The War of Nightingale

Chapter 1

The dawn soldier pressed his body against the base of the obsidian tower, the carvings on the wall digging into his back, the whitewashed walls of Rayalis gleaming in the sun that sank towards the black wall. He knew that the sinking sun was an illusion generated by the magic instilled in the barrier by the forebears of the Royals, the same magic that gave them their flaming hair. He knew it would pop back up the second it disappeared over the horizon, creating a spectacular sunset, or sunrise, depending on where you looked. But he couldn't help but savour the feel of the shadows that stoked his rage, that beckoned and called to it as he threw his grappling hook over the top of the wall, letting it catch on the opposite edge. He gave it a few experimental tugs before he started to climb, hauling himself up arm over arm, the dagger on his back a second weight to bear, his white-blond hair exuding beads of sweat down his neck. When he swang a leg over the lip of the wall and heaved himself to the other side, the world seemed to shudder and spin, and he nearly tumbled off, his head spinning, only remaining on by his knee crooked on the edge as he struggled to re-orient himself. Already he could feel a weakness spreading throughout his body. And then his eyes sprang open and saw nothing. He nearly cried out, having only seen black when he shut his eyes to sleep, and even then it was reddish-black. He had never experienced blindness, but this is what he imagined it to feel like. A deep, impenetrable black that suffocated his senses, leaving him vulnerable. His resolve nearly crumbled, but the fire in his chest burnt higher, pushing and forcing to go forward, to keep going, to avenge Darius. The only thing he could see was a hazy mottled white circle slowly progressing towards the opposite horizon as he dropped to the ground, his knees groaning from the impact. His breathing quickened, hot and warm against the thick wool of his mask as his eyes slowly, so slowly, too slowly adjusted. He crouched by the base of the wall, letting the outlines of the landscape fade into view inch by inch, his pupils dilating as far as they could, straining to make out the landscape. It was still incredibly dark, but he could just make out the lines of the trees. The forest loomed forbiddingly, the tree branches reaching out to claw at the sky, the stark brutality of the forest totally contrasted to that of the Dawn Kingdom's grassy plains.

Once his eyes accustomed to the dark, he could see the faint outlines of the forest, edged in silver of moonlight, the chirping of night creatures barely audible over the ringing in his ears. He brushed his hands over the ground, thanking the Royals that his dark skin would blend with the ground, even as he wished his pale blue Dawn clothes were less conspicuous. 

He felt around for his dagger then drew it, the engraved suns gleaming in the first moonlight he had ever seen as the clouds drew back and the moon came out. It bathed the landscape in silver, giving him a little more light to see by as he cautiously ventured towards the treeline, moving in between the trunks as his training instincts kicked in. His steps were nearly soundless as he ventured deeper into the foreign landscape, the leaves crackling slightly under his feet as he made his way through the forest, towards the smell of smoke.

He'd gotten information from the Kaihoko, the best-known source of illicit goods in the Kingdom. He could get you anything under the sun: silverbell, nightbeast heads, any potion ingredient under the sun, not to mention knowledge, at extortionate prices. He'd paid a ridiculous amount, not to mention the equivalent of his arm and leg to obtain it, just to know that the Midnight General would be hunting the legendary White Stag seen near the border here. 

So he could avenge Darius. So he could die knowing that the leader of the band who killed his brother had suffered every inch he did. 
More.

His neck beaded with sweat despite the chill, soaking the back of his tunic, as he stalked through the trees, dagger gleaming cruelly like his eyes, the name Vulcan, his name, etched into the hilt. It was common knowledge that Midnight people only needed fire for warmth, as the moonlight was plenty enough light for them to see. But it gave him an advantage. He could use it. Maybe set their tents on fire. The more dead, the better. He snuck closer, heart beating wildly in time with the pounding of the relentless waves of anger and sorrow and grief against his consciousness, hoping and praying the smell of the smoke dulled his own. Hope that the deadly nightbeasts didn't get him before he finished the job that he needed to do. The forest began to fill with the silverbell flowers the further away from the barrier he got, swaying from the branches, their glow mixing with that of the bittersweet strands, pink and blue and purple all mixing in a gorgeous kaleidoscope. They tumbled around his body, the individual strands hanging to frame him against the perpetual night, the silverbell's fragrant scent washing over him. He'd only ever seen bittersweet once, in Dayschool when he was a Minor, during a history lesson where a Carrier shared the tale of how the Dawn Kingdom was made, and how. Bittersweet was incredibly rare and precious in the Dawn Kingdom, almost impossible to cultivate and grow, making the potions it contained extortionate. He almost couldn't believe that so much grew in such abundance. He almost couldn't believe a place so beautiful belonged to a race of people so evil. They'd killed Darius, so he'd kill one of them. One as important to him as his brother. Strike them as they had struck him, but harder.