by Rowan Rook
It was obvious. It was so fucking obvious!
Her head hung down to her knees, but she refused to cry.
She didn't care about the Editor. Not at all. Her relationship with it had simply been a role she'd played for the good of the Butterfly.
So then...why was she...?
Her eyes watered without her approval.
Had anyone ever once told her the truth about anything? All anyone offered was lies! The Butterflies had lied to her many times over. Verox had lied to her. Rickard had lied to her. And now...
She spat out an acidic laugh. It must've taken a whole lot of work for a Lyrum to pretend to be Human for so long.
The person she'd thought she'd known didn't exist. 'Amaranth' was simply an alias used by a Lyrum to hide amongst Human society. A character played by an actor. He wasn't real. Lyrum didn't behave that way. They were monsters. Everything they did resulted from a set of sophisticated instincts. They weren't truly capable of feeling anything in the way that Humans were.
How could she, of all people, have been fooled so easily and completely?
A Lyrum masquerading as a Human was simply unheard of. Lyrum hated Human culture. Lyrum had no interest in, much less capability for, science and technology. Lyrum held religion and family above all else, caring little for education. Lyrum banded together, loyal to themselves as a species. These were all facts. That one would go out of its way to bely them—that one would try to pass itself off as a Human researcher of its own kind—was simply ludicrous. It was so far out of the realm of reason that she'd never considered such a possibility. No suspicion had crossed her mind, despite the truth staring her in the face for over ten years.
Maybe that was why she was so angry.
Or maybe it was the bitter, sour taste suddenly welling up inside her mouth. Before she could stop herself, she recalled the evening before, when the two of them had stood alone above the sea. When they'd...
Her stomach lurched, her muscles clenching to hold in bile. She slammed an elbow into the railing and relished the clang, despite the pain echoing through her arm.
She was laughing. Why was she laughing?
All this time...all this time when she'd gone on about wanting revenge, all this time when she'd felt guilty about hiding her identity as a Butterfly, all this time when she'd prided herself as a soldier. All this time, she'd stood beside a Lyrum. She'd shared a childhood with one, shared embraces, and just a few days ago, shared a bed. She'd...
Something between a sob and a chuckle left her mouth.
The Editor wasn't just any Lyrum, either. It was an Anwell. She'd stood beside an Anwell as she'd spoken of the fire, as she'd spoken of the way its own mother had killed hers, as she'd vented her hatred. The final twist in a perfect trick.
Oh, how it must've laughed! She pictured it lying beside her with a satisfied smirk, playing with the fool who was in love with her own anger. Because they owned no deep emotion of their own, a Lyrum could be anything it wanted, and it'd become exactly what it'd needed to be to use her. She must have offered it as much amusement as it was capable of feeling. She'd proclaim vengeance against its kind one moment and share a glass of wine with it the next. How proud it must have been.
She buried her head in her knees, but couldn't stop laughing. It was just so fucking funny!
The Butterflies must've been laughing, too—laughing at the toy soldier who thought she was a real one. It was brilliant, really. She was just a self-important pawn in their play, given the part no one smarter or better or stronger would have wanted.
She heaved, still chuckling even as her eyes watered.
No. No. It wasn't like that at all. She'd been fooled, but she wasn't a fool. She'd never felt anything for the Lyrum. She'd simply been doing her job. She'd done it well, certainly, but that was all it had ever been.
Shakaya blocked the memories from her mind, erasing them and changing them. She willed herself to forget that any of it—their decade long false friendship, the smiles they'd shared, his warm touch, her secret thoughts, their tentative kisses—had ever happened. That she'd been naive enough to believe that someone cared about her. That she'd ever been such an idiot.
She'd performed her role. That was all.
Besides, the Lyrum was an Anwell. She repeated the revelation to herself, reframing it in her mind. That fact gave her something she never thought she'd have—a chance for real revenge. And as soon as the Editor's purpose was fulfilled, she'd finally claim it. Everyone would regret toying with her.
She clung to the cold glint of glee that resolution returned to her, cradling its candle flame in her chest until it chased away the shadows. The Anwells had stolen her pride, but she could take it back. She'd take their lives along with it. She would make them beg for death.
That is, if either of the Anwells were still alive when this was all over. When the Editor had adopted its alias, it also padded a couple of years on to its real age. It had told her so a long time ago, when she was young and complaining about waiting four more years before she could start her classes. It wasn't actually sixteen, either, it had confessed. It was only fourteen—it simply looked the part. Of course it had. Lyrum were practically grown by age twelve.
The Anwell siblings, then, were now twenty-four years old. Lyrum never lived to see their twenty-fifth birthdays. The species didn't age the same way Humans did. The Academy ID card around the Editor's neck may have read twenty-six, but it would be dead before it ever reached that age.
...Although she'd never realized it before, the Editor was very old. It didn't have much longer to live. Had she not discovered the truth now, she likely soon would have from an autopsy report. She shuddered, in spite of herself. Such news would've been all over the Academy within hours. What a scandal that would've been.
She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the tears. Her fingernails dug into her ankles.
This was all Rickard's fault! She'd orchestrated everything! Shakaya had thought she understood what the woman who called herself her mother wanted. Apparently, she'd never understood anything.
She became a Butterfly shortly after Rickard had taken her in. Rickard promised her that the Scarlet Butterfly would help her get revenge against the monsters who had murdered her family if she became a part of it. When 'Amaranth' had come to the Academy, Rickard told her the boy was something special—something called the Editor. Rickard had then told her that it was her job, as the youngest Butterfly, to guide and protect the Editor.
Rickard had never told her that the Editor was a Lyrum.
A snarl rumbled in Shakaya's throat. The next time she saw Rickard, she was going to kill her for leaving out that minor detail.
Chapter Sixteen: Begin and End, part I
The fourteen-year-old Amaranth explored the outskirts of the Academy's courtyard, his brown eyes dutifully searching for the last few items on the list his professor had handed out to the class.
Three months had passed since he'd become a student. A typical school year for science students consisted of speed classes focused on vastly different areas of research, as well other necessary skill sets such as language and math. Some lasted as long as the whole year while others spanned just weeks. Supposedly, this was to ensure the students were 'well-rounded.' Students graduated after five years of study, and by the time they reached their second year, they could specialize in a subject of their choosing. New students had no such agency. He absently wondered whether combat courses were run the same way.
The first class he'd found himself enrolled in had covered the basics of physics and electricity. It'd ended just a few days ago, thank the Heavens for that. Now, he'd been placed into an introductory lab course that mixed together amateur concepts from biology, chemistry, and medicine. It sounded much better, and so far, it had been.
His professor had sent out the students to identify and collect plant materials for the evening's lab assignment. The materials were very basic—things they could fetch from the Academy's own
gardens. In comparison to scrounging around in the woods outside Riksharre, it was child's play.
The early spring sunlight shimmered off new flowers and fresh, green shoots. While insects weren't yet out in force, occasional hums fluttered from plant to plant. If he chose to block out the tall buildings and the city's oily fumes, he could almost believe he was home.
Amaranth stopped beside a clump of reddish-orange flowers. He plucked one from the thorns and gave it a sniff before adding it to his collection of supplies. He didn't need to check his teacher's identification booklet.
Humans and Lyrum spoke the same language. Humans had lived as prisoners of Lyrum society for the larger part of Auratessa's history, after all, and like their shared currency, their shared language was an echo. Lyrum had pioneered the arts. Humans had merely continued using the concepts after the Inversion. At least, that's what the history books in Riksharre's schools said. Some of the Academy's told the story differently.
Nonetheless, there were subtle differences in the way the language had evolved between the two species. Chief among them was that Lyrum tended toward a little more subtlety and detail. Plant names were a good example. Much of the basics were the same—a rose was still a rose and, the boy smiled slightly, an amaranth was still an amaranth—but their methods of familial categorization were much more specific. Odd, that. He would've expected the more scientific species to be the more exacting of the two, but perhaps it was a testament to how much Lyrum loved nature and the beauty of words.
The Human booklet would've confused him more than aided him. He was glad, now, that Lyn had rambled on about blooms and trees and berries the way she had. A little piece of her spoke from inside him whenever he looked at the flowers and remembered their names.
A knot of nostalgia tightened his throat. The courtyard was lovely in comparison to the gray, metallic bustle of Elavadin City, but fell vastly short when compared to Lyn's beloved garden. After the fire, though... There couldn't be much left of it.
Refusing to dwell on such sorrowful things on such a bright, beautiful day, he returned to his search for the final few items. He snatched up a mint herb and purple petals with a sour scent. Finally, something he was good at! After making a fool of himself throughout the last class, he needed to seize every opportunity to excel in this one.
He would be done with the task well before the allotted time. He ambled toward the center of the courtyard, where the last lily he needed grew. An extravagant fountain stood there, in the heart of the garden, spewing arcs of water toward the sunny sky. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen in Riksharre. Indeed, not everything Humans made was ugly. It was only that Humans most chose to use their skills to strive for power, rather than for beauty.
Amaranth plucked the petals he needed and was about to return to the classroom when he heard a weak, sad whimper. He stopped. The rushing water nearly obscured the sobs, but when he stepped closer, he saw a small figure with tan hair and a white dress, sitting on the edge of the fountain with her head tucked into her knees. It was that girl. Shakaya.
Surprised stiffened his muscles. She rarely smiled, and their visit to the specimen room remained the only time he'd heard her laugh. He'd begun to wonder if she was capable of any real emotion at all, much less open sobbing.
It had been unusual, though. She was always there while he walked to class, following him wordlessly. But that morning, she'd hadn't been. He'd felt her absence more strongly than he wanted to admit. ...How long had she been out here?
Amaranth stared for a while, before turning away to return to class. He hesitated a few steps later.
The girl was quite the odd one. He'd recall the things she said in the labs—the way she acted—and feel his stomach crawl. But she would also ask him to lunch, day after day and refusal after refusal, and help keep the other students at a comfortable distance. It wasn't...it wasn't that he wanted a friend. Friends were far too risky, and what use were such things, really? Yet, regardless of whatever her reasons were, she was the only person in the school who sought his company.
Sighing, he stepped toward the sobbing Shakaya.
She didn't seem to notice him, never raising her gaze. A hush stretched out before he heaved another sigh and forced himself to speak, "Is something the matter?" What a ridiculous question—there clearly was. He didn't know what else to say.
Shakaya startled, gasping. Her eyes widened when she realized who she was looking at. She was always the one to approach him, never the other way around. The courtyard was also usually empty while students and teachers busied themselves with classes—she probably hadn't expected to see anyone, at all.
Her cheeks reddened. She tried, with little success, to force her lips into their usual stoic line. She swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, but the tears didn't stop welling. She turned away. For a while, he thought she wasn't going to answer.
"My parents were good people!" she spat.
Amaranth blinked. "I'm sure they were."
"Everyone talks about them and their work like it was all some joke!" Her small hands balled into fists. "It wasn't! They were heroes! My parents...! My parents..." She lost her voice as the sobbing returned.
A frown shadowed Amaranth's face, and he joined her on the edge of the fountain. "Tell me about them."
"Huh?" Shakaya looked up at him through her tears.
"Your family,"he forced a small smile, "tell me about your family." He didn't actually have any desire to hear about them, but perhaps she wanted to tell him. Perhaps she needed to show off her family to somebody.
Shakaya blinked slowly. She was quiet for a few beats, as if considering whether to speak. Her gaze slumped toward the ground. "Mom and Dad were the leaders of the Sentinel." A hint of pride slipped through her quavery voice, as if he was supposed to recognize the organization and be impressed. Actually...it did ring a quiet bell somewhere in the reaches of his memory, but he couldn't manage to place it.
She smiled fondly. "They were Lyrum hunters. They didn't bother with any of this scientific or political nonsense. They wanted to eliminate the threat once and for all. And they were the best there was!"
Amaranth swallowed hard, but kept any reaction from his face. After the way she'd spoken in the labs, he'd expected to hear something similar.
"All they wanted was a better life for all of us. A life where we didn't have to live in fear." Her smile disappeared. "They were murdered by Lyrum. They died doing what they believed in. What I believe in, too. How does that make them a joke?"
"It doesn't," Amaranth answered, absently watching a red butterfly flutter from flower to flower around the fountain. That one was out early. "They must have been very brave." Hatred wasn't brave, and he doubted they could've been particularly good parents if they'd allowed it to put their family in danger, but he said what he figured she needed to hear. His parents hadn't been much different.
Shakaya nodded, her lips trembling.
The silence returned, the conversation apparently over. Shakaya's cheeks glistened under the afternoon sun, but she wasn't crying anymore. Amaranth was just about to take the opportunity to excuse himself when she raised her voice.
"I heard them! I heard them screaming, but I couldn't do anything! I was locked upstairs. I didn't even know anything was wrong at first. Mom and Dad were holding a meeting at our house, and I was only eight-years-old then, so I couldn't go. They told me to wait in my room. I was just laying in my bed and reading, like every other night..."
Amaranth froze, Shakaya's voice shaking as the memory spilled from her tongue. All of the old fear and sorrow had broken loose, as if she couldn't hold it in a second longer.
"Then I heard a lot of noise downstairs. I couldn't tell what was going on, but I looked up just in time to see a woman standing outside my bedroom. She was staring at me with scary green eyes, and there was fire inside her palm. She was a Lyrum. It was the first time I'd ever seen one. I was too scared to speak. She shut my door before I could do anything. I
don't know what she did, but it wouldn't open anymore. She blocked me in. I started crying, but no one came. No one came..." Tears slid toward her chin.
"Everyone started screaming downstairs, and I smelled smoke. Flames came in from under my door. I could barely breathe. I heard Mom call my name. I called back, but I don't know if she ever heard me." She spared a second to suck in a breath, as if her throat still ached with ashes. "I wanted to jump, but my room was too high. I thought I was going to die. I heard everyone else die! All the screaming stopped after a while..." She buried her eyes with her hands. "Then another voice called my name, this time from outside my window. It was Rickard, even though I didn't really know her. I guess she was in the Sentinel."
The Head Scientist had once been part of such an organization? Amaranth's mouth dried out, but he didn't say anything.
"She told me to jump. She told me she'd catch me...and she did. There were Lyrum patrolling around, so we had to hide in the backyard until they went away. She took me to the Academy after that." She chewed her lip—the rest of her story told itself.
Amaranth opened his mouth to speak while he searched for the right words to say, but his eyes widened, a rush of memories crashing over him like a wave when he realized where he'd heard the Sentinel's name before.
Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ
Aydel, Ahlyn, and Anson Anwell peered down from the top of the balcony and into the dining room with curious eyes. They watched their mother and father quietly, the set of ten-year-old siblings wondering why their parents were making such a racket so late at night.
Illya and Olgin Anwell stood around the kitchen table, laughing jovially as they clinked two bottles of maroon liquid together before gulping down eager swigs.
"That looks like wine," Aydel whispered. Her brother and sister blinked in surprise, but if anyone their age knew about such extravagant things, it would be Delly.
"Where did they get it?" Anson wondered aloud. Alcohol was a treasured rarity in not only Riksharre, but the entire Lyrum world. It had been invented by rogue Humans—and then produced by captives, once Lyrum discovered it—before the Inversion. Lyrum hadn't managed to reproduce the distilleries needed to craft it afterward. It existed only as a luxury for the rich, stored away in underground cellars from those years long ago.