When Night Breaks

by Janella Angeles

  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” The boy took a quick sip. “That mortal was due here long, long ago. And it’s not as though you can pretend you couldn’t find her.”

  “Do you see me trying?” The mirrors all over the walls below still flashed faintly with reflections of other people, other places. No one could’ve hidden away from them forever. Certainly not Kallia.

  His eyes flicked to the corner, back to those doors.

  “You know, once she and Roth are done in there, he’ll move right on to you.” He tipped his glass back with another cavalier sip. “And from what I can tell, he likely won’t be as nice.”

  No. Roth was going to try every trick in the book to tear Jack apart. To make sure it hurt.

  It would be interesting to see him try.

  “You’re so confident in his plans?” Jack asked. “If they don’t work, who’s to stop me from coming for the first person to piss me right off?”

  He was slightly mollified when the boy stiffened for a breath. “No one is indestructible. Not even you.”

  The words gave Jack pause, lit his blood on fire.

  “Might want to drink up, if it’s your last.”

  The boy left soon after, and only then did Jack drain the glass dry. Wintery, potent. Not that it ever did the trick; it took far more to knock him out. And even far more to destroy him.

  If a show was what they wanted, that’s exactly what they’d get.

  10

  It’s not real.

  Cold sweat broke out across the back of Kallia’s neck. She was grateful to be sitting and gripped the desk firmly, a needed anchor when her heart galloped harshly in her chest. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  It’s not real.

  Those were damned words.

  She couldn’t show Roth the power they had over her, but the wound was just as fresh when remembered. Rawer than memory. Learning that her friends and tutors at Hellfire House, her time spent with Jack—knowing him, trusting him—had been nothing but illusions nearly shattered her.

  The thought it could all be happening again terrified her.

  “I think perhaps you can answer that better than me,” Roth countered with the wave of his hand. All the food that had filled the space between them disappeared, the scents ripped from the air.

  Without the colorful confections surrounding him, that devilish smile gracing his mouth, Roth appeared every bit the magician the city parted crowds for. The Dealer. The Alastor.

  “What can you recall of your Glorian?” he posed, as one would issue a challenge. “What is remembered by its people?”

  Glorian is a city built on cards.

  That had stuck with Kallia, ever since the mayor said it across a dinner table a while back. The irony in it was just the truth. How fragile a city could be when made of cards.

  “Odd, how there’s nothing to remember, right?” Roth appeared a little too satisfied by her silence. “With you, it’s far more understandable, given your life of lies. But to the rest—how can that be? To live in a city, yet not know it.”

  “What’s your point to this?” Kallia bristled. “I’m well aware something isn’t right in that city.”

  “Oh, Kallia, it’s not just the city. It’s everything, and everyone,” he said, a sugar-coated smile of pity. “Forgetting history is never an accident. And you can thank your Patrons for that.”

  Her blood like iced. “The Patrons?”

  Jack had insinuated something similar, and this only added to the madness. The Patrons were servants of the people, the ones who stepped in whenever magic posed a threat. Though Demarco had avoided the subject altogether, there was no denying his respect for them regardless. The respect everyone had for them, for keeping order between those with power and those without.

  Kallia’s eyes narrowed. It had to be some sort of test—a blatant lie, to see how easily she could fall for it. “And why would the Patrons, of all people, want to do a horrific thing like that?”

  “Because despite popular belief, Patrons are still people at the end of the day,” he said. “Anyone with even a smidge of authority, a taste of power, will do anything to stay in control.”

  “How are you no different, then?”

  “I never claimed to be.” All cooled triumph, without shame. “I know who I am, as do my people. And I do my best to do right by them,” he said, inspecting his fingernails. “That’s a lot more than those in your world can say. They’d rather erase disaster than face it head on.”

  Kallia bit the inside of her lower lip, all to keep herself from clutching her chest. The more she let it rile her up, the truer it would feel.

  And if that last night of Spectaculore was as disastrous as memory served, then the Patrons wouldn’t need any formal summons to swarm Glorian to assert order.

  They would be there already.

  The faint roll of laughter and calls for more bottles seeped through the doors. A world without care, just a step away when she felt hers breaking on the surface.

  “Erase what exactly?” Kallia knew firsthand what it was to not remember. The effort it took to keep such a ruse in place. And the toll.

  “The reason why any of us are here in the first place.” Roth threw out his hands like a true showman, before setting his head at a curious tilt her way. “You truly do look an awful lot like her. Your mother.”

  Zarose.

  The comment came without warning, unexpected as a slap. “My mother?”

  Kallia had never uttered the words before. The strange aftertaste of them carried a bitterness so unfamiliar, she wasn’t so sure she wanted more of it.

  Not that Roth noticed, as he gave a solemn nod. “She was a distant cousin—there was a whole brood of us back then, like a pack of wolves. A bunch of terrors, we all were.” There was uncharacteristic tenderness in the way his eyes closed for a fleeting beat, before he blinked hard to wipe it away. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to go all soft on you with family talk. I’m not the sort, and I have a feeling you’re not, either.”

  The relief coursing through her was a balm to her nerves. Kallia had never cared much for family before. She owed nothing to people she’d never met, halfway wondered if she hadn’t just fallen from the sky one day. It was more preferable than wondering why she’d been left to a stranger’s care in Hellfire House.

  “Why bring it up, then?” Kallia straightened in her seat, dead-eyed. “How is any of that relevant?”

  “Because we’re blood, you and I. The last ones standing.”

  A chill skipped across her spine.

  It struck her then that she’d met no other Alastors except the one before her. And there was no other indication that any were around.

  “What happened to them?”

  Silence stretched raw with a tension that thickened the air. Even the noises of revelry outside softened to it.

  Roth focused back on his glass again, either contemplating his words or another refill. “I can’t tell how long it’s been. I don’t even know what a day feels like anymore,” he confessed. “Live long enough here, and the memories start growing hazy. I hardly even remember what sunshine feels like. No matter how many perfumes or ointments promise the sensation, it’s never the same.”

  Given the luxury of this study, of the entire gilded palace of a city itself, how strange for its king to yearn for such simplicity.

  Except it wasn’t all that unbelievable. That pang of longing hit Kallia every time she’d sit atop her greenhouse, the sunrise illuminating a faraway Glorian in the distance.

  Those had been her daydreams. The luxury of something lost, or never experienced.

  “Glorian has changed since I last stepped foot in it, from what the mirrors have shown.” The lines of Roth’s lips grew tense. Troubled. “It’s so cold now. So orderly and quiet.”

  “That’s how it’s always been, for as long as I’ve known.” Kallia gave a half-shrug. “No shows, no magic.”

  In spite of that, she’d still want
ed to go. No matter how often Jack refused, how unremarkable it seemed from the strange tales alone, it only heightened her imagination.

  The last thing she expected was a city wrapped in ice, in more ways than one.

  “Figures.” Roth shuddered, as though in agreement. “Our mirrors only wake for magic. I truly thought the city had fully burned to the ground, after everything.”

  Kallia’s brow creased. Something about the story felt familiar, some piece of it falling into place.

  It brought her back to that first time she walked through the broken Court of Mirrors, overrun by crashed chandeliers and blackened shards of glass and ghosts who had been silenced underneath it all. Even the Ranza Estate had had its share of wreckage. And still, these ruined places and pieces remained, telling a story others could only speculate about.

  Kallia pressed forward slightly. “What caused it?”

  “What else but a party?” A whisper of a smile graced his lips. “The first of its kind, and the wildest celebration I’ve ever attended. It ran all across the streets of the city.” The excitement in his tone ran heavy with fond remembrance. “Night after night, countless party after party with spectacles every hour and dueling illusions in each corner. An opulent ball today, an intriguing menagerie tomorrow. Unlike any event I’ve ever attended.”

  Given the current state of the city under his thumb, the idea of anything more extravagant alarmed her. Maybe during Spectaculore, but any wildness earlier than that seemed inconceivable. As if Mayor Eilin, a man who balked at Kallia’s attire alone, would ever stand for it.

  “There was purpose to it, mind you,” Roth added. “The Show of Hands was slated to be our newest tradition in Glorian: the greatest showcase of all time where those with power could perform, and those without could enjoy.” Roth’s fond smile lingered at the edges. “Until it arrived.”

  Kallia’s stomach tightened.

  “Completely out of nowhere,” he elaborated, blinking slowly. “The few of us thought it was all some prank, but we found it standing right there in the woods, outside our gates. I’ll never forget the details of the frame. Lines of beauty and ruin, carved across its edges like a curse.”

  There was fear in his voice. And perhaps, a little awe.

  “I was lucky that was all I saw,” he said, the blood draining from his face. “There was a scream before the first body dropped. Followed by more, and more. It took everything, and—”

  His breath hitched slightly, his gaze lost to the memory.

  “The rest is all fractured from then on. I remember fire, then nothing. Darkness. Swore I’d died in that wreckage.” Roth pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I sometimes wish that were true.”

  * * *

  Rothmos Alastor was a liar.

  It was the first point Aunt Cata made abundantly clear, and she wouldn’t let Daron forget it. Not that he could. After all those days of the competition spent in the Alastor Place, not once did he hear an actual name behind it. A person, a figurehead.

  Someone his aunt despised from just a name alone.

  “The Alastors were never perfect, but that man was something else. And he always knew exactly what he was doing.” Aunt Cata let out a sharp sigh, jaw clenched as she peered out the window of her room. “Left a trail of bodies and nearly destroyed an entire city just to get what he wanted.”

  Daron hadn’t budged an inch from where he sat, too frozen to even move a fraction.

  Of all the tales he expected his aunt to tell, it certainly wasn’t this: a story of a Glorian that had been standing before he’d even been born—of a bustling city coursing with magic, overseen by families whose names and symbols marked each fold.

  And the story of how that Glorian fell.

  They were the answers Daron would’ve killed for when he first arrived in the city to judge Spectaculore. Not just answers, but confirmation. All this time, just as Eva had suspected, something strange and dark had always been at work here.

  That their aunt played such a role in it was the last thing he saw coming.

  “What’s worse is we had some warning of it before it all happened,” Aunt Cata ground out. “From him.”

  Daron blinked. “The man told you of his plans all along?”

  “Not in those exact terms,” she muttered, her lips tense. “The week before, I remember my superiors had received a letter, a formal city request to hold a celebration engaging in high levels of magic. Normally, New Crown sent us those whenever they put on particularly risky spectacles drawing large crowds, but it was a first from Glorian.”

  “The Show of Hands,” Daron recalled the name, still stunned by the picture Aunt Cata had painted. Days upon days of magicians performing across the city on all manner of stages. Just imagining such a nonstop show exhausted him.

  Aunt Cata nodded. “The Patrons have always been there to step in when needed. But back then, we were far more lenient. If a city sent a courtesy letter with advance notice, then we could track any damage. All incidental, nothing worth our intervention.” On an inhale, she turned from the window. “Every city has its thorns, and the dynamics between the families in Glorian were always fraught. Because entertainment has the tendency to exclude, the Show of Hands sounded like an opportunity for all to enjoy. Those without magic, and those with magic.”

  Regret thickened her voice, and she cleared her throat with a prim, shaky cough. “As you know now, that’s not at all what took place.”

  Daron nodded, letting the understatement linger in the air. Aunt Cata hadn’t provided too many details on what she’d seen, not as a means of secrecy. The more the story unfolded, the more her face broke from its careful hold.

  “Why, then, design such an elaborate charade if that was never his intent?” Every question left on a held breath. He’d never tread with more caution than now. “What exactly did he want out of it?”

  “The Alastors were known for collecting and recruiting magicians, rather than being magicians themselves.” Aunt Cata’s nostrils flared. “And Roth wanted to change that.”

  Daron scratched at his brow. “What about acquired magic?”

  “For some, acquired magic is never enough in this world.” Her shrug was paired with the small shake of her head. “And he certainly tried that path, but not everyone has the blood for it.”

  All those days he’d spent scouring the mayor’s library to no avail flashed in the back of his mind. He’d never uncovered anything of use or far back enough to tell him much about Glorian or whatever happened behind its gates.

  All this time, those pieces had been with the Patrons.

  Bystanders.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. All of them were in on it, pulling every secret string behind the curtains. Hiding events that would’ve made history and headlines for years to come. The fall and destruction of a city was not the kind of story that died quietly.

  It only made it that much more disturbing, how easily they’d pulled it off.

  Because by the time we’re gone, none of you will remember any of this.

  Aunt Cata’s words kept whispering back to him like an omen. Part of him had hoped he’d simply misunderstood. Memory magic on such a vast scope as this was unheard of. Impossible. At least,that was what he’d always been led to believe, like everyone else.

  What else was lie, dressed up as fact?

  Daron forced himself to sit back, the picture of calm while his heart quaked beneath his chest. Memory magic on such a vast scope was unheard of. Though if anyone had the power to pull memories with the resources to hush it all up, it would be the Patrons.

  Run. His pulse kicked up a desperate beat. If anyone had the power to dig into minds with the resources to hush it up, it would be the Patrons. And being related to Aunt Cata guaranteed no mercy. Daron knew his aunt too well for that.

  He just needed her to keep talking, because he needed to understand. Every ugly, dark thread that had long been hidden away connected to something greater in all of th
is.

  And he was so close, he could taste it.

  Look for the gate, and you’ll finally find her.

  Every muscle in Daron tensed, drawn tight as the nerves coiling beneath his skin. “What gate, Aunt Cata?”

  The utter calm he projected astounded even him. Especially when that controlled armor of hers chipped away in her face, past the point to take anything back. “Zarose Gate.”

  His gut tightened in response.

  Not only because it was so simple, but so impossible.

  The site of Zarose Gate was located all the way across Soltair, about a week-long trip from here with even the fastest horses. Like every other magician growing up, he’d visited the legendary birthplace of magic. He walked where Zarose had stepped when he rose as the first magician, before closing the gate to keep power from drowning their world altogether. For such a grand legend, the sacred stage for it was no more than a vast, rocky crag. So many in the past had attempted to dig through the blockage to no avail, a true iron seal thrown in place by Zarose himself.

  Or so the story went.

  “Where is the gate, really?” His pulse thundered. “Because something tells me it sure as hell isn’t the one on the map.”

  Everything in his life he thought he’d known so well, solid as a stone in his hand, now fell fast as sand between his fingers at just the slightest pressure. After all he’d heard today, he didn’t trust anything in Soltair to be solid anymore.

  Her resounding silence was as good a confirmation as any, gone on a stretch too long before she tilted her head. “I’ve already said plenty. There’s no reason for you to know any more than that.”

  You’ll be here …

  All Daron could hear now was Kallia, growing louder. Closer.

  … at the end of this.

  The possibility squeezed at his heart until it grew numb. “Please.”

  “I won’t say it again, Daron.” A warning growl lay low in her voice. “You don’t understand the full dangers of this situation, and I hope you never will. We haven’t protected Soltair all these years just to see it crumble again.”