1
“You are his children,” he said. “Hear me when I say that you are perfect and beloved creations.”
Flickering torches made shadows dance on red clay walls. There were no windows. The floor was dirt. So many crowded into the room that there was hardly any space to move or breathe. The rumors had spread through the Elder lands: He has returned.
“You who have waited with faith and have fought in our Creator’s name,” the man said. “You are the worthy.”
Marlowe’s hood shadowed her face. She stood against a wall near the archway at the back of the room, an old habit in case of a needed quick escape. She tried to appear relaxed, but tension gripped her limbs. Her heart thrummed. She tried to catch a glimpse of the man, but she could hardly see through the crowd. She saw only a lock of hair, the threads of linen clothes. People around her stood on their toes, craning their necks. Others cried, tears streaming. It was as the prophecy foretold, someone whispered. The world had burned, and now he had come to save them.
“But there is work to be done still.”
Marlowe wasn’t sure why she suddenly found it difficult to breathe, as if the air itself had become too thick.
“There are some,” the man continued, “who hope to tempt you onto a path that leads away from the Creator’s will.”
The person in front of Marlowe probably wasn’t conscious of it, the fact that he had moved just a little to the left, nor the person before him that she had shifted to the right. The movement rippled forward, a sudden parting of the crowd—and there, at the very front of the room, the man sat in Marlowe’s view. He was surprisingly young, Marlowe thought vaguely, maybe only in his thirties, with pale skin and eyes so light that, from afar, they appeared white. His gaze settled on her.
“There are those,” the man said, as if speaking only to Marlowe now, “who steal from the Creator’s power.”
Marlowe swallowed, then pulled at the edges of her hood and turned away, pushing through the crowd that surrounded the exit. The man’s voice followed. “Children, hear me now: This is the Creator’s will.”
She slipped through the bodies that waited, ignoring the glances and frowns. She burst out of the crowd and into the dark hall, and still she could hear the man, the one who called himself Sinclair Lune. “Before I can take you to sanctuary, you must fulfill the wishes of the Creator. You must eliminate his enemies.
“You must kill those who call themselves ‘alchemists.’”
2
The city burned. Buildings cracked and crumbled. Bodies hung by their necks from the railway tracks, fires crackling beneath. Black smoke gushed into the sky until it blocked the sun. White dust rained, coating Ash’s skin and stinging his eyes as he ran. He couldn’t breathe, his throat clogged, and the bodies—people lay strewn in the street, mangled corpses stained red with eyes wide open, mouths parted in surprise. Ash slowed to a stop as he realized who the bodies belonged to. It was his father, again and again at his feet, knife sticking from his ribs—
Ash spun around. A black orb, as large as the moon itself, was crashing to the earth. Its gravitational pull tore apart the towers that still stood, wind whipping debris into its path. Ash heard an echo—heard his name—and when he blinked, his mother stood in front of him, eyes wide with panic as she screamed—
Ash shot up in bed. He wheezed, heart slamming against his chest and echoing in his ears. He was alone. A lazy breeze shifted the curtains of an open window that yellow sunlight poured through. A bird tweeted, and another replied. A nightmare. It’d only been another nightmare.
Ash wished he could let out a breath of relief. Instead, he put his face in his hands, gulping down air. The dreams had been so bad recently that he was afraid to fall asleep. Sometimes it was the destruction of Kensington, the embers of buildings and smoke pouring from flames. Sometimes it was his father, dead on the bridge.
Worst of all was his mother. Ash had rarely dreamed of her before. He’d hoped she would visit him in his sleep after she’d died so that he wouldn’t feel so damn alone—he’d heard that energies of the dead would sometimes do that, visit their loved ones with messages, but she’d never come. Now, she appeared almost every single night. Now, his mother would always shout his name.
“Ash?”
He looked up, startled. Callum hesitated on the threshold. Ash realized what he must’ve looked like in that moment: skin graying, eyes tight.
The other boy dipped his head to enter the room. His dark brown skin looked especially beautiful in the early morning light. Ash’s heart fell, just a little, as he saw that Callum was already dressed in his red button-down and black slacks.
“Are you all right?” Callum asked. He’d probably felt Ash’s panic from the other room. Callum paused, then seemed to think better of it. No, of course, Ash wasn’t all right.
Ash threw off the sheets, damp with sweat. His loose sleeping shirt and pants were wet and cold, too. “Just another nightmare.”
Callum padded across the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside Ash, the mattress sinking under his weight. He rested a hand on Ash’s thigh, thumb brushing his skin. Ash sighed as pale blue light pooled over him. Whether Callum extended energy purposefully or not, he’d always had a way of calming Ash.
“Have you given my offer any more thought?” the older boy asked quietly.
Ash chewed the inside of his cheek. He knew that Callum was only trying to help, this insistence that Ash see a healer. House Adelaide didn’t only heal physical ailments. They can help with emotional troubles, too. Ash wasn’t sure why it annoyed him, Callum’s determination to bring up the topic again and again.
“I’m fine,” Ash said, swinging his feet to the floor.
Callum took a breath and seemed about to argue, but then only sighed. “I have something for you.”
“A gift?”
Ash watched as Callum went to the dresser and pulled out a drawer. He returned with a pair of red cuff links. “I thought you could wear them tonight,” he said.
Callum pressed the pair into Ash’s open palm, cold against his skin. “Thank you,” Ash said, “but these are House Kendrick’s colors.”
“Wearing red could be a sign of your loyalty to me, too, not just my House.” The smile on his face seemed exhausted to Ash. “I’ve made a pot of oatmeal, if you’d like any. I’ll be leaving soon,” he added.
“Ramsay, too?”
“In a little while, I think.”
Ash rubbed a hand over his face, closing his fingers around the cuff links. “I’ll join you in a second. And Callum?” Ash held up his fist. “Really. Thank you.”
Callum gave Ash’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
Ash watched Callum’s retreat, then put the cuff links on the nightstand and stripped off the wet shirt he’d slept in and dropped it to add to the collection of clothes tangled across the floor. Callum had given up on scolding Ash and Ramsay about the mess. “We’re not living in redguard barracks,” Ramsay had said dismissively. “There’s no point in folding clothes that’ll only need to be worn again.” Ash, admittedly, was just lazy.
Ash tugged open the bottom drawer of a faded blue dresser—he’d offered to take the lowest, seeing that he was the smallest of the three—and pulled out his binder to wrap around his chest, tying up the sides. He pulled on a dry cotton shirt and pants, then slipped out into the hall. The Riverside cottage was small. The kitchen shared the same space as the sitting room, and the rustic furniture was just a tad too big for the space. Still, it was comfortable. Cozy. The walls had been painted a pale sage green, and the open windows let in the scent of freshly fallen rain. That with the breeze and golden sunlight … It all felt distinctly like home. The first few weeks after Ash, Ramsay, and Callum had moved in had been filled with soft sheets and laughter. It never ceased to amaze Ash how quickly things could change.
Ramsay leaned back in a chair at the table, pulling off her round spectacles. Purple circles rimmed her eyes. “There you are,” she said. “I thought you might’ve been trying to avoid Callum’s porridge. Not that I can blame you.”
Callum turned to the table with a mug of tea. He scratched out his chair and fell heavily into it. It was a wonder the chairs never collapsed under his weight. “I could always not cook breakfast for you, if you like.”
Ramsay gave the sheepish grin that Ash had started to learn was Callum’s weak spot. “Sorry. I shouldn’t tease so early in the morning.”
“It’s all right. I’m just feeling a bit touchy right now, I think.” Callum tapped the surface of the table. “This tea is for you, Ash.”
It was lavender, Ash’s favorite. He pulled out the third and last chair and sat, watching the steam swirl. Source, there’d been years when Ash dreamed of a moment like this: sharing morning tea with the people he loved and who loved him, free from the loneliness that’d consumed him for years after his mother had died. “Thank you.”
Callum put a hand on Ash’s, idly playing with his fingers. Ash wondered if Callum had told Ramsay about his state, a quick whispered conversation about him. “The oatmeal isn’t that bad, is it?” Callum asked.
“No, no,” Ramsay said. “I just hate porridge. The texture, the moistness…”
“Just when you think you know everything there is to know about a person,” Callum murmured. “It’s a breakfast I had every day at McKinley.”
“It makes sense, given the stress you’re under,” Ramsay said. “You feeling more sensitive, I mean.”
Callum leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his palms over his face. “It can’t be helped.” That had become his go-to line, over the past few months. Quite a lot couldn’t be helped, it seemed. “This position—Creator, I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it’s been especially difficult as of late.”
Ash frowned. “Have there been more attacks?”
“A mob in Glassport attacked a twelve-year-old girl accused of tier-three alchemy,” Callum said mechanically, as if reading off a report. Tier three would’ve required a license for the performance of alchemy that was considered unnatural—not that having a license mattered much, those days. “She and her mother were both killed. Another throng of Lune followers strung up a man in Ironbound, too.”
“Source,” Ramsay said beneath her breath.
“Twenty-three total killings of anyone even thought to be practicing alchemy for this month alone.”
Ash’s temples pounded, headache growing. He gripped the mug in his hands.
Callum continued. “I’ve suggested more anti-mob patrols, more education about alchemy to show the public that it isn’t a threat, but it’s like Edric wants innocents to be murdered. He refuses to approve anything I propose.”
“It’s never easy to change scared minds,” Ramsay said. “Not to mention your brother is a fucking twat.”
Edric still blamed Callum for their family’s death; after all, Callum had helped Ash escape, sparking a thread of events that ended in the city’s destruction. Ash sometimes worried that Edric’s hatred for Callum ran so deeply that the older brother would find a way to have the youngest Kendrick killed, ordering an execution or claiming that Callum’s death had been an unfortunate accident during training. House Kendrick had always been the most brutal, as the house that maintained order and oversaw punishment. Winslow Kendrick, Callum’s father, had been the perfect symbol of cold, unempathetic discipline. He would have undoubtedly ordered the execution of his own son—would have killed Callum with his own hands, even—had he survived Gresham Hain’s massacre.
Callum’s fists clenched as he glared at the surface of the table. “I need to at least try.”
“A redguard commander trying his best help alchemists, of all people,” Ramsay said lightly. “I wonder how that one will end.”
Ash had known about the growing number of attacks against alchemists, of course. He’d seen the reports in newspapers and heard the accounts that both Callum and Ramsay brought home on the rare occasions that they returned.
The two had promised to come back to Ash whenever they could, but recently it’d fallen on Ash to find Ramsay in the Downs or Callum in Kensington (where the city burned and the smell of charred bodies filled Ash’s lungs, and he couldn’t find the words to explain why he hadn’t visited Callum as much in the past few months, only twice in comparison to the dozens of times he’d sought Ramsay’s side—).
Ash had tried to pretend he didn’t see the surprise in their eyes whenever he came, as if they’d forgotten about him entirely; tried not to feel like a burden when promised he would be joined for bed as soon as a meeting was over and papers were signed. Ash liked that his partners had easy access to their shared home. He didn’t like that they were just as quick to leave as they were slow to return.
Callum cleared his throat. Ash didn’t miss Ramsay’s headshake.
“Ash,” Callum said, still holding Ramsay’s gaze. “I—well, I’ve actually been thinking for a while now…”
Ash frowned. “What is it?”
Callum took a breath. “Ramsay and I—”
Ash’s heart fell. He’d never spoken his fear aloud, that the two would realize their love for each other didn’t include him anymore.
“Not now,” Ramsay said beneath her breath.
Callum ignored Ramsay and soldiered on. “We’ve both been thinking that maybe—well, maybe it would best if you didn’t leave the cottage anymore.”
Silence prickled the room. Ash looked from Callum, who sat straight in his seat, to Ramsay, who had leaned away, arms crossed, eyes focused anywhere but on him.
“What?” Ash said.
“Callum thinks it more than I do.”
“But you do agree,” Callum said to her. “It’s too dangerous, and without either of us here to protect you—”
“I didn’t realize I needed protection.”
Ramsay stared hard at the table’s surface. “You’re the son of a man who decimated an entire city—who killed hundreds of thousands of people.”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” Ash said. He surprised even himself with the chill in his voice. His heart tightened when he saw Ramsay’s gaze drop with a pinch of hurt in her brow.
Callum had entered his commander mode, without expression or emotion in his tone. He reminded Ash a little too much of the other boy’s late father sometimes. “Attacks on anyone even suspected of alchemy are on the rise. What do you think will happen to you if word gets out that you’re Gresham Hain’s son?”
The mere mention of his dead father’s name sent a bolt of energy through Ash.
“You wouldn’t only be killed,” Callum said. “You’d be tortured, paraded through the streets by Lune followers—”
“That’s enough, Callum,” Ramsay said.
“Is it?” Callum asked her. “I’m not sure. I really don’t think Ash understands—”
“I’m not your prisoner,” Ash snapped. “You don’t get to order me around anymore.”
Callum flinched as if he’d been slapped. Ramsay’s gaze flitted between the two of them, breath sucked in.
Pressure swelled in Ash’s throat. He swallowed. “Sorry,” he said.
Callum took in his own breath and stood. “I should get going. I’m going to be late.”
Ash was stiff when Callum leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
Callum hesitated, then murmured, “Happy birthday, Ash.”
Ash had asked the two not to make a big deal of him turning nineteen. They both had their own stresses, after all, and Ash had never been the type to celebrate. It was enough for him that they’d come back home again.
Callum kissed Ramsay’s cheek, too, then thudded across the room to the door. He murmured a password and turned the knob. Ash could see the inside of the mahogany Kensington town house office where Callum now spent most of his days.
“I’ll see you both tonight.” He paused. “Please,” he added. “Just think about it. At least until the attacks slow down.”
“Sure,” Ash said, knowing his energy said otherwise.
Callum closed the door behind him. Silence filled the room. Ash hated how quiet the cottage could be sometimes.
Ramsay was watching Ash closely, he realized. “What?”
He half expected a lecture—Callum’s only looking out for you; we both want what’s best for you—so was surprised when Ramsay shrugged. “Your energy feels a little … subdued.”
Maybe Ash could try to understand the concern Callum and Ramsay both showed him. He looked at the nearly untouched tea. It’d become cold now. “I was just thinking.”
“That’s what scares me,” she teased.
He bit his lip but didn’t pause long, especially now that Callum was gone. “I had another nightmare,” he said.
Ramsay clenched her jaw, then pushed back her chair to stand. “Oh?”
“My mom came to me again,” Ash said. He lowered his voice, as if afraid Callum could still hear them through the closed door, though he was hundreds of miles away now. Callum would only worry over Ash more if he knew. “She has a message for me, Ramsay. I know she does.”
Ramsay walked to the counter with her back to Ash. “We’ve already tried, haven’t we?”
“Yes, but—but maybe we’re doing something wrong, or…”
They’d harmonized their vibrations, gone to the higher realms with the intention of meeting Ash’s mother as they had met Ramsay’s parents once before. But each of the times they made their attempt, the two only appeared in Ash’s old Hedge apartment, where his mother had died, higher realms showing an abandoned space with boarded windows and flickering versions of the home that had been taken over by strangers and endless fields, as if Hedge had never existed at all. Ash’s mom never came.
“We could try again—”
Ramsay turned to face him, leaning against the countertop. “Ash,” she said, exasperation clear. “We’ve made six attempts already. The chances of anything changing—”
“Maybe she’s been waiting for the right time.”
“Time doesn’t exist in the higher realms,” Ramsay said. Ash looked away, frustrated, but Ramsay continued. “If she really had a message for you, she would’ve come.”
“What if something or—or someone is keeping her from reaching me?” Ash said. “What if she needs my help?”
“Do you really think someone in the physical realm is stopping your mother’s energy from meeting with you?” She spoke in the logical, know-it-all tone that had once infuriated Ash and was close to doing so again. “If she hasn’t come, the reason is her own. Maybe she’s already returned to Source.” Ramsay hesitated, then added softly, “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”
Ash’s frustration bubbled in his chest. “Then why does she keep coming to me in my dreams every night?”
Ramsay seemed unwilling to speak her theory out loud.
It didn’t matter. Ash picked up on enough of her energy. “It isn’t just a dream,” he said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“So, what?” Ash said. “You think I’m having a nightmare with my mother shouting my name every time I fall asleep?”
“No,” Ramsay said. “I think it’s possibly your subconscious. Maybe there’s something you’re trying to hide from yourself, and your subconscious wants you to pay attention to whatever it is you’ve buried.”
Ash shook his head, unable to look at Ramsay.
Her voice was gentler now, at least. “How much of your desire to meet your mother is fueled by this question of your nightmares,” she said, “and how much is fueled by your desire to distract yourself?”
Ash thought of the black orb, as large as the moon, falling to the surface of the Earth. “It isn’t my anxiety.”
“I know that you turned Callum’s offer down, but—”
“Why do you two act like I’m the only one affected by the attacks?”
Ramsay was quiet enough that guilt pinched Ash. He knew as well as anyone that the past nine months had been difficult for Ramsay and Callum, too. They’d each learned to handle their grief in different ways, and wasn’t it also true that Ash at least didn’t have to worry about commandeering a force of redguards, nor leading an entire House while teaching and finishing his own studies on top of everything else? Ash knew that the two only wanted to help him. He just wasn’t sure he appreciated being coddled and locked away, as if he were something fragile that would eventually shatter, glass shards cutting Ramsay and Callum, too.
Ramsay sighed and turned to the stove and the pot of oatmeal. “Are you going to eat any of this?”
Copyright © 2025 by Kacen Callender
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