The night ended for Yvaine as it always did, in nightmares and a sweat soaked nightgown.

  Always the same, each night an echo of the fateful day when those midnight monsters tore my life to pieces.

  Born to farmers from Garn, Yvaine was never expected to have magic in her blood. Common knowledge dictated that the curse of the Vol was inherited exclusively from Yvan bloodlines, but she proved otherwise.

  It all started with a game of hide-and-seek that took too long to end. In that mischievous spirit, as children are prone to embody, she escaped to the loft of the family barn and watched as their playful search of the game turned to panic, and she was too young to tell the difference. Hours passed and, fearing the worst, her parents ran to town to get help. They returned later that night, torches in hand, with a party of volunteers.

  How she had reveled in her victory, so cunning was she to escape the eye of not one, but two adults, but their torches broke shattered the game and their worried cries scared her. She left the barn. She waved at her parents, jumping up and down, but they did not respond. She screamed, but made no sound. Gripped by an encroaching dread, the great nothingness of being forgotten, she could think of nothing else but to run.

  As she skittered across the field, skipping over rows of sod and threshed hay, her foot caught a spare stone and she fell. As she hit the dirt she felt as though she had shed a layer of clothing, like a heavy belt around her waist had been relinquished, and she heard her parents gasp. Next she knew she beheld her father, his face soaked with tears, and they watched as the volunteers fled.

  She had been invisible the entire time.

  The very next day came the Volhaust. A pair of midnight shadows, like the darkness of the forest slithering out into the world of man, haunted through their crimson grain and knocked at their door.

  Her father answered as a gust of autumn air blew open the latch.

  “Hello…” He said, braced in the faces of the violet ghosts.

  “Yvaine.” One addressed, the taller of the two.

  “She will come with us.” Said the other, the shorter of the pair.

  Her father offered them a forced smile. “What? Eve? Ah, she’s just a girl. You must have her confused with someone else. I can point you in the right direction if you would-”

  “Give us the girl.” Said the short. “She will come to no harm.”

  “This is the law of Vol.” Said the tall. “She’s too dangerous to be left alone.”

  Her father fell quiet, bracing an arm against the door frame with a slight tremble.

  “Eve will not be going with you.” He said. “Her place is here. I don’t know what happened yesterday, an accident, a curse maybe, but she is not one of you. She is not Vol! There must be a test, a way to prove that she is just a normal girl.”

  The shadows shared a visage-less exchange, silent deliberations pounding pulseless.

  “The blood of the nine will answer Yva’s song.” Said the tall.

  “A paleblood shall hear no melody.” Said the short. “Bring her to us.”

  He called out for her, his voice shrill with fear and doubt. She heard him from her bed and, squeezing her pillow tight, worked up the courage to answer his call. She rose from her bed like an obedient corpse and shuffled through their home. Her mother was seated at the dining table with wet trails under her eyes. Her father swept her up with one swift motion and knelt with her before the terrifying visitors.

  “Sweet Eve.” He said softly. “These two are going to ask you a few questions. Be a good girl and do as they say.”

  Yvaine nodded, shaking in the warmth of his arms.

  “Child.” Said the short. “Daughter.”

  They reached out, caressing her face.

  “Stand still.” Said the tall. “Breathe deep.”

  Their fingers encircled her throat.

  “Listen to the song of thy blood.” Said the short. “Witness the sins of our forefathers.”

  “Close your eyes.” Said the tall. “Let her in.”

  “Breathe.” They said together.

  To the roar of a snowstorm, a mist escaped the maws beneath their shrouded veils. It trailed towards her, flooding her own gasping mouth. She took a deep breath, felt a familiar heaviness take hold of her, before everything went dark.

  She awoke a short time later inside their kitchen, far from the doorway, to her mother's sobbing. She looked down at her limbs and saw nothing, proof of her condition.

  “You cannot take her!” Her father screamed, tearing loose a logging ax from above the fireplace. “I’m warning you, take one more step and I will cut you down like the fiends you are!”

  “We will not leave without her.”

  “This is your final warning.”

  “The girl's fate is not your own.”

  “Let her go.”

  In a fit of grievous motion, her mother sprang onto the kitchen counter, snatched a meat cleaver from the chopping block, and launched it at the Volhaust in the doorway. The cleaver flew, end over end, and bounced off of a faint, blue barrier which flickered before the sorcerers, careening off onto the grass outside with a metallic song. Her father cried out, rushing forward with his ax held high.

  The short Volhaust bent at its knees, coiling its fingers into talons, and thrust their body up with a jump. Out from the earth sprouted a body of ice, snaking upwards with the force of a horse’s kick, stopping her father with a violent crunch. In the blink of an eye, the ice had appeared and was already piercing through her father’s jaw and running through his skull.

  The tall Volhaust, with but a flick of their wrist, tossed her father’s ax back into the kitchen, embedding itself between her mother’s breasts, killing her instantly and pinning her body against the back wall. And before the blood of her parents could touch the earth, Yvaine heard the very founding calls of hatred.

  Blood.

  Still invisible, she snuck into the kitchen another knife from the block.

  Loss.

  She held the crude tool with both hands, ready to strike.

  Vengeance.

  The tall Volhaust peered into the house. Slowly and carefully, it stooped forward and past the corner of the hall, exposing the fabric of its neck. Yvaine crawled over, looking up at the looming shadow.

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  Death.

  In crimson flash, Yvaine cut through its throat. Grasping at its neck, the Volhaust snapped their finger, firing off a shockwave inside the kitchen that sent Yvaine flying into the wall.

  Darkness.

  She awoke to find the tall Volhaust dead on the floor. The shorter one had vanished without a trace. She saw her mother, lifeless, hanging upon the wall with the ax still embedded in her chest. She limped her way outside, where her father’s corpse was posted upright by the massive icicle still buried in his skull. Her ears were ringing. She limped across the property and towards the country road where she once again collapsed.

  A young man woke her. He asked her what happened. Yvaine pointed back towards the distant farm house.

  “You're covered in blood.” He said. “Is it yours?”

  “No.”

  He eyed the farm house gravely. “Take this and stay here.” He gave her a blanket and sat her on top of his carriage. “I’ll be right back.” He said as he ran off towards the homestead. He was not gone long. He returned holding a bundle of dark fabric, tossing it on to a heap next to her. “You’ll want to keep that.” He said. “It’s worth something, and you’ll need it where you’re going.” He studied her for a moment, seeing the rough waters raging behind the thin veneer of anguish. “Have you got any other family? Anyone else you could stay with?”She shook her head. “Alright then. Come along.”

  They traveled together in complete silence for several hallowed days and several mournful nights. It wasn’t until they had left the crimson plains behind them that Yvaine thought to ask where they were headed.

  “Sindhome.” Said the merchant. “There they have a place called Blackforne, and they’ve got an orphanage; they'll take good care of you. I promise.”

  And that was good enough for her.

  Haunted by the image of her dead parents, corpses bloody, stiff and mangled; torn to shreds- murdered by Vol.

  She hated herself.

  She hated the blood that flowed through her veins. She hated how defenseless she had been. But most of all, she hated the Volhaust.

  One of them had died, a partial justice. But the other…

  She had spent many a cold and lonely night warmed only by the hatred that she harbored within. Her mind was sharpened and honed by the promise that one day she would find the other Volhaust, the short one who had escaped, and that she would kill them, too.

  One day soon.

  *********************************************************************************************

  There was knocking at her door. Yvaine, only just awoken, was slow to answer.

  “You’ve a visitor,” someone called out. She recognized the voice, it belonged to one of their Golden Hands.

  The Blackforne Enterprise was a massive venture. To monitor the flow of coin and goods it employed specialized clerks, Golden Hands. Exclusively women, they tracked everything from payroll and lodging to schedules and communications. To Yvaine, they were just as magic as any Vol.

  “It’s the middle of the night.” She answered. “Tell ‘em to come back at a decent hour.”

  “Sangria. Doesn’t seem like a request.” Yvaine could hear their footsteps trail off as they walked away.

  “Shit.” She stripped herself of her nightgown and adorned her, now infamous, Volhaust robe. She had kept the prize for herself and wore it every day. She had since tailored it heavily, retaining its magical properties while trimming off the length of the hem and its less conspicuous elements. It was a reminder of what had happened and a warning to; cross Yvaine and find yourself drowning in a pool of your own blood. Still, she grimaced at the coming meeting.

  Sangrian business is never good.

  She strapped her gear to her belt: knives, darts, vials and bombs. It was a toolkit made to suit her a specific set of skills. Life growing up within Blackforne had taught her the honest truths of a liar’s trade. Assassination, thievery, larceny alike. Blackmail, forgery, and impersonation, each a tool for a different job.

  She thought of the merchant that had rescued her, how they arrived together and walked up to the Golden Hand at the front desk in the lobby. He gave a quick description of the event and received a single uncaring nod from the secretary. He gave her a parting smile and departed, never to be seen again. She didn’t even know his name.

  Many of the orphans were Vol like her. Though their circumstances differed in that they were voluntarily abandoned by their parents. For most families, a Vol was simply a child that hadn’t died yet. And so it was that all of them were thorns like her, or dead.

  Truths of the trade.

  She was the 1st thorn now. An administrator for the company external, managing travel arrangements for their patrons, and internal, making sure hands were reaching for the right pockets and daggers pressed against the right hearts. Yvaine finished dressing and left her quarters.

  Blackforne was built with polished stone and wooden doors. The stone had a green tint such that torches produced a soft, pale-green light. In the hallway a faint, rhythmic thrumming could be heard. The ever-turning gears, pipes and steam engines within the belly of the hold were a constant reminder of Blackforne’s real trades. Such activities required materials, poisons and explosives, which were produced deep below.

  Yvaine’s sandals and wraps made a soft shuffling along the stone, a rustling that would have been silent had she cared to make it. She did not. Blackforne was her home.

  She came to the main lobby atop a split staircase. As the staircase rose it separated off in two parts, one leading to where she currently stood, the residential wing, and the other to where the warehouse and offices were stationed, the vaults. Underneath that staircase, standing opposite the front doors of the lobby, was a massive metal door. Behind that door was her destination, the Crimson Scale.

  An enchanted chamber, inscriptions upon the door prevented any would-be scryers or spies from listening to the meetings held within. It was here where high-profile contracts were discussed, a place of privacy where the most sacred of all alchemical rites could be performed: the exchange of blood for gold.

  Yvaine, pulling back one of the doors, knew who was waiting inside.

  Maria del Sangria sat on one of their luxurious sofa seats, her two clockwork prosthetic legs unequipped and propped up against the wall beside her. Her legs were missing from the knee down, yet she reclined and had them crossed all the same. Two elite Sangrian guards were posted beside her, stiff and vigilant. Her aura was one of pure authority, a relaxed confidence that in itself was a show of force, assuring that the guards were, if anything, purely for show. Pulling a steaming hot cup of tea away from her lips, Maria met Yvaine’s gaze as she entered the office.

  “Is the 1st thorn not up and about? I would have thought that such hours were prime for your profession.”

  She ignored her. “What business brings ya to me? I do not enjoy bein’ deprived of what little rest I manage to find.”

  Maria’s lips curled in a slight smile. “Whatever do you mean? Am I, as acting head of one of Sindhome’s esteemed Grand Companies, not entitled to give patronage where I see fit?”

  Yvaine wandered her way over to the open couch and threw herself onto it, landing with her hands crossed behind her head.

  “So this isn’t official business?” she asked.

  “Not quite.” Maria said.

  “Speak plainly, ‘ O’ Clockwork Queen.’” Yvaine addressed with feigned reverence. “Yer riddles are redundant within these walls.”

  “Very well. I would like to speak to you about our most recent guest. The godi.”

  Yvaine perked her head up. “Ivar?”

  Maria set her tea down upon a small table with a quiet clatter. “Yes, your little friend. I’m concerned he won't leave the matter of Afisk’s disappearance alone.”

  “Of course he won’t.” She said. “He told us so himself. What does it matter to me?”

  “He will prove disruptive. My family has certain… arrangements with the church. Arrangements that rely on existing operations, theirs and ours, to continue unharassed. The souring of public perception of either the church or the Sangria family would prove financially damaging. ”

  “Significant enough to be reachin’ out to Blackforne.” Yvaine mused. “Killing a Voljar is one thing, but a godi? That’s a tall ask even ignoring the political implications. And I wouldn’t, anyways, he’s a friend-”

  “I’m not asking you to kill the man,” Maria interrupted. “At least, not yet.”

  Yvaine sat up. “Then what do ya want from me?”

  “Change.” Maria said, to no one in particular. She paused, gazing at the collection of books along the shelves. “Change is on the horizon. Soon the Grand Companies will see an exchange of powers, a passing of the torch. One of its members will be unseated, replaced by a new, ambitious enterprise.”

  “The Workman’s Union is done for, then?” Yvaine asked with knowing regret.

  “Indeed.” Maria confirmed, “To be replaced by Lokisella. Long have they been bleeding the business of other Grand companies, and their long-standing relationship with the Hymnal Church has finally pushed them past the threshold to usurp the seat of the Union. In fact, Lokisella and the Church have partnered to hold a festival in honor of their succession. I want you to play security for the event. You will receive an invitation, soon, for a private party held on Lokisella grounds. You will attend and keep any would-be interlopers out of the way.”

  “Seems plain enough. What’s in it for me?”

  “Why, you will be keeping your friend out of trouble and ensuring the city is safe!” Maria chirped sarcastically. “You will be compensated for your efforts, I assure you.”

  Yvaine took a deep breath, resting her hands on her hips and caressing the handles of her daggers while Maria eyed her keenly.

  Seems like a win-win, so long as Ivar doesn’t do anythin’ rash.

  “I’ll do it.”