[author]
You are about to read the final day of the person who came before.
I won't intrude beyond content warnings.
CW: Dissociation, memory loss as self-harm, suicidal ideation, emotional abuse of a child (witnessed in flashback), invoking spirits to forget/erase oneself.
[/author]
The world is soft. Dark. And unusually, quiet.
Then comes the vibration.
A dull thud travels through my chest. Then another. I burrow deeper into the pillow and smile into the silk. Raine must be up.
"Quit shaking me," I mumble. I keep my eyes shut, clinging to the last dregs of sleep. "You push like a baby."
The thud comes again, louder this time. It rattles my teeth.
I huff, and blindly sweep my arm across the empty side of the sheets to drag her back down. "You angry baby, you menace. Let me sleep longer, Raine."
My hand sweeps through cold, empty air.
The thud isn't coming from Raine, it's traveling from up the floor. And I am not in bed.
My eyes open to a gray roof of riven wood. It stretches upward, towering far beyond my memory of my room ceiling.
"Oh."
It shudders under screaming blows, timber shards fall from it. One shard finds my shoulder, a splinter my eyelid. This itch is familiar. I rub at it with my knuckle, but my hand is too small and nubby to do much.
"Please don't let this be a Wraith." Bile floods my mouth as I recognize the exact rhythm of the thuds above. It is the heartbeat of the only storm I know—the Sleeper, in one of its fits.
I've been here before. Years ago.
My gaze drifts around to thirty-some other children wedged into this shelter. Pressed together like bark beetles. A shiver moves through them like wind through leaves. A little girl's brown hair bristles against my dress. She sips at the air through clenched teeth. I pat her head. She bites her lip before reaching out to pat mine back.
I hold still.
She pats me and my head tingles. I blink the sensation back and whisper. "Be quiet. I'll go first."
She tilts her head and pats me harder. "Quiet? Are you scared?"
My brows furrow, betraying me for a beat, before I wrestle my features into a smile. "Scared? Of a little noise? Never."
She looks at me with eyes wide and hollow. Then she huffs a laugh that sounds like a cough. "Me neither. Maybe the Sleeper is only hungry for the big kids tonight."
My chest feels cold, I ignore it. "At least a little sap like you will be safe."
She doesn't laugh. Neither do I.
I pause for a moment too long, waiting for the smell of her name. The way names usually announce themselves. But nothing arrives. "What is your name, Little Sap?"
"Raine... I got my name yesterday."
"Oh. Your name is pretty. I'm sure it will serve you a long time."
She gives a nod that creeps downward, lingering at every step. I nod back harder. I engrave her features into my mind. The curve of her nose. The set of her jaw. The color of her hair. Wrong. All wrong.
This person is not Raine.
The name acts like a hook, snagging the gauze of the dream. I stare into her eyes.
"So this is all just another Wraith."
She doesn't respond, it's as if she didn't hear me. She continues to tug at my sleeve and warm blood seeps through the silk with each pull.
"What did I even expect?" My eyes return to the gray roof. The walls shudder and the wood floor groans. The storm howls louder and smothers my thoughts.
Everyone huddles closer to me, so close I can feel their breath against my neck. Their heat on my wings.
My mouth opens. The words escape before I can stop them.
"I want to vanish."
My eyelids are heavy. This fake girl looks into my eyes. The look is stabbing me.
"I'll go first. Please let me vanish."
✦ ✦ ✦
When I woke up from the fifth Wraith this morning, I was back in my own bed. Alone and older. I said it aloud. "You are going to die today, Lyra."
The ceiling didn't answer. Maybe because I only spoke to it when Raine wasn't here.
I'd spoken to it yesterday, the day before, days I couldn't count anymore. All that remains of me is this single, vague day. So not even the ash of memories. Just the time that passed while I was elsewhere for it.
My lungs were sore and stiff, every inhale hurt. The sheets were damp with ash and sweat. They peeled off my wings when I sat up.
My desk stood ahead of me. Straight ahead, perfectly angled. But my lifework littered like trash on the ground. And the gray wood ceiling was still too close.
The room smelled of moss left to rot in forgotten corners. I spoke to myself. "Freshen up. There's much to do today."
Soon after, I made my usual brew of tea. The sap was diluted to perfection. The bitter steam needled my skin. I took it in, all in till my nose burned blue. I savored every last drop.
I wrote three entries into my journal. One was too honest, I burned it. Of the other two, page thirty said:
And then she woke in my body.
By the power held within my name, and my title, she will be blessed with Fractured Beginnings.
—Type- Prophetic
My fingers were still smudged with ash when Raine arrived. I recalled when we met as children and smiled—a hollow pang stabbed at my teeth. I told her that we would do whatever she wanted today. She grabbed me by my arms and spun me around, her eyes glowed like they'd been filled with sparkly sap.
"Make me something pretty with your ash," she said, breathless. "And let's race to the bottom of Hinter and back up! Then we can figure out the rest later."
Down the crown of the tree's hollow to its bottom, and back up until we grew sick of it.
I said yes to all of it. But first, the ash circles. Six of them, spiraling inward toward my curtain-way—each one a call, each one inviting the spirits to be my audience. Raine watched me work, head tilted like a curious bug. I worried whether I would live long enough to finish her gift.
"What's that for? Personal ritual?"
"Peace of mind," I said. I ignored the heat rising in my gut.
She didn't ask anymore than that. Maybe she could already taste it in the air. My killer was coming. Had been coming for weeks. I could smell him in some dreams, in the blue behind my eyelids. Sugar-sweet and rabid. I also wrote about him, and I hid my journals where they'd be easy to find. Beneath the bed, spine facing out. If she came looking, she'd find them. Eventually.
I slid on my white-silk robe before we went outside. The fabric caught on my wings, still damp from last night's Wraith. I tugged it smooth.
"You look nice in white," Raine said.
"I know." My wings tucked tight.
We descended through Hinter's crown in comfortable silence. The tree's hollow stretched above and below us, its inner bark ridged with homes carved into the wood. Glowing moss traced the walkways in veins of blue-green. Other villagers passed us as blurs—their names arrived in various scents, bergamot and cedar and something sweet—but I couldn't focus long enough to place them.
Raine zoomed ahead for a moment, her wings catching light. She'd painted them recently with my ash. Spirals of my gray against her green membrane, I told her she didn't have to. She didn't care. The sight made something in my chest pull tight.
Eventually we reached the bottom, and came back up to my home. She made it first, but I was just letting her win this time. One to probably over a hundred.
"You must've lost your touch, Lyra." She called back breathless, but bouncy. "I'm better now, and you suck, and our previous score doesn't count anymore."
I grinned. "How come I'm not sweaty then?"
Her eyes widened as she fidgeted with her dress. "You... that's not fair! You must've, um, um..."
"It's okay to suck, you big baby." I almost put my hands to my hips, but stopped myself out of embarrassment. "You just don't have my talent. I'm just better~"
She turned a dangerous shade of red, vibrating like a plucked string. Her mouth chewed on insults that were too big to get out, until she finally stomped with a sharp hiss.
Since her words failed, she delivered a swift kick to my shin.
"Owie. That hurt sooo much."
She got even redder. "Whatever," she huffed, holding back a laugh. "So, what are we doing now?"
"You choose."
She froze and tilted her head. "You never let me choose."
"I'm not that mean."
"Y-You... speaking aside from that, you always suggest something first. Then I agree, then you pretend I chose."
My throat felt dry. "Your memory must be bad. Wasn't me. And even if that was the case, then choose now. Really choose."
She studied me for a breath too long, eyes narrowed. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the edge of my home's terrace. "Food hall. I'm hungry. You feed me."
So we flew there.
The hall smelled of caramelized sap and char. We took flatdough soaked in diluted sap, and returned to my terrace. We sat on its rim with our legs dangling into the hollow. The tree's heartwood groaned somewhere deep below—the Sleeper shifting in its dreams. Raine kicked her feet in rhythm with the sound.
"You really won't feed me?" she asked.
"Stay hungry."
She sighed and stayed silent for a long time before speaking again. "Do you think the Sleeper knows we're here?"
"Yes."
"Do you think it cares?"
I looked down into the infinite drop. "I think we're too small for its appetite."
She hummed, unconvinced. Then she leaned against my shoulder. It tingled.
And it made my chest feel cold. The way we sat, just the two of us. Against the wind.
Her warmth spread through the silk. It stopped at my skin. She smiled. "Maybe you are. Not me though."
I should have called her a big baby. I didn't.
After we ate, Raine wanted to race again.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll hurt yourself."
She sat up, frowning. "Worst lie since my parents told me I could fly."
"But you can fly—"
"Not when I was three. And just let me get hurt then. You said we could do anything I wanted."
I looked back down at the drop. My shoulders loosened.
She tapped my head. "Are you tired?"
The question sat between us like something with weight. I kept my head down.
"Come on," I said. "Let me make you that pretty thing you wanted inside."
She must've squinted, but she wouldn't say no. Back in my home, we walked past the ash circles. Six bowls were arranged at various corners of my room, each one hilding pigment I'd ground from different sources. Bone ash, pale gray. Charred sap, deep black. Powered mica for the white that caught light.
I let her sit on my bed, at the center of them all. She trusted me, I loved her for that. The ash I poured on the floor spiraled inward toward us. She glanced at them curiously.
I nicked my palm and let the blood turn gray. "What do you even find pretty?"
"Surprise me."
I took a good look at her and got closer. My fingers found the edge of her wing. The texture was thin, too thin. Too fragile. How had I never noticed how breakable she was? "Can I add on to what you painted here?"
She bit her lip and avoided my eyes. "Sure."
My expression didn't change, but the words came out before I could stop them. "Thank you, Raine."
Then she looked back at me and nodded like it was natural. She nodded a tad too quickly.
I painted in silence. Not spirals but circles. Many circles. Then branching patterns that followed the veins beneath the membrane. The ash settled into her, staining her. Each stroke felt like a violation.
But she smiled.
"That tickles," she said.
"Hold still."
"I'm super still."
She wasn't. She kept shifting, trying to see what I was making. I worked faster, laying down the foundation before she could squirm away. The pattern emerged—not the traditional blessing marks, but something more specific. Many interconnected circles. Maybe reaching up. It was hard to tell, I went with my heart.
When I finished with her wings, I brushed her hair up and moved to her nape. Two circles there, with one line connecting them.
"Are those meant to be us?" she asked.
"I made your circle a lot bigger."
She giggled. I did too, for once.
We giggled many times today.
Eventually, morning shifted into night. We danced, sang, and definitely ate more. But we always returned to my home.
The moss-glow dimmed, turned softer. Raine's wings caught the blue tinge, and the patterns I'd painted looked different in the low light. More permanent than I'd intended.
"Lyra," she said as she sat on my bed. My name, not my title. "What's wrong?"
My hands stilled. I had been messing with a painting.
"You've been a little strange all day. And you know it, I know it. You're even wearing white." She gestured at my bony dress. "Did you see something in your dreams?"
I could feel the spirits' attention tighening. They'd been waiting for this. The ash circles hummed, almost imperceptible. A small vibration through the floor, could've been mistaken for the tree's musings.
"I didn't."
"Then what?"
I needed to say something true. The blessing wouldn't work otherwise. But I couldn't name what was coming—that would break the working, unravel what I'd prepared.
"I'm afraid," I said. The words came out quieter than I meant. "I'm afraid I haven't taught you enough. You know, I'm tired."
Her expression shifted. She looked down at the floor for a while, before reaching for my hand. Her fingers were cold. "You've taught me plenty, Lyra."
I gave her a smile that made my stomach turn. "Not enough."
"More than anyone else."
"That's not—" I stopped. Swallowed. "I just need to know that you're strong without me. You understand? You're not... you're not fragile. You're not too sensitive. I mean, you've stuck with me for how long? You know this."
She squeezed my hand. "Why are you saying this?"
"Because you need to hear it."
"Lyra—"
"Listen." My voice came out too sharp. I gentled it. "You apologize when you cry. You shouldn't. You apologize when you take up space. You shouldn't. It doesn't keep you safe, Raine, it doesn't. It just makes you smaller."
She was quiet for a long time. The moss-glow pulsed. Outside, something distant groaned—the tree, or the Sleeper, or both.
"Are you leaving?" she finally asked.
The air between us crystallized.
"I won't."
She doesn't respond, it's as if she didn't hear me. She continues to clutch my hand.
My breath hastens. "I need you to take up all the space you want. I need you... to be happy. I want to see you happy. Or... content. Good. Can you do that?"
"I don't know."
"Try. For me."
"Then why are you being so serious? Why does this—"
I couldn't answer that. Instead, I pulled her forward and pressed my forehead against hers. Her skin was cold, or mine was. We stayed like that while the light dimmed further, and the ash circles softly pulsed once—twice—a third time. The spirits witnessed.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet. "Can I sleep here today?"
She was too smart for me. "You'll see me tomorrow," I said. It wasn't a lie.
She paused, and then nodded slowly. I didn't know if she believed me, or simply pretended to. But that was its own kindness. I sighed. "You should go, it's late. I can almost hear the Sleeper now."
"Yes." She stood. The painted patterns on her wings had already dried, set into the membrane. They'd last days, maybe weeks. Long enough.
At the doorway, she paused. "Lyra?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For today."
She left before I could respond.
I sat alone in the circle of ash. The spirits' attention hadn't faded. My death was near.
I didn't change from my bone-white silk robe. White meant the end of a cycle. In other words, it meant fractured beginnings.
I lay down in bed and waited. Eventually, my eyes closed.
I didn't count how many Wraiths I had. One of them came quick and brutal, I was falling from my terrace. That one time I tripped and nearly hit a person in my fall. I'm not sure why I still remember that. Or why it still hurts. Then another dream—the shelter again, children screaming, the Sleeper's rage shaking the world.
I woke between each one, gasping. The ceiling was too close. My wings ached. The sheets were soaked.
By the time it was truly night, the Sleeper rumbled a steady tone in the distance. I was too tired to sit up. I just waited, eyes open, watching the shadows.
And then I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a scent. Just the pressure of attention, focused and cold.
I turned my head. A man's shape stood in the threshold. Black against bioluminescent blue. I had already ripped the curtain down. He didn't move, didn't speak, but I could hear him breathing.
Slow. Steady. Controlled.
His name smelled like sugar.
In his hands was an icy blade.
I asked him a question.
"You've come to kill me, right?"
He said nothing. I glanced at the ash markings on the ground.
"Is your name North?"
He flinched. The ash circles flared. I'd bound them to his name—he couldn't escape. I smiled. "I am the Hermit... my real name is Lyra."
The spirits were watching. They were drawn by the act of naming, tasting the syllables like seasoning. My final rite activated.
"I still remember what you are afraid of."
My spell would work.
He would break.
I would turn his mind inside out.
He would kill me.
I wouldn't flinch.
For I am.
For I was.
For I will always be—