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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

“We live in the storms of change. Crowns fall. Mountains rise. To truly own dominion one must always be an eon ahead. Clouds build over head while people waste moments with affairs of the heart or pocket. You can only distract for so long. Eventually power will rise. Eventually someone else will grasp all the glory.”

The Baron thought it was simple sickness, until she began barring him from the room at random points in the day. This was a woman of society who loved just as much in public as she did behind closed doors with her husband. The night he came back to the room and found it locked, he knew something was terribly off.

When she wasn’t locked in her room, various maids spotted her at strange hours in even stranger locations around the estate. One night, she was spinning around the grand ballroom, her feet dragging along the marble floor, silk nightgown swirling about, dancing to a tune no one could hear. Another night she was found in the library ripping books off the shelves, yelling broken phrases, tearing at her hair, screaming questions into the night — and no one had answers.

Violet, the head of house staff, told the other maids not to worry, that The Baroness probably mixed her sleeping meds with her anxiety pills again. That was until the night Violet herself found The Baroness looking out at the sea, standing on the long balcony at the end of the ballroom. Tilting back and forth, swaying at the edge, her golden hair singing with the wind, laughing as her small frame got closer and closer to falling over the edge. She turned toward Violet, tilted her golden head and sang,

“The children say it’s coming. Nothing can stop it now. If only I could find the book…The army awaits below to save us all. If only I could find the book. You know the Lilith?”

Violet had no choice but to write to someone she knew could help, because she herself could do nothing, as servants were prohibited from meeting the eyes of their masters or speaking to them directly; it was not their place. Their eyes must be kept to the ground and their mouths shut.

Though a part of Avon, the tiny islands were even more secluded than their homeland. The three islands were connected by tiny bridges that no limos from Avon could cross, so carriage travel was not unusual and horses were kept at each of the respective estates. The Baron and Baroness Fawn ruled all of Avon — yet preferred their West Gate fortress to the bustling city.

Violet’s letter left in the hands of a young maid she trusted, and there was nothing to do but wait and hope.

The maid never returned.

Late one stormy night, three weeks later, a carriage tore over the first bridge leading from Avon to West Gate. A terrible-looking thing, black as rot with large metal spikes protruding aggressively from the side, it careened through the winding dirt roads exploding any tree it met on contact. All the carriages were relics from a civil war that many chose to forget, so that now, even the words and symbols inscribed upon them in silver held no true meaning to anyone anymore.

Two frenzied beasts pulled the carriage, their hooves crashing to the ground with purpose, the sounds lost to the banshee scream of the wind. On this night, the rains spilled like falls and the horses slipped and tossed the weapon of a carriage dangerously around.

The beasts were panting endlessly by the time they reached the estate on West Gate, a monstrous structure on the top of a hill, giant blocks placed upon and next to each other to form a castle that needed no turrets or flags, a single tower rising in the middle. Vines had taken over the grounds and clutched the manor, sweeping their grip over most of the high windows and endless chimneys, slowly tearing away at the stone exterior.

The carriage tumbled to a stop as the horses whinnied into the night, and Violet pushed the gigantic, oak door open, letting the storm slip in. Two other maids appeared from behind her and swept quickly down to the carriage. One threw the metal door open with a clang and the other offered her hand. A petite, dark glove met the maid’s hands and slowly a hooded figure in layers of dark cloaks made her way out of the carriage and into the storm, sashaying toward the entrance as if winds weren’t exploding about her.

A long finger touched under Violet’s chin and pulled up the maid’s gaze. The visitor’s hooded cloak was swept away.

“Where is she, my dear?” Nora Vaughn was a beautiful creature, her hair fell in healthy onyx tussles down her back, and her fair skin glowed ivory. An hourglass frame was wrapped in a fine dark green silk corset that, at the waist, exploded into folds of black lace gown falling like tentacles around her.

Violet kept her speech guarded, “In her chambers. The Baron is there as well, my lady.”

Before Violet could stop her, Nora glided past her up the main staircase leading to the second and third levels. Violet smoothed out the folds of her apron, tightened the cap over her hair and followed at a distance.

Not to Violet’s surprise, Nora knew her way through the castle, each shortcut, each hidden door, every secret passage. Any outsider would get lost along the red labyrinth of carpet that sprawled out and mazed its way through the gold-lined halls, but Nora was never an outsider.

The Baron Victor Fawn had the green eyes and lion’s mane hair that fell through his family tree. From the great stories of Avon’s civil war, he was famed a giant, a stronghold on the battlefields. Most were shocked upon meeting him to see that he was lean and didn’t stand much over six foot.

As large as the house in which he and his wife dwelled, was the love The Baron felt for The Baroness. But these days it was only when she was asleep that he could sneak away to his bedroom to love her in silence. A man of power married a woman of power, a man of strength spent his nights with a woman who could ignite the furnace inside. Any fire in her slowly died since the last grand gala they held a year back. Now, when his wife was awake, there was only discord.

And when she finally fell into her canopy bed, exhausted from her mania, she could lay there for days without moving, her skin going pale and wan.

He sat in a grand chair swirling the ice round an empty glass, staring out the window that faced the rolling sea. The spirits had long since slipped down his throat. Behind him his family’s red and gold flag hung. Out of duty he remained in their bedroom, out of respect for the ‘queen of his realm’ did he sit there. But no longer could he bear to look at what she had become.

He faced the two parallel windows, watching maids and gardeners during the day through the front window, or the ships and sunsets through the back at night. He refused to face her bed, for in that bed lay a human skeleton that he couldn’t recognize.

Victor was not used to being uncomfortable and, since his wife had fallen ill, the effects made him second guess who returned the desolate stares in the mirror. The mirror. The maids and even Violet kept unnatural distance; The Baroness had become a disease that seemed to plague all around her.

The intricately designed wooden doors to the bedroom swung open at the hands of two maids. Victor didn’t know how many of these parasites scurried through his passages in his castle, nor did he care — his wife allowed these creatures to work in peace at West Gate. Originally, he thought it best to destroy The Judge and the whole lot of them; his wife was the one who convinced him to let them live. At her wish, they were banished back to their home fortress in the mountains instead of executed. Those who wanted work, well, they became maids and gardeners — to remain silent. Not seen. Not heard.

Any thoughts he had were eradicated as Nora glided in. Violet waited at the door staring at the floor, adhering to the law he’d enacted more as a punishment to their entire pale-skinned mountain kind than anything else. He snapped his finger into the air as a maid attempted to help him out of his chair, but he slapped her away.

“Out,” he boomed. “All of you. Leave us.”

Then there were three.

Nora bowed her head in respect, “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop in for a…visit.”

“You always had a gift for timing, Nora.” The Baron ran a finger around the empty glass as he paced toward the large window. He didn’t bother with chit-chat; if she was here, she knew. “Something has happened to my wife. Any calm in her eyes has been turned to madness. I know those maids can see it, and I can too. Her behavior changed just after the last gala she had a year ago. Our yearly fundraiser for that charity for The Mainlands my wife created. You were here.”

“Of course, my lord. The night The Judge and Blaine appeared swearing cryptic warnings of a future to come. At over ninety he still manages to surprise me.” Nora pulled her black lace shawl around her bare shoulders, slowly circling the room, allowing glances to the canopy bed where The Baroness lay.

“And now this. I heard some maids whispering they believed The Judge placed a curse on her that night. Foolish beliefs of foolish people. He may have slipped a sickness into her; I know his wife, Blaine, diddles with the sciences of the world. I should have killed the old man when I had the chance. I thought he’d rot away in his awful mountain fortress. I don’t care if he built that dwelling almost a century before my family arrived here. His is of a wicked people not worthy of sharing land with me or my kind!” The Baron boomed. Standing, he looked down at his Baroness, who lay shivering under the covers. His eyes drained from rage to sadness as his wife came into his view, “It’s been a slow process. At first, it was a meal spent in silence without her moving her silver, then I would wake up with her side of the bed not grazed. But now, I can’t find her at most hours and then suddenly she will appear ghost-like wrapped up in bed sheets. I find rooms torn apart as if she’s searching for something, pictures ripped to pieces, entire cupboards emptied.”

“May…I approach her?”

The Baron grunted a reply and turned to stare off into the seas that led away from his island of West Gate and the rest of Avon. The eye could only see out so far until the mist became a fog wall.

Nora swept under the giant canopy and whispered, “Hello, old friend.”

The woman she had known as beautiful, with cascading golden hair, bright jade eyes and warm skin, who laughed with such delight that you desperately wanted to hear the sound again, a woman who had earned with her generosity the people’s love — this was not that woman.

The Baroness’ hair clung to her head in spotty strands. Her nails were chipped, broken and dirty, clumps of blonde hair clinging under each finger. Her body was gaunt and her face paler than any moon. Always dressed in the grandest, now a faded gown hung loose around her body, but under the layers of cloth, Nora sensed something.

The Baroness’ eyes shot open at Nora, she gasped and for a second her eyes ignited. In terror, she grasped up toward Nora’s neck. Rage came into her eyes. Nora, swift as an animal, opened her palm and blew a mist of sparkling powder over The Baroness, causing her eyes to roll back in her head. The Baroness slumped down into the mattress.

“What have you done?” The Baron roared.

“I have subdued her. The question isn’t what I have done.” Nora pulled a sheet back and tossed away a few layers of dress to expose the bump. “Your wife is with child, Master Baron.”

The four Bardonian Islands had always been celebrated.

More than a hundred years ago The Baron’s great grandfather, Macon, led the islanders into war on The Mainlands; victorious, he claimed the four islands for his family.

Upon the largest — Avon — Macon built a sparkling city that rose toward the skies called ‘Glory’.

Upon the smallest, a white palace, Jade, for his sister.

Two twin islands rose up between Avon and tiny Jade. Upon the first twin, a tower for his brother to rule in solitude — North Tower.

The last, a home to revel in his own victories — his sword in the ground — West Gate.

The city of Glory sparkled in wonder, with lucrative factories, spiraling towers, sprawling towns. The desire to live there was great, letters and demands from The Mainlands came requesting permission to join this utopia. Upon completion of the city, he immediately built a great port with a mile-high gate, allowing entrance from The Mainland’s cities only to chosen elite. As the city became crowded, Macon desired something even more exclusive. He then turned his attention to the three tiny islands off Avon’s coast. Each island was named for the monstrous home Macon built on it: West Gate, North Tower and Jade. There, his family reigned in peace until they discovered they hadn’t been alone to begin with…there were eyes watching from the mountain.

Though more than a hundred years had passed since Macon claimed the islands, they remained exclusive, any unannounced ships to be allowed passage to and from The Mainland port and Avon’s. Though the population slowly grew, it was all offspring of the rich. Families bent on keeping bloodlines strong and diamonds hanging from their ears.

At the time of Nora’s visit, rumors had been flying around Avon for weeks as to the whereabouts of The Baroness Fawn. Before her illness, The Baroness normally spent half her time in the great city hosting her famed charity galas or helping delegate with her husband. The public adored The Baroness — and her absence was noticed.

After the arrival of Nora and her accurate diagnosis of pregnancy, The Baron did his best to keep the secret of his sickly wife’s pregnancy at bay. But he hadn’t anticipated everything. Once she installed herself at the castle, Nora would leave for a few days at a time, always returning to medicate the crazed woman and tend to the growing fetus.

It was on a day Nora set off to procure powders for creating potions that the horns sounded from the docks of West Gate. The signal announced a boat that everyone around Avon knew and welcomed with praise when it made birth at their port.

Violet was the first to see the boat, and with as much haste as her size would allow, she made her way down the long winding stone stairs and onto the acres of manicured lawn. She stood on the dock, watching as the fog spiraling over the waves split, and a small luxurious ship roared forward.

Violet had planned to use Nora’s absence as a way to find out what was going on behind those bolted doors, it was her job to greet any who approached West Gate. Violet could tell from the pink and ivory flags that this was the ship of Miranda Gray, The Baron’s only sibling, a party-hungry teenager who ruled the island Jade and was adored by the people of Avon for her extravagant parties and generous nature…not to mention her epic beauty.

Miranda’s ship was built by one of her admirers from Glory and was a majestic vessel. Hand-carved flowers and vines flowed colorfully around the entire yacht, and even the smoke stacks were white with small pink hearts, a contrast to the thick black smoke that billowed out.

The beach was crowded with maids who had come down to greet the little ship, as colorful confetti sprinkled around the boat where the few dozen party-goers on board roared in laughter, melodic music filling the air. Where once there was fog and waves, now was a full-on event. The yacht swiftly met the beach as a gold-lined platform smashed into the sand. Violet had timed it perfectly, so she was there waiting with eyes lowered; she knew the other maids next to her were trying to catch a glimpse unnoticed of one of Avon’s own royal family. Violet couldn’t care less.

Laughter and music came from the small portal that separated reality from party and Violet shifted her eyes lower as she heard the merry clicking of heels that could only be Miranda Gray.

“Oh, come now, Violet! We are practically family! I find it more respectful to actually meet one’s eye, it’s so impersonal what my brother has all of you doing, darling.” It came out as dah-lang in her upper class drawl, her voice rich with song, almost musical, but at once the music was gone when Violet wouldn’t shift her gaze. “That means look up.”

Violet’s blood ran warm for a moment as she obeyed the child’s orders. The teenage girl was covered in a giant, white fur that grazed the ground behind, her tiny figure wrapped in a revealing silver gown that clutched every inch of her body. Her eyes sparkled the same color as the blue gems that decorated her blonde curls, piled on top of her head. As she tended to do, she was posed with one arm on her waist and the other hand held out as if she was debating some philosophical matter. If Violet had been allowed to, she would have rolled her eyes.

“That’s better. Now I can greet you properly, darling!” Miranda broke her pose and threw her arms around Violet’s waist as the maid tried to control her anger. “I was never one for these rules. We are all human, or so they say. I don’t care if you were born in Glory or the mountain top of Verakdun. I find conversing with all sorts to be a healthy way to stay in touch. Don’t you agree, darling?”

“Why hasn’t my brother written me recently? I have sent letter after letter. Today is my birthday and on my birthday we always celebrate at West Gate. But this year no invitations have arrived. So, here I am. I brought the party to…”

Miranda hesitated as they neared the house. Even Violet felt the energy shift on the long walk from the beach: there was no music or party to be found in these walls. Even the light seemed to shift. Miranda’s eyes narrowed, confused and curious. “Where is my brother? Has he forgotten my birthday?”

The Baron stood at the grand window in his bedroom gazing over his estate. West Gate was a giant block structure parallel on both sides, with a single tower rising from the middle, as if someone had shoved a large sword firmly into the ground.

The tip of that sword’s handle was where the master bedroom had been from the time West Gate was erected. One window faced toward the front of the house and one toward the back, to warn of attack coming. Over the years, the need for guards had diminished and war was a foreign concept, if that. In her better days, his wife used these windows to observe when party guests were arriving or to catch a maid slacking off.

He had forgotten his little sister’s birthday, his own birthday, any event or party he could think of during his wife’s illness. He would hunt, in private, in the woods when he needed to release aggression and swim the waves when he needed a reprieve. Any reason to stay out of the room with the stench of death in it. A life might have been growing inside his wife, but life itself had been sucked out of her. No matter what lotions and potions Nora tried, or whatever teas and leaves she brought back, his wife remained sick and the baby grew strong in the womb.

“Darling Brother!” Miranda’s voice called out, vibrating off the walls, a joyful sound in a room that seemed to try to shut it out. But that didn’t stop her. She bounced in, her diamonds clashing against each other and her perfume filling the air. “You don’t come and greet your own sister anymore? Especially on her birthday?”

If his sister knew The Baroness was in the room she showed no sign of it.

“Lighten up a little bit, Brother, you look as if we’re in the days of doom!”

He motioned toward the bed, “She’s been ill.”

“Ill?” she sniffed and pouted her pink-lined lips, “Why didn’t you write? I would have been here moons ago with doctors and nurses to take care of her. This room smells dreadful, like some bad foreign incense. Who has been taking care of her?”

“You truly have lost you mind, darling Brother,” Miranda made a tsk-tsk noise with her tongue. “Family should only be trusted with the care of family. Especially when that family rules over an entire kingdom! Not some mountain witch.”

Miranda turned in a blur of fur and diamonds, danced to the bed and flung back the sheets to reveal the drugged, living corpse with a bulging belly. Miranda laughed gayly as if a joke had been told.

“You’re with child, big Brother? How grand!” She twirled back to her brother in dance, “What this house needs is a good party. Nothing more and nothing less. A celebration will bring rose back on her cheeks and some laugher into these halls. Even your maids look like they are doing a death march to the forbidden pass, dear Brother.”

Before he could say no she bounced off into the hallways, “Violet! Violllllet! Glory be, where is that woman? VIIIIIOOOLLLLEETTT!!!!”

Once Miranda had an idea in her mind, she was impossible to stop. Although The Baron cared little for the idea, and Nora protested, Miranda would have her party. With all of Miranda’s energy at work, it only took three nights for the tiny teenager to bring West Gate to life. She sent word to the city of Glory that she wished to have a birthday party. The best vendors appeared offering grand cakes and marvelous trays of exotic fare. The halls were lined in sparkling lights and golden, sheer drapes swung from wall to wall, any candle that could be ignited had been lit, and each fireplace roared with a blaze, keeping at bay the rain that began pelting the windows as soon as the first guests arrived.

Deep from within the ballroom, a band played a dark melody that had the party in a gigantic twist of color. The grand room opened to the air at the end, wrapped by a marble balcony looking over to rolling hills and, winding through them, the rain-swept pathway that led to the sea. On the night of the party, the room seemed half its size as most of Avon’s elite gathered to celebrate the birthday of one of their favorites, and to learn all they could about the whereabouts of The Baron and Baroness Fawn.

Miranda Gray stood at the top of the staircase watching over the ballroom as her guests turned and twirled. A white fur shawl wrapped her bare shoulders, the only thing covering her white gown. Feeling it only appropriate, a tiara decorated her blonde locks.

“Grand party as always, my lady,” a deep, seductive voice purred behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know that Nora Vaughn had appeared.

“Darling Nora! How grand!” Miranda spread her arms and gave a warm embrace. Nora had somehow managed to fasten an emerald silk dress to herself, barely clasped to one shoulder with large jewels. It was almost unnatural how the layers of dress turned around her body in a perfect way. Her tussles of long, black hair were done up wildly, dark eyes glowing.

“A happy birthday to you. Shame about the weather.” Thunder crashed from just outside the end of the grand ballroom. Each lightning bolt ignited the room with shooting lights of blurred color, the lightning catching on the jewels and shimmering gowns.

“No one seems to notice.” Miranda spread a smile, “So, tell me. Why is it I had to bring a party barge here to find out my sister-in-law was not only pregnant, but ill?”

Miranda watched Nora’s face carefully as only her lips moved in response — it would have seemed calculated if it wasn’t so smooth.

“You know your brother.”

“Right. But, darling, how did you know?” Miranda watched as the curtains tore out into the wind and the sea roared, slowly feeling around in her little purse for the letter she had received.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Without looking, Miranda knew the voice, and felt goosebumps spread across her body as she turned to face, as far as she was concerned, the most handsome man in all of Avon: Luke Van Frame, the head of her brother’s guard. Luke was bred from a family that lived on Avon long before both Macon Fawn and even The Judge and his family had come here. Most considered him a savage brute, but Miranda saw past his snarl, and what was there was sacred to her alone. He was a towering man with broad shoulders, a lean body and a face so soft and boyish that he never seemed much like a soldier to her as a girl. That is, until recently, when the large scar appeared diagonally across his face. Behind him stood a dozen men all dressed in long, dark coats and old, but scrubbed tuxes.

“Hey, little diamond,” Luke smiled wrinkling his scar and holding out a beautiful dark rose. Nora gave a knowing smile.

“I’ll leave you, my lady. Master Van Frame, a pleasure as always.” In a swirl of jade skirts, she vanished into the party. Miranda turned her blushing cheek back toward Luke.

“I assumed you wouldn’t have made it,” she said. “My brother had me thinking you were patrolling the edges of Verakdun.”

He motioned carelessly with a hand and his party of men merged into the crowd and the laughter of the gala. He fixed his eyes on Miranda. “Yeah, since that last party I’ve wasted enough time watching The Judge stay at home and eat like a king. Your brother is paranoid.”

“I would be! Imagine. It would be as if someone confined me to that little house on Jade and forced all my people to a life of cleaning floors and chandeliers.”

Luke laughed, a musky sound, “That ‘little’ house on Jade could fit a hundred thousand of the rooms I have lived in.”

“How poetic a refuge,” Miranda had already had a few glasses of wine and wrapped her arm into Luke’s muscle, letting her fingers trace the arm. She motioned, and they slowly walked down a hallway away from the party.

“Do you know that half the time I’m with you, I don’t even know what you’re saying?”

“I’ll buy you a dictionary.”

“It’d take me more than that to learn to understand the way you speak. So tell me, why the party?”

“It’s my birthday, silly.”

He turned her, and gently pushed her against the wall, in a dark spot between the towering torches, the light flickering off her bright cheeks and in her bright eyes. His hand brushed over her drink.

“Happy birthday, little diamond. I’ve missed you.” He kissed her deeply, and she pushed off him, taking a healthy swig from her chalice.

“It’s only been a week this time. Last time my brother had you in those awful mountainsides for months. I can hold off for a week.” She returned the kiss; his warmth spread into her. Miranda might have been young, but she had kissed many men, Lords from The Mainlands and Glory — highly reputable gentlemen. But none ignited her quite like this lowly soldier. As she spread her hands around the back of his head she felt him shiver, and she giggled. But the giggle wasn’t returned; to her alarm, she realized he let out a sigh filled with despair.

“What’s wrong, Luke?”

He pulled his head back and met her eyes, and she saw sorrow deep in them, and regret.

“The Judge knows about The Baroness’ child, Miranda.” He grasped her waist more tightly.

“What? Luke, you’re hurting me,” Miranda tried to move, but his grasp on her tightened. He went in for another kiss, this one hard and desperate. He lingered, savoring her lips, as if it would be the last time he ever kissed her.

“The Judge has been watching all of you. Watching me, too, but hasn’t seen a time to strike. He hasn’t given up. He’s been waiting and he’s finally found his time. So what do you do? You throw a party. Invite all the high lords and ladies of Avon. You gave him his opportunity.” Luke’s face was full of regret, “You may never understand the trade I had to make to ensure you stay alive. I hope one day you won’t just understand, but you’ll forgive me. I do love you, Miranda. When you wake up, all will be different.” Miranda looked into her drink and the small multicolored dot on the bottom was undeniable. Her head danced with clouds as she reached for him, her hands in fists pounded briefly against his chest. As the potion took its toll, her head swelled into dreams and she drifted away.

Violet rushed back into the ballroom, blood freshly washed off her hands. No one in the party would have been able to hear the screams of child birth. The party continued, music pumping, people swinging and dancing. And then, a beat, a break in the music, a hiccup in time and their blood splashed the walls instead of the dancing shadows, screams ignited the night instead of music. One second, the self-proclaimed lords and ladies of Avon were dancing, the next a quarter of the maids had knives in their hands, and the small force Luke had brought drew their blades.

How the fire began, Violet didn’t know. Who screamed first, she didn’t care. As angry at the small birthday girl as she was…she had to find her. It didn’t take long. As she ran down one hall after another, there the girl lay, blood dripped on the small tiara on her head, her body sprawled across the marble floor. But she was breathing — Violet wrestled off the ridiculous fur and swung the tiny girl over her shoulder. A maid tore by her, escaping from another maid wielding a knife.

Madness took over West Gate.

Violet half-dragged, half-carried Miranda further down the hall, to a small alcove where she hoped they wouldn’t be discovered. She gently dropped Miranda to the floor, then straightened, one hand traveled to the small of her aching back. From here, she heard the screams from the ballroom, and peering through the window, she saw, in the dark distance, whipped by rain, small war ships appeared on the seas, a mocking gesture, if anything. There hadn’t been a need for armies in Avon since their own civil war, when the mountains of Verakdun had seceded to The Baron and the rest of Avon.

But why were laws made if not to be broken — why rules given if not to be unmade?

In the ballroom, the rich were being butchered, a blur of maids and soldiers twisted like the savages they were. Blood began to not only splatter, but cover the walls.

Exiting their ships, The Judge’s soldiers came into view on the back lawn. By the dozens, like flies swarming a dead carcass, they made their way up the grass, flooding West Gate. There was a city guard in Glory, but West Gate was completely unarmed.

Turning back toward the hallway, from afar, she saw a gaunt figure outlined through the smoke, heard an awful cackle of laughter that echoed through the air, and she hoisted Miranda over her shoulders again, and ran.

The Judge had arrived.

Violet made her way as only she knew how through the passages, hallways and stairs. She thought she’d be the first, but Nora stood at the door to the master bedroom, her dresses blowing in the wind.

“What are you doing?” Violet called. Nora turned, half surprised to hear the maid speak, but quickly turned her attention back to the room. Violet, with Miranda on shoulder, hurried into a horror scene.

Miranda opened her eyes and winced as her head throbbed with a pain she had never known. Well, maybe after last week’s night of tequila and those archaic pills she found in her aunt’s medicine cabinet…but no, this was worse. Her eyes were blurred and unfocused, her ears ringing madly. It hurt just to be.

Slowly standing in her brother’s master suite, her eyes caught the chaos that raged on either side of West Gate. She stumbled to one side and let her hands fall against the great window that faced the front of the house. All the carriages her guests had taken were in flames or being torn apart. She watched as The Judge’s mad army of wild men raped the night with blood and fire. Maids and the closest of The Baron and Baroness were either trampled in place, or dragged back in to face The Judge.

If there had been a nightmare she feared, it was here. In a moment the game changed from diamonds and silks, to blood and war.

Miranda stumbled to the other side and overlooked the sea, which roared with anger at the night. Waves tossed The Judge’s army vessels back and forth, but missiles didn’t explode from their cannons — fireworks did. There was no opposing force here, and Luke, the man her brother trusted with his men, the man she trusted and loved — proved a traitor.

Then her eyes caught the bed. A frail creature drained of all its color and energy lay in a tangle. She loved her brother’s wife, but she saw no resemblance to her in what lay there. Blood soaked the sheets to the floor, a mess Miranda knew one day she might be cursed to deal with. The bump in the late Baroness’ stomach was gone.

The pool of blood stopped, jumped a yard and continued in a corner where a half broken lamp flickered madly. Contorted there in a mass of legs and arms, lay the great Baron, her brother. She steadied herself against a bed rail and wished for her world to go black again, and in answer her ears opened. Then she heard the screaming, the screaming of killers in the night, screaming of women, men, boys and girls, but not a child’s cry. Where was the baby?

But there wasn’t time to search; the doors of the master bedroom were wide open, and she saw the small party that was gliding toward them. Some held long knives, others torches, but one carried the worst of weapons, power. Before his banishment, as a child, she had been in the company of The Judge — as a girl who was at the end of her teenage years, her skin ran even colder now.

Madness halted, and a purring came from behind her.

“We need to go.” Miranda felt Nora’s hand slip onto her shoulder. She was stuck in some limbo where her brother wasn’t dead, where the grandest of all mansions in Avon wasn’t burning, where she was spinning in Luke’s arms. A boom rumbled the castle and the walls shook violently. Nora shifted her hand and a blue powder brushed under Miranda’s nose — she sneezed — suddenly everything was clear again. They had to go or they’d be raped and murdered. Or, at the hands of The Judge, even worse.

Just past the master bedroom doors the ominous party crashers made their way toward them. The Judge was in view and horror filled Miranda. Violet moved away from them and stood in the center of the room, her large figure sturdy on the floor. There was no emotion in her face, as she tossed off her maid’s cap. Miranda reached out to her and in response Nora whispered, “She’ll be staying, she will bow to a new master.”

Violet decided to remain and greet The Judge. Nora turned into an alcove, and pressed her hands where the walls met in a corner. The wall creaked open, just wide enough to allow Miranda and Nora to slip inside. They ran as quickly as the narrow passage would allow, down the throughway, tumbling down endless rows of ancient stairs. Miranda felt the mansion giving way around them. All of West Gate cried out as piece by piece it ruptured under itself. Nora tore ahead at a speed Miranda could almost not meet. If Nora hadn’t had her nails wrapped into Miranda’s, she would have lost her. Nora pushed open a final small door, and they poured out of West Gate into the ongoing storm.

Thunder shattered over head in the heat of the night, bodies scattered in their path as Nora mazed around them, dodging fireworks and falling pieces of wood and glass. But Nora never stopped moving. They encircled the outline of the massacre, staying hidden in shadows until they reached the waterfront. Nora ducked to the side, stepping into the water, and tugged at a line, bringing forward a small, dark ship from among the reeds and fishermen’s rowboats.

Nora let the portal down, and tugged at Miranda to follow, but before Miranda got onto the ship, she turned. In the distance stood West Gate, a castle built to celebrate life, a triumph of size and visual beauty. Now it burned, pieces of it being torn away as if tears were falling down its sides. Thousands of windows exploded one by one in echo of the fireworks, the night engulfed in red and black smoke. Whatever was majestic here, was now gone.

The last thing Miranda heard before their small ship stole away into the night was The Judge’s laugh. That cold, evil, wicked laugh cut the night into a million pieces and froze hearts. But in this terror, she found a weird comfort…where was the infant? What had happened to the baby?

Glory be! As per Und Regularium 3-124-04: Time between work and curfew has been shortened from one hour to thirty minutes. All violators will be prosecuted to North Tower. This has served as original and final notice. Glory be to Avon. Praise The Matron’s family. Long live Judge Van Nash. May we celebrate his eternal Glory.

unter should have been in bed. But the night was much too wondrous to miss. It was rare that the beach fog was absent and the night sky was visible, spangled with stars. The sand was tiny grains of ice and the water a freeze, but he didn’t care. The sensation against his muscles felt nice after a long day in the mines. He allowed the moment to relax, knowing he only had so long before the police forces would be done with their meeting and back to patrolling.

Tonight the sky ignited in sparkling light; sans fog, each star had the chance to shine its truest color. The dark ocean water played a dazzling song as if diamonds floated along the tips of each wave. He could even see a ship in the distance; normally the ongoing sea fog wouldn’t allow you to see more than a few feet in front you.

Most nights after curfew, he’d sneak out of his boarding house and go down to the sands, taking a chance on being caught, which could mean his life…or worse. There are, in fact, worse fates than dying.

But Hunter loved the beach because it was the only place that didn’t seem so gray to him. Just past the sand were lines of factories and paths that led directly to the mines and back. Smog covered the air turning white shirts black. Even the water that poured from rusty faucets was off since The Judge had ordered some mysterious work on the pipelines.