Eleventh Cycle (Mistland, #1)

by Kian N. Ardalan

I would not allow for my family, nor myself to drag me down.

Despite the promise that this story would not have a happy end, people still came wide-eyed and excited. Was it a morbid sense of curiosity? A fascination for the disparaged and the hopeless?

There it was, the glimmer of hope, denied from us the audience so that when offered, we took it hungrily and unquestioningly. “Perhaps there is a happy end,” we convinced ourselves. “Perhaps it does show that a good king brings progress.”

“I don’t know; I see the other side of things. Things in life don’t always play out well nor have a hopeful end.”

Suddenly, being under the oppressive thumb of my family seemed a far more urgent concern than my crippled state. It compelled me to become familiar with my new body, and I used that terror as fuel.

They lingered behind, trailing my shadow and waiting for me to rightfully falter. It would have been easier to accept their help, to simply let them feel better about themselves so that they would leave me alone. But a greater, prouder, part of myself refused any help that I didn’t need; I didn’t spend weeks and months trying to get used to my new body just to stroke someone’s ego.

“Here is the truth: you want to help me because all you see is a cripple, someone miserable and in need of your gracious help. But let’s be honest, you aren’t helping me, you are helping yourself. This is just another way for you to feel good about yourselves in the eye of Oxular.”

I smiled. “Hordes of them! I lead my own company, you know?” I indulged Don, whose eyes went wide with admiration and respect. In doing so, I found my own spirits rising at being able to relive my previous life. “Are you still a soldier?”

“Well, my mommy says that if there is something you really want and give it your best, then nothing is impossible.”

His gaze unnerved me; the boy I remembered as my younger and warm-hearted brother now had the look of a calculating predator about him.

Out of all the people present, Jeremiah was the youngest in the room. Yet for some reason, his direct involvement in the church held a powerful sway in the household that was capable of muzzling Father and Mother—naturally, I was pushed to the very end of the hierarchy. “Of course not, son. But the people will talk—” “Then let them. Their words mean little in the grand scheme of things. Oxular grants us his great eye so that we may be seen, what may be heard is of no consequence.”

“Thank you, Father.” The spoken title was hollow. The entire dynamic was surreal, Father’s pretence at control merely a farce as it was truly Jeremiah who held dominance. I wondered if my father was even aware.

“So what do you suggest?” Mother asked, truly looking to Jeremiah for guidance. “I suggest we take Nora with us to the church, show that she is part of this family, part of this community. Her presence is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a reminder that now we are whole, that Oxular has brought back my sister into the fold.” My smile was unbearably painful as I was backed into a corner; it felt like little thorny brambles sprung from my cheeks and pricked my lips into a contorted attempt at happiness. I knew what was being implied, and I held no power to work my way out of this. “I think that is a great idea,” I lied.

I never did understand that about them; these people’s constant need to put up a friendly front, talk with such high esteem amongst one another, only to turn and feast gluttonously upon the other’s failure. How did the others talk about me? About mother? Was it done with that same loathsome passion? Did they talk about me when I fled?

No longer could I stand at the counter, so instead, I sat on the floor with a tarp draped before me. Using my left foot to hold the ingredients steady, I learnt to unevenly chop before adding them to a stirring pot to create big chunks of simply boiled items. It dawned on me that I didn’t know how to cook before my injury, but the simple act of doing it gave me a mountain of confidence. There was a calmness to the household that was becoming dangerously placating. I didn’t fight with Mother and Father and instead learnt to become compromising and manipulative in my desires. This resulted in them offering to buy and reward me with new articles, jewellery, or whatever else that they believed I wanted. It would have been easy to lean into this life, a life without any more strife, where I could pretend our family wasn’t a rotting body. Perhaps in another age, this would have been my life. I would have been obedient, amenable, doing all that I could to appease Mother and Father. I would have married into a life not my own, but it would have been easy.

I saw myself in a new light; there was a fierceness, a cold, smouldering heat on the surface. I felt in control of it, in control of my body in a more defined and precise way than I ever had, and all it took was stripping me down to my lowest form so that I could learn to adapt.

For the first time in a very long time, I was surprised that I held out hope for a possible future as the year was coming to a close.

Absolution was held over our heads, dripping onto outstretched tongues as if it were honey.

Within this holy house, my spirit felt defiled, and I couldn’t have absconded quickly enough. Rigid and exposed, I kept pulling down the hem of my dress as if the audience could still see the source of my shame laid bare.

The door finally pulled itself open as I leaned back. I toppled onto the floor, my wooden crutch rattling. My gaze was wild and fixed—I refused to look up, too scared to look into the eyes of these monsters.

I sat there for a while. The lucid part of my mind that I had trained was still there, something that made me fully aware of the frayed part of my brain. My confidence, my frail sense of self that I had been building up was threatened and at risk of being undone; I couldn’t allow that to happen.

Cleria exists as a division of districts. Most of what can be seen by the common folk is grand and befits the golden city.

“It’s illogical, but why do people keep dying around me? Why do I have to live with the fact that, in spite of my powers, I can’t save a single person?”

“How do you hope to save anyone if you don’t even value your own life?”

I didn’t know when the dream ended, if it was just moments before I awoke or hours after. But when it did, I slipped back into that decrepit shell of mine and tugged at the corner of my mouth to present my hollow smile.

Well, perhaps the killer already has what they want.” “And what is that?” I pressed. Mother Lucia shrugged. “Who can say? But to have discovered such a power must have come from a place of deep longing. You don’t discover an affinity for blood magic unless pushed towards that path… perhaps someone lost something. They are celebrating that they regained it? Or maybe they are celebrating the deaths of the fallen. An offering, so to say.” Mother Lucia gave me much to consider. Something lost and recovered? Were these sacrifices a way to achieve that? Perhaps a lost power? Or position? I couldn’t say.

Unquestionable faith isn’t possible, child; you aren’t broken.” “How did you accept it?” Brother Clemence pondered. “I guess I didn’t, or at least not in the way you imagine me to have. I took the parts that worked and made them my own, found a way of belief that fits my own narrative so that I can show devotion in my own way.”

“Your suffering is beautiful, you know?” I turned to the man with deeply furrowed brows. “What do you mean?” I asked. He chuckled disarmingly. “I don’t mean anything by it. Suffering can be beautiful. It brings despair and melancholia, but there is a purity to it that bears unmarred authenticity. The kind that motivates you to help others. Your suffering urges you on, powers your need to help. There is a maudlin beauty to that.”

“Perhaps one day you will find the courage needed to visit your parents. And, perhaps then, you will find the missing piece that makes you feel whole once more.”

Be ware, be ware Don’t stop to stare Blink by blink, Your friends aren’t there. —Nursery rhyme about the forgotten.

This was a worst-case scenario. The volatility of the settlement would rise to lengths unlike before, and I feared the consequences. I needed to actively prevent such a scenario and, for that, I needed the truth and the whole truth.

With the lowest, deepest growl belonging to that of a wounded beast with nothing to lose, Chroma repeated himself. “I said leave.”

Before I left, the captain of the camp informed me that tensions were high within the settlement and that it was only getting worse. Chroma was the only hope of bringing about any form of lasting agreement between our people; ironically, his half-blood self would have made him the perfect bridge. But that was the danger of building a foundation upon just one akar; it made the entire relationship tenuous at best.

My entire childhood was decadence and sparkle. I wondered what it must have been like to have a simpler life, with a humble mother who would smile warmly at me as she tasted dinner, only to notice me staring. Or perhaps a father coming back late from work, exhausted but still excited to see me.

Instead, I got a father who lived among gods and a mother with a heart made of ice.

her figure plump and her complexion cheerfully golden, like a sunflower blooming in the wrong season.

I took a sip from the ale and instantly felt the frothing surface film to my lips like sea foam to a cliff. There was a note of nutmeg powder on top, along with a generous tang of honey within.

“Hear what?” My query was almost an order as I easily slipped back into the role of superior.

I suddenly felt very saddened by the news, thinking about the unstoppable and driven woman having gone through such a tragedy. “Where is she?”

“I don’t think you understand.” I tried to keep the rage out of my voice. “I am the guard.”

As one can surmise from my report, Erefiel Numyana stated that he and his men successfully pushed back the onslaught of invading akar. Though it is veritable that the akar have learnt the art of cohesion and stratagem, I do dare say that the threat is negligible. Due to the clever tactics of our own Clerian men, a creature moulded by Mage Gurick was set loose on the beast before his own untimely demise. —Signed—Plithy Julian Mannes the viscount.

The man stood strong despite my cold, seething gaze and domineering stature. Though I still noticed the slight tremble.

She practically howled and grabbed onto Frank as her knees buckled and she fell before him. “Please, I don’t care if she has to be taken to demons, or even to the bloody Elders themselves! As long as my baby comes back to me.”

Rumours can sometimes be harbingers of truth. It is well known that Cleria is not just that which is seen above ground. Some are thoroughly convinced that ancient tunnels and aqueducts run throughout the bowels of Cleria. These constructs hint at a lost culture. Though if any of this merits truth is still questionable. —A study on Cleria’s rise and what came before, by Herman Falls

libation.

“With respect, Mother Vinrie, given the pressing urgency of Nora’s state, I didn’t consider the rules to hold precedence over her life.”

“Look at her! I understand she has quite a reputation as a soldier, but what kind of life can she live even if she does return?”

“With all due respect, you know not of who you speak. Nora wouldn’t wish to give up, no matter the circumstances.”

A contradiction ailed me as I fought internally with my desire to be good. During my nights, I would be forced to face the truth that the only reason I wished to aid Nora was to feel worthy of something—that in itself was selfish. I battled with my own demons the same way Nora did. Silently, stoically, without anyone to hear our suffocated screams.

Among the inspired, there are those whose magic takes rare forms. One such example comes from those who have committed themselves fully towards acting. It is said that when such an Inspired performs, that they transform completely into their character. Some legends speculate that actors with more questionable motivations may be employed as assassins for their transformation can fool even the sharpest eye.