The orange sun makes its way east across the deadly valley of open sand from the flat-roofed buildings of the border town, Saska, from which she came to the high-pillared, white-marble palaces of Inner City, where she stands now. The curt calls of hyenas follow closely at the tail of last light. They are the night’s demons and hunters and the city’s last defense against itself.
In the deepening darkness, Maelyn Naomi seeks refuge in a gated villa on the edge of the city, her final destination. A weeping willow casts the courtyard catwalk in shadow as she is ushered toward a large square building by a slave woman with a tag that reads: “Property of House Na’Riah.” Deep lines in her face tell of the sickness of age and a dream never achieved.
Colorful mosaics cover the outer stone walls, their brightness dimmed by the night. One pictures a man in pale robes. A gold circlet with amethyst embedded deep within the mold rests upon his brow. Isus of Judgment is captured in all his greatness, but even the fine pieces of tile cannot lift the image to life. A staff separates him and a kneeling man, face down in prayer.
A hundred years ago, the country of Lamora followed the doctrines of the Immortals closely. The gates of the Outer City stood tall and strong, and even the night’s shadow hunters were kept out. But the reign of the Immortals has slackened now. As attention shifts to technology, there is little faith left to place in magic.
The slave Na’Riah stares up at the depiction with moonlit eyes. Thin hands fumble with a tassel at her waist. She’s ripped the hem of her cotton robe, rubbed a hole right through the fabric. Her eyes shift to Maelyn at her side. She admires her hands as they fold together, how she dips her head in silent prayer. Na’Riah pulls her robes tight about her shoulders against the cool night wind and shivers. She waits.
The villa garden is deserted. Shadows stretch along the perimeter wall. She wishes Maelyn would finish her prayer, so they can find refuge inside. But Maelyn insists on hovering beneath the glassy eyes of Immortal Isus. Na’Riah can hear her whispering into her fingers, mentions of a daughter, small pleas for safety and security. Na’Riah feels a shallow tug of guilt as she remembers what Maelyn is waiting for.
Two shadows move against the moonlight. Maelyn looks up from her hands as one of the figures comes up behind her. Silver flashes. A gasp is muffled against a gloved hand. Na’Riah holds her breath until she stops struggling and drops. Crimson looks black on the blade. The shadowy figure stands over the body, head bowed as if in prayer. There is a silence among the three of them now.
The taller figure nudges the other. “Time to leave.”
Na’Riah feels empty satisfaction as a coin pouch is pushed into her hand.