Of Immortal Make

Prologue: Part 1

First he sent him away with orders to kill the Khimaira none might approach; a thing of immortal make, not human, lion-fronted and snake behind, a goat in the middle, and snorting out the breath of the terrible flame of bright fire.

Homer, Iliad
8th Century BCE

***

214 post finem

Well, this might not have been my best idea.

The child stopped short before a block of identical brick and timber houses, feeling the cold hard stone even through her fur-lined leather soles and breathing in the crisp chill of an approaching snow.

Windrich Colony was buzzing with its usual fervor this time of year-the Festival of the Light was only a few days away-and she had gotten separated from her chaperone as they made their way through the overcrowded Market District. This annual celebration marked the longest night of winter, and shoppers were collecting ingredients for feasts to be enjoyed with loved ones among oil lamps and candles, the warmth of their glow spilling through open windows to fill the streets and keep the shadows at bay until sunrise.

Naturally, in the final days of preparation, the streets and stalls were chaos and clamor, with arms balancing baskets stuffed with meats, greens, grains, and cheese knocking into the shoulders and heads of roaming children being sought by flustered parents.

So, it was no wonder she had suddenly found herself alone in a sea of strangers.

At least, that's the story she believed-well, hoped-her parents would buy. The truth was, she'd been itching to break free for weeks...

Or was it months?
Years?
My whole life?

And she finally found her opportunity while standing in line with Ansel, contemplating the perfect Festival candy to bring home.

A cry broke through the monotonous hum of hundreds of voices. "Watch out!" it called, as a man lost control of his wine cask, which thumped and rolled rapidly towards them. Ansel, with wits and senses unaffected by age and the ancient scar that marred one eye, pushed her from the crowd and out of harm's way.

She landed on all fours, feeling the burn of jagged gravel scrape her palms and knees, but was otherwise unharmed. She turned to see that the cask had, certainly by some miracle, hit a loose cobble and veered to the right, wedging itself between two stall carts. Over the cries of, "Thank the Light!" in relief, she could hear Ansel frantically calling her name and spot the white of his hair through the crowd.

"Nadiya? Where are you?!"

She had fallen several feet away, and a surge of onlookers had created a moving, pulsing wall of gawkers and busybodies that blocked him from being able to see that she was safe-and out of reach. She brushed her hands on her knees and made to go to him but, upon taking a step, suddenly felt an invisible rope around her belly tugging her in the opposite direction.

This was her chance, and she was never very good at turning down temptation.

But first, feeling guilty at seeing the panic on his usually kind face, she cupped her hands around her mouth. "I'm okay!" she called out, the words carrying towards him on the white cloud of her breath. His head followed the sound of her voice, but she had already turned and run into the crowd.

She broke from the mass a short while later. With no sense of direction and no destination, Nadiya bolted down cobbled streets at a whim, her dark hair whipping around her face and blurring her surroundings. She ran until her legs cramped, and she doubled over panting and letting the sharp, cold air fill her lungs.

She wiped a hand across her freckled nose. Letting out a long exhale, she began wandering aimlessly before stopping at the block of houses. She was perfectly, and purposefully, lost. But maybe, she thought, taking in her surroundings, a bit more lost than I meant.

There was nothing terribly special about this place; it was no different than most other residential districts scattered throughout the Colony. She nodded to herself, resolute that if she made her way here, she may as well explore before innocently asking a sympathetic-looking Good Citizen of the Colony to escort Councilor Vera's lost little daughter home.

A tired-looking man with twins around her age on his heels emerged from the block, turning on the road and passing by Nadiya. She tried-and thought she succeeded splendidly-to act natural, though the man paid her no mind and the brother and sister were more focused on bickering with each other, their matching curls bouncing as they walked.

Once the small family was out of view, Nadiya retraced their steps and entered a narrow side street lined on both sides with houses so close together their walls nearly touched. She was amazed at the sameness of each building-quite a different sight than the homes in the Councilors District. Each was two stories, constructed from what must have been one tremendous batch of brick and lumber. A wooden door at the front of each house was set next to a large, six-paned window, above which sat two smaller windows, all framed by loose, creaking shutters.

And then there was the noise-or rather, the lack thereof. Perhaps it was the proximity of the buildings shutting out the bustle of early evening chores, or that the inhabitants were all out participating in said chores, but Nadiya found the silence to be inexplicably uncomfortable. It was a silence she could feel.

It was then she heard a door softly close behind her, the otherwise unnoticed click of a latch echoing down the road like a call to summons. She turned, but still she saw no one.

Slowly, she doubled back in the direction she came, listening for movement. She closed her eyes and willed her heart to quiet its incessant thudding in her ears.

Then she heard the sound of footsteps-no, shuffling, long cloaks dragging along frozen ground-and opened her eyes. Still not a person in sight. She scanned the houses around her and stopped when the one to her left caught her eye.

In the Colony, each family is designated a home by the Residence Overseer. To ensure no housing disputes, the homes in all residential districts are built exactly the same, the exceptions being the large, multi-family farmhouses in the agricultural districts, the bare-but-functional barracks in the defense districts, and the manors in the Councilors District, which Nadiya's mother describes as "more comfortable."

But finally seeing them up close, Nadiya noticed how, despite their similar structures, each home had decorative touches here and there to bring a sense of individuality and ownership for each family-a pine wreath on the door, a clay pot with a dormant perennial, bright blue hand-stitched curtains pulled tight behind clear, well-dusted panes.

But the house to her left was dull, with soot and grime caking every surface.

Every surface but the handle of the door.

Slowly she approached, her eyes probing the windows for any sign of movement. But even in the encroaching twilight, as candles began illuminating other windows, the ones before her remained dark.

As she neared, she spotted an out-of-place shape above the handle. It was a small, red, lowercase 'e' with the head of a serpent erupting from the letter's tail. And while any trace of paint on the door was scraping and peeling, this symbol-confirmed by a curious scratching with a fingernail-had been freshly repainted.

She was studying the shape, willing herself to memorize its details, when the caw! of a crow erupting from behind the house nearly sent her tumbling backwards. She watched it fly into the distance on jet-black wings, feeling slightly nauseous as it rose higher and higher.

Something spooked it, she thought, swallowing hard.

Nadiya mustered the last shreds of her courage and sneaked into the dark, narrow alleyway between the grime-caked house and its well-kept neighbor. Hard-packed mud lined the ground, helping her reach the rear of the house on feet as silent as a mooncat.

She laid her right hand on the brick, wincing slightly as the roughness irritated the tender cuts from earlier, and poked her head ever-so-slightly around the corner.