things attracted the fiend like an Oni to man-flesh.

Ráehel turned towards the rosy emanating lights. She felt how the ground was dropping fast and the crowd grew denser. Sounds became more jubilant, the dresses looser and the people seemed intoxicated with life and expectation. Colors splashed in bright tones and were additionally enforced with the pink hue of the crystals, which seemingly also caused everyone to laugh more, drink more, and act even more foolishly than they would without. She never saw so much skin and people so fond of each other; where you came from hardly mattered here, everyone felt a kinship for merely existing. She thought to herself she ought to be careful. The Quarters were infamous for their ability to take over your mind. She looked up. Pale blue light from the distant Temple of Honour glared disapprovingly from above them. However, the Temples of Gluttony and Lust were smiling ear-to-ear. Here was the perfect place for covert state-craftmanship. She knew that the bulk of information streaming into the Palace originated from this very place. The streets were littered with spies. Most secret whispers were exchanged here, most contacts met. That was also precisely the reason why there was danger here too.

Ráehel hid her sword in the wrinkles of her long, worn-out cloak. She shoved her vibrant blue hair under the shelter of her hood and pulled the scarf as far up on her face as she dared before she drew suspicion. She counted on one thing to keep her safe. Most were busy with superfluous pleasures of the flesh and most thought only of today. That worked very well for Ráehel. She watched around, hiding her gleaming golden eyes – a characteristic of her famed bloodline, known to all from the sun-lit fields of Helion to snow-covered peaks of the Soga – in the shadow of her hood. Half of the world was after her. Looking for her. At least here, she thought, no one spent a second looking into anyone’s eyes but those of their love interest, drinking companion, or brawling opponent. She was safe. For a time.

Where to begin? She risked a longer glance and looked up, scanned the crowd, which was in the thick of celebration. The festival of the Moon – which happens every year on the longest night in the winter – was at an end leaving the city in decadent ruin. She wished she would have arrived earlier. The height of the festival would have offered the privacy of chaos, much needed for her to hide in. But she will manage with what fate granted.

She noticed the array of Bladebrethern first. Signature Matriarch’s insignias were resting on their sashes, while each was carrying a pair of blades on their side – one shorter for parrying and one longer, for killing. They seemed inebriated and muffled with enthusiastic paramours, who giggled at their single utterance. They were not on duty, which made her sigh with relief. Their lines consisted of some of the Thenion’s finest fighters, former duelling champions and noteworthy mercenaries, each sworn to serve as an extension of their Matriarch’s might. Ráehel had no wish to cross blades with any of them, so she quickly drifted with the masses that poured deeper into the district. There was no need to poke at sleeping lions – she had her own lion to catch.

Ráehel passed some lower-status guildsmen pouring mana-infused liquids down their throats and throwing coins at a group of mock-wrestling, scarcely garbed individuals on the stage. The guildsmen’s rank seemed too insufficient to have had any reliable intelligence on the underground network of the Quarters. They weren’t a target suited for her needs. She needed…

Ráehel stopped dead in her tracks. She had caught the eyes of someone in the crowd. Someone was inspecting her intently. She bit her lip and cursed her naivety. She felt as though electricity ran through her spine and into the back of her head. The eyes that were watching her were as black as a demon’s. They have locked with hers designedly. Ráehel learned long ago how the look of someone that recognizes you feels. 

And that was undoubtedly such a look.

To be continued….