Masks of Fire and Shadow

Chapter 2

Cylas

~

"The throne's riches are no more than gilded ash, built upon the bones of those who never sought a crown."

"Cylas..." I can still hear my mother's coo, falsely sickly sweet as she brushes the back of her bony hand across my cheek. It makes me flinch, and I see her facade drop for a split second before a smile creeps across her too-red lips; a wolf with its slaughter.

"Think of your people, Cylas." she always used to tell me. "Think of your power..." Queen Elira, my mother, of Noctyra is a cold-hearted, manipulative bitch. The Ice Queen, her people named her. Even if they'd never dare say it to her face.

Who would force their son into their army as General, and encourage him every second of every day to put his life on the line, just to carry out the slaughter of innocents? My mother.

Right.

I still hear that syrupy, infantilizing voice in the back of my head, as I realize that an ember is steadily smoldering its way happily through the worn toe of my boot.

"Fuck!" I grumble, shaking my leg out to the side before lifting my soot-covered fist to swipe at the sweat dripping into my eyes from my brow. I stood hunched over Garin's too-short anvil, my mind lost in my work. If there was a way to hammer your past into silence, I definitely would have found it by now.

Every strike of the hammer against metal, every spark bursting up from the flames, should've been enough to erase the shadows. Noctyra was a pit I had clawed my own way out of, a place that had branded me in ways I would never shake. And yet, here in Ebonmere, the gods' kingdom, I really almost had myself fooled that I actually was someone else. Just a nameless face, a nobody hidden among the hiss of the forge and the sting of molten steel.

"He's not staring at you, you ape," my jaw flexes as I think to myself. "Just get back to it."

The blacksmith's forge wasn't a throne room, or even a palace, and thank the gods for that. I'm about as far from a prince as I can be here; I'm nothing more than a stranger. Just another man following orders, large hands calloused from back-breaking, arduous work that leaves no room for pride or reputation.

Garin, the dwarf, hadn't cared where I came from. He'd watched me, the suspicion sharp and accusatory in his gaze when I'd shown up on his doorstep one morning, filthy and damn near skeletal from hunger as I begged him for any kind of work. But in the end, he'd handed me a hammer, a sorry-looking hunk of metal he'd excused as a sword, and a chance to start again.

The life, the sense of self I'd left behind was supposed to be buried. Dead. Forgotten.

My father's cruel, veiled plans, my brothers' spilled blood, all of it I had left to rot in Noctyra. I had been molded into a weapon from the start, produced and raised to see everything and everyone as a means to an end. A threat. That was the Varynox way, and so mote it be. I had gotten good at it, too- the killing. Too good, maybe. And therein lies the problem.

My father had a taste for collecting monsters, and I am easily the sharpest one he's ever honed. He wanted control over the fae courts- the world- but I wanted something different. Something that doesn't involve a leash around my neck. I had grown tired of the endless, mindless slaughter.

Now, I'm nothing more than an apprentice, just an ordinary man with soot-streaked hands, broad shoulders that ached from a day's work, and a penchant for pissing people off to keep their minds away from any hint of conversation.

Garin is rough around the edges, but damn well knows his craft better than any person I've ever met in my long years. I'd been cocky at first, thinking I could handle blade smithing easily. Or at least take to it quickly.

The forge had ever so graciously taught me differently. There's a rhythm here, routine, a steady focus that doesn't leave room for arrogant pride. Molten steel doesn't care who you were or are, or what you've done in your life, who you've hurt; it only responds to skill and patience.

I work to a tempo and pace that I've carefully cultivated specifically to drown out memories. Voices. The clash of my hammer at the blades echoes my brothers' laughter that had always turned into something sharper, something dangerous. The cold thrill of quenching signifies the bark and power in my father's voice reminding me that the blades belong to me, that I was born to wield them effortlessly, so why wasn't I trying harder?

Noctyra has a niggling way of binding itself to your very soul, marking you even if you left it all for dead. Especially those who were now dead.

This kingdom, though, is so very different. Ebonmere has its own hushed secrets, its gods and high lords, its own set of rules, but it's quiet in a way Noctyra has never been, and could likely never be. There's no intrigue here, no endless war over dominance in a pathetic pissing match. Just fire, steel, and uncomfortable silence.

Just the way I like it.

I often find myself holding a worked blade in my hand, weighing it, testing its balance, and wondering if maybe I could've- should've- chosen differently back then, in my past life. The dead Cylas.

But every time, I know it's a lie. I had always been exactly what they'd wanted. A weapon, a blade sharpened on the edge of ambition and violence in the guise of leadership and praise. There had been, and would never be, any other way about it. It's just what it was.

Another swing from my hammer, another hiss from the forge, another eardrum-piercing blow that sends sparks scattering at my feet. Garin glances over from his bench, grunting once in approval, and I nod once back to him, hiding the quiet satisfaction his affirmation sparks in my chest. This is work I can live with, something real that keeps my demons occupied, hands steady, and muscles burning with the kind of exhaustion that feels deserved and earned. In this life, in this world, I'm no one, and that's exactly what I want. The life of a ghost.

Or at least, that's what I tell myself.