Ch 1-3 (Original Draft)

1: The Train through Nowhere

Mazin woke the morning before the Bright Gathering uneasy. This in itself was not unusual: Mazin was almost always uneasy about something. This particular disquiet, though, was something else entirely. It was more urgent than the general anxiety they felt most of the time. It was something…more. It was a creeping sense of dread that left a foul taste in their mouth and a tremor in their chest. It was the sense that, in contrast to their usual baseless worry, they knew why they were anxious and had simply forgotten.

It was entirely possible, of course, that it was simply a product of their dreams.

They had dreamt that they were floating in a great and dark ocean, where the only source of light was their own body. They could see for miles and they could see that they were completely alone. But they were hounded by the sensation that they were being watched…and more than that, being hunted. They knew vaguely that they had been swimming for what must have weeks and that they were no closer to their destination. The urge to run was overwhelming at times, but they remembered their mother’s lesson: never move quickly, when you are being hunted. Most predators who hunt in the deep are blind, and rely on the sound of a pounding heart and the moving currents of the water to find their prey. So Mazin moved slowly, but no matter where they went and no matter where they cast their eyes, they could not find—nor escape—their hunter.

They had woken up violently, and it had taken them a moment to reconcile their mind to the reality of the waking world. For several long moments they could hear a faint whisper in the back of their mind as their connection to the DeepDark washed away. The insistent roar of the dark pull faded into the familiar and much more mundane roar of the ocean against the shore.

Ordinarily Mazin would have found some small comfort in the sound, but this morning the normalcy felt foreboding and wrong. The dreaming itself was cause enough for disquiet, and they wanted very much to pin all the blame on that.

They were not meant to dream. Their mind was too much like their mother’s, who lived in a world of magic and shadow, and entering the world of dreams like humans did was a dangerous endeavor.

On top of that, Mazin hated sleeping.

They’d been lying awake for nearly four hours, torn between the restless anxiety that tried to push them upright and the growing dread that weighed them down like an anchor. Getting up would mean acknowledging the responsibilities they’d accepted, and acknowledging those responsibilities meant having to fulfill those responsibilities. And—selfishly—Mazin didn’t feel like doing that.

Their troubled dreams were not the only cause for dread today.

It’s an honor to represent your coven at the Gathering, they told themself for the thousandth time, and it didn’t comfort them any more than it had the first.

They shifted their weight onto their shoulder and pulled their knees to their chest, curling up like a child in their hammock. Perhaps that was all the dream had been. Mot had always told their sister that going to bed upset could cause nightmares, and Gods knew Mazin had gone to sleep the day before upset.

The Gathering…an honor. Just thinking about it made Mazin’s chest feel heavy and hot.

Mazin knew the second the first star faded from the morning sky. Habit forced them out of their hammock before they’d fully overcome their dread and for a second all they could do was stand uncertain in the blackness. Their mind tried to catch up to their body’s routine movements, and they longed to remain a few more minutes wallowing in their fears.

They didn’t, though. Morning was coming, and Mazin needed to prepare.

They were careful and quiet as they moved through the bedroom; Mariam slept only a few feet away in her own hammock, which was almost too small now for her quickly widening frame. She slept like the dead, quiet and completely still. Mazin stopped for just a moment beside her, as they did every morning, and they held their breath. Only in total silence could they hear Mari breathing, and only when they heard her breathing did they relax. Never in her nearly thirteen years had their sister ever stopped breathing in her sleep, but part of them was convinced that one morning they would wake up and her stillness would be absolute.

The room they shared with their sister was far too big for just the two of them. The only thing that kept Mazin’s agoraphobia at bay was the memory of those hellish years when it had been them alone. They reminded themself constantly that it could be worse. They’d tried to combat the wide space by filling it up with clutter and awkwardly placed furniture. All they had really accomplished was making the trip to the kitchen every morning that much more dangerous.

They slipped from the bedroom as quietly as possible, which wasn’t very quietly at all. The old wood of the house creaked and groaned even beneath their light steps.

Right outside their private bedroom was the main bedroom where other members of the Setthe family slept. Ordinarily it would be practically empty, as only two of their aunts and their three grown children lived with them fulltime. Today, however, Mazin could barely move for all the bodies in the room. Family members they’d never met and never heard were lying about in hammocks and baskets. Half had come for Tami’s funeral and to hold vigil for her departed soul, and the rest had come for the Gathering.

Mazin had to stand for a moment and compose themself before braving the room. A group of people this large, even if they were all asleep, made their heart pound and their head spin. They crept around the outside edge of the room, avoiding anyone who moved too much or too little or who had any chance of rousing at their proximity. Several times they froze as someone rolled over or mumbled in their sleep, but they managed to cross the large room un-accosted.

A thick curtain hung over the arched entryway that led from the bedroom into the communal area, heavy enough that it made a soft thump when Mazin dropped it back to the ground after stepping through. They paused again, holding their breath to make sure no one had woken up at the sound. After a few minutes more of silence, they went on.

This room, like the previous one, was domed and spacious, and the wood groaned against the wind. Mazin stuck to the wall here too, though this time it was due to the same anxiety that made them clutter up their room. This room was too big for the few people who used it, and the minimal furniture that they used.

The entire house, really, was too big for them. It had, once upon a time, been the flagship of the Setthe pirate fleet before they’d settled on the islands. There were a hundred conflicting legends about how it had ended up beached, but however it had happened, the family hadn’t let it go to waste. It had been converted into a home fit only for the Queen of the Setthe family, and for generations now it had housed her and her family. Or, in this particular case, he and his.

It still held the same general shape and layout it had before, as only minimal remodeling had been done, which made it easy to guess what had been what. Mazin was fairly certain that this room had been the cargo hold, or a good portion of it. It was large enough to hold almost the entire clan almost comfortably, though Mazin tried not to think too hard about what the room would feel like when it was full of people. They were sure to have a sample of that nightmare later today, and they weren’t looking forward to it.

Beyond the communal room was the kitchen, Mazin’s destination as it was every morning. The kitchen was just as big and empty as the rest of the house, but Mazin had decided that such spaciousness was acceptable in this case. A large kitchen was vastly preferable to a small one, and on the rare occasion that the entire family came together to cook, Mazin had been grateful for all the extra room.

The rest of the house was still. The sun had barely begun to darken the sky from pitch black to inky grey, and no well-adjusted human would be moving around at this hour. Luckily, Mazin was neither.

It wasn’t unusual for Mazin to be the only one moving around in the dark of night and early morning. They didn’t need to sleep like their human family members, and their nyx blood made it difficult for them to find any rest in the night. In the mornings, they took it upon themself to make breakfast and prepare whatever needed preparing for the rest of the day. It was a comforting routine, and they’d upset it horribly in preparation for the Gathering. They’d actually gone to sleep the previous night and tried their best to sleep all the way through the night to match the schedule of the others. They’d obviously had mixed success, and the dull ache of exhaustion and wrongness clung to their mind.

They went about making breakfast with stubborn gusto. Even without thinking about…the Gathering, they would already have been upset with everything going on. Having this many people in the house was terrifying. They never knew who was coming into the room or when or why. The fact that it was because of a funeral was even worse. Mazin had walked in on no less than twelve people openly weeping, and it was a nightmare. It would be easier if they’d personally known Tami, but the fact that they were surrounded by people mourning someone they’d never met before made the ordeal that much more painful and awkward.

All that was familiar and predictable in their life was falling apart, and Mazin was trying very hard not to let it bother them too much. They were failing quite spectacularly. The fact that they’d actually slept and dreamt the night before was testament to that. Mazin almost never had dreams, or at least not real ones like humans had. Their mind just didn’t work that way.

“Don’t think about that,” they mumbled to themself. Sometimes the only way they could get themself out of their spiraling thoughts was to talk their way out. “It’s not important right now,” they continued. “All that’s important right now is that breakfast gets made. Just…make breakfast.”

Yes. That’s what they needed to do right now. Just make breakfast.

There was already a pot on the fire pit with leftovers from the night before waiting to be reheated. All they needed to do was add more meat—something not fish, preferably—and some broth and it would be ready for when the rest of the family woke up.

There was some chicken in the pantry, already baked and chilled. Though Mazin’s stomach turned at the sight of it, they dutifully brought it down, tore it into small chunks, and dropped it into the lukewarm stew. There were already various other meats and vegetables floating around, some of it having stewed so long that it practically fell apart when they stirred the pot.

Broth was in a huge tub by the window, which Mazin had never understood. What if something blew in while the blinds were raised? That was an entire batch of broth ruined by a stray leaf or something. It wasn’t their decision, though, so they just filled the bucket and ran it back and forth between the tub and the pot a few times until the liquid was nearly overflowing, and the concoction within wasn’t nearly so thick.

Once the food preparation part was done, all that needed doing now was to heat it up. Normally Mazin would wait a bit longer before feeding the fire, but they didn’t want to have to be here when the rest of the family woke up. They carefully dropped a few logs into the pit and poked them until a healthy blaze danced beneath the blackened bottom of the pot.

Ordinarily, Mazin would sit with the soup until the first person came to serve themselves. But not knowing who was coming or if they’d know them, they couldn’t make themself stay. Besides, someone might ask them to eat some soup too and their stomach turned at the mere thought of it. They’d been living on the island for nearly ten years now, and they still didn’t understand having meat for breakfast.

Instead, they found the pantry they shared with their baba, full of foods more like that of their homeland, and took their breakfast from there. They grabbed some sweetbread and some dried fruit, and they retreated. They didn’t go back to the communal area, knowing that the chance of running into a stranger there was just as high. Instead, they retreated towards the back of the kitchen and ducked through another heavy curtain. They descended a short and narrow flight of stairs and were met with an actual door that required they physically turn a handle and push it open—a novelty here.

For all that he adored his husband—and by extension his husband’s culture—Mazin’s baba still clung to the country he’d left behind. Mazin, too, was too accustomed to life in Xeneth to completely let go of every custom they’d grown up with there. Their shared cultural nostalgia manifested in many ways, some subtle and some not so much. The way they dressed, their accents, the fact that they used finger signs as they spoke…these were all blatant tells. Other things, such as eating sweet foods for breakfast, wearing warm tones year-round, and seeking small and intimate communal areas rather socializing in large open spaces, were less…obviously foreign and more just generally considered odd.

This room, however, was an obvious homage to their homeland. Rather than couches or benches, there were large plush cushions scattered around to sit and lie on, piled up and topped with attractively patterned quilts. Everything was decorated in red and gold and yellow and orange, with splashes of black or silver to keep the color from getting overwhelming. There was no fishing net to be seen, nor anything even remotely aquatic in nature. That was Mazin’s sole issue with the décor, but they knew better than to make any noise about it.

They chose a pile of cushions near the back of the room and settled down. It took them nearly five minutes to arrange the pillows and their limbs and their clothes and the quilts in such a manner as to be comfortable enough that they could eat their breakfast. This was only a small break from routine—Mazin came down here any time they felt too overwhelmed to deal with the entire family at once, and that wasn’t actually uncommon. They found the silence here safe.

Or they would ordinarily. Flashes and impressions from their dream still lingered in their mind and they found themself eyeing the growing spots of light in the room suspiciously.

Mazin finished their light breakfast and sat in silence for several hours. They focused on the sound of the ocean that now danced slightly above them, and tried to keep their mind empty of anything that could cause further anxiety.

After a long while, they heard a familiar step on the stairs. He stepped heavy with his right leg and dragged his left foot across the top of the step. There was a thump as he fell against the door, a few moments of slow fumbling, and then Mazin’s baba gracelessly fell into the room.

Still half-asleep, Hai didn’t acknowledge his eldest child at first. He crossed the room like a man dreaming, falling heavily onto the biggest pile of cushions. For a few moments, it looked like he might just fall back asleep, which he often did. Like Mazin, he’d opted for fruit and bread rather than soup—and like them, he would probably agree to also have a small bowl of soup later when the rest of the family woke up, despite his distaste for it.

They waited a few minutes before saying anything to greet him. They didn’t want to startle him, and their baba was very easily startled.

“You’re awake early,” they said slowly, softly. Their voice was hoarse and rough still from sleep, and they tried to cough discretely to clear their throat.

It was the cough, apparently, and not their words, that got their baba’s attention. He twitched and opened one eye, looking at them for several long seconds before he seemed to recognize them. He sat up slowly as if his body was weighed down by chains, and slumped forward. He smiled and it only made him look more melancholy. The white tattoos on his face had always reminded Mazin of a crying caricature, and he wore them well. He was broad shouldered and tall, but Hai always slumped and dragged his body around like his sorrow had a physical weight.

“The sun sees you,” he greeted, and the warmth in his tone was nowhere near as forced as the rest of his presentation. He reached out a lazy hand and they leaned over to lay their palm over his. His long finger curled over theirs, and Mazin was struck as always by the difference between them.

Mazin looked nothing like their baba. They took after their mother, as all darklings did and so they barely even looked human. They had their father’s curly hair and peculiar build and soft voice, but their greyish skin, huge dark eyes, sharp teeth, and flat nose made them stand out even among their family. Only their tattoos marked them as kin, but those were meaningless to anyone unfamiliar with Xeneth designs. Many people who came to visit them looked at Mazin like some kind of strange exotic pet rather than as Hai’s child.

They wondered if he thought about it as much as they did. Probably.

“The sun sees you,” they responded in kind, and then, “You look exhausted, baba. You should go back to sleep.” They intended their tone to be somewhat teasing, but as usual it came out flat and serious.

Hai took no offense at their tone, by this point accustomed to their lack of control over their expression. He just grumbled and shook his head. “I’d love to, but your father snores like a storm.” He broke off with a yawn and nibbled at the berries he’d taken for breakfast. “Besides, I’m…well, you know. Didn’t sleep well.”

Mazin knew well. They may not look much like Hai, but they took after him in almost every other way. They were both needy, and melancholic, and too often overwhelmed with anxiety and nameless dread.

Their similar dispositions had made for an interesting life. Hai panicked often about small things and his anxiety had ruled Mazin’s childhood. It had only been the two of them for a long time after Mazin’s mother had left, though change had come almost immediately when Hai met Mot. Now, Mazin liked to think that they’d both mellowed out to some degree. It was hard to worry too much when Mot was around. He was confident and boisterous, and optimism came to him easily. It was lucky for all of them Mariam had taken after him rather than Hai, and the family was evenly divided between gloomy and upbeat.

Hai yawned again, catching their attention. He looked at them silently for a very long time, and they recognized the expression on his face as one they themself wore quite often. He was searching for precisely the right words to avoid offense or confusion.

Finally, he settled on saying, “Your braids look nice. They held up overnight.” There was a glimmer of pride in his eyes, and his tone betrayed how excited he truly was about the development. “They look wonderful.” His voice broke slightly on the last word, but he resolutely held their gaze as long as they could stand it.

Mazin’s hand crept up self-consciously and they turned their eyes away after seven seconds. “They have,” they agreed, not sure what else to say without sounding rude. They were still trying to get used to the feeling of the braids, which had felt almost painful when they’d first been put in. They didn’t feel like ripping their hair out anymore, but it was still profoundly uncomfortable.

They never wore their hair up or back or in any fashion other than the way it grew. When Mazin had been chosen to go to the Gathering, Hai had insisted that they wear their hair in a traditional Xene fashion like he did. It had taken him the better part of a week to convince them. They’d spent much of the previous night with their head bowed, allowing him and Hadil to twist their hair into the complex and meaningful braids. Later today, before they left for the Gathering, they would probably dedicate another few hours to letting him tie in bells and beads to show their status.

They didn’t understand why this was so important to him, but they knew that they’d never actually planned on actually going against his wishes and their arguments against it had been empty from the start. Hai had cried enough for one lifetime, and it was stupid to cause grief over their hair, no matter how uncomfortable it felt.

“Are you…excited? About…today?” he asked. The question was halting and hesitant, and they both knew the answer without Mazin having to answer.

“Yes,” they lied.

They ate in mostly comfortable silence. Every now and then one of them would make a casual observation or remark, though these came with less frequency as activity began to pick up above them.

The Setthe clan was waking up. Mazin’s father and sister would be up and about soon, and wondering why Mazin and Hai were still hiding out below. Ordinarily, Mazin would be the first to brave the world above-ground, popping out to have a conversation with their aunts and make sure it was calm enough for Hai to come up after them. The louder it got, however, the less inclined they felt to venture up. The noise was growing so much that it felt like a physical thing, like an encroaching wave of thick stuff that was building up against the door.

Mazin began to tug at their braids not quite anxiously. When that failed to ease their twitching skin, they began to rock slowly back and forth.

The door cracked open, and a small head poked through. Bright eyes and a headful of wild curly hair came into view, and Mariam grinned at her baba and older sibling.

“I knew it! I told you they’d be here!” Her loud voice was like a slap against Mazin’s sensitive ears, and they clamped down on the urge to shoosh her.

Mariam stepped inside, all energy and an easy smile, somehow managing to make the already colorful room even more vibrant with her presence. Mazin was convinced that her stillness in slumber was entirely to make up for her vivacity in wakefulness.

The open door behind her let in the buzz of conversation and the powerful aroma of a traditionally Aren breakfast. There was a bit of soup on her chin that made Mazin’s skin crawl to see. She wasn’t close enough for them to wipe it off, and they had to settle for aggressively rubbing at their own face in the hopes she would understand their discomfort.

She wasn’t even looking at them. She had eyes only for their baba right now, and she launched across the room to crash into him, sending them both toppling over into the cushions. He weakly wrestled with her, but was no match for her overflowing energy and zeal. Her squeals and his breathless laughs overpowered the din drifting in from above, and this comforted Mazin not at all. They pulled their knees to their chest and put their hands over their ears, which helped a little.

“Gentle, gentle,” a voice scolded Mari, a few seconds before the body caught up. A tall dark woman with large dark eyes stepped into the room after her. Not their father, but their aunt. “Your baba’s a fragile flower, to be cherished,” she said teasingly, and Hai found enough strength to wrestle an arm away from Mari and throw a pillow in her direction.

Hadil’s eyes found Mazin first, though she still managed to dodge the projectile thrown her way. She smiled at them and closed the door gently enough that they didn’t hear the wood slam.

Hadil’s face resembled Mazin’s more than their baba or sister, despite being fully human, but even she had a mortal beauty that they lacked. Her skin was dark and smooth, and made that much darker from a life lived under the desert sun. Pale tattoos twisted around her shoulders and face almost identical to the ones Mazin and Hai sported across their bodies. Her eyes were large and black, and framed with curling eyelashes that were shadowed beneath a thick brow. She had a strong, wide nose and a strong wide mouth. Her thick, curling hair was pulled back into many thick intricate braids with colorful beads and bells woven in.

Mazin had always thought that Hadil looked like the kind of woman that, centuries and centuries from now, humans would still look at and admire for all the statues and paintings that had been made by lovestruck artists to capture her beauty.

She was far more animated than any piece of art, however. She often joked that the reason Hai was so reserved was because she’d talked so much in the womb, and had stolen up all the words before they’d even been born. She smiled easily but slowly, talked carefully and loudly, and was everything a woman should be, by Xene standards.

“The sun sees you,” she greeted them slowly. Almost everything Hadil said was said slowly. She was not like Mazin, who spoke with all the hesitance of a low tide, nor like Mari, who was as swift and unrelenting as the stormy sea. She was a desert witch born and raised, and she took her cues from the slowly shifting sands of her homeland. She questioned nothing, and doubted nothing. She simply moved on steadily. “You were up early this morning…even for you, I think.” Her voice rose as if she was asking a question, though the sentence didn’t make sense as a question at all.

Mazin’s head tipped to one side, unsure how to respond.

“I heard you talking to yourself last night,” she explained. She crossed the room with a grace that none of the rest of them possessed, the result of confidence and a dancer’s background. She lowered herself onto a cushion near the exit, spreading herself out comfortably across the cushions. “Of course, hearing you talk at night is not that big a deal. Except you were supposed to be asleep last night. Last I checked, you never talked in your sleep.”

“Oh…” Mazin dropped their eyes, which had been resting on her forehead. “Bad dreams,” they explained before they could think not to.

They realized their mistake an instant after Hadil did. Her eyes darted away to look at their baba and back to them, one eyebrow raised. They winced, and signed without speaking aloud, Maybe he didn’t hear. With Mari’s chattering, it was entirely possible he hadn’t been listening to them. After making sure Hadil understood the despair in their eyes, Mazin flashed a quick glance his way.

No such luck. Hai was staring at them with wide, owlish eyes. He managed to hold their gaze even as he wrestled an energetic Mari into submission.

Their stomach dropped. They shouldn’t have said that, not where he could hear. Their baba had been trained as a Seer, and even though he’d left that school of magic—and all witchcraft—in his past, he’d never managed to shake the paranoia that Sight often instilled. Every bad dream or ominous happening was cause for panic and intense examination, and the last thing Mazin needed was their baba in a panic the day they were leaving for the Gathering.

Before anyone could say anything more on the subject, Hadil spoke up loudly. “Mariam, do you have everything packed for the week?” she asked, adopting that stern motherly tone that made everyone under the age of twenty-five within earshot stand up a little straighter.

Mari rolled off of their baba, breathless. She collapsed in a pile of long limbs on the floor, still laughing to herself.

“All packed!” she confirmed breathlessly. “Mazin helped me! I’ve got clothes for…for eleven days!” she said, holding up eleven fingers.

“Oh? You’re only going to be gone for six.” Hadil looked at Mazin briefly, more amused than upset.

Mari huffed. “I know! But Mazin said—and I quote—” Here she deepened her voice and spoke softly, trying to imitate Mazin’s slow and breathless way of talking—“‘Mari, you dirty clothes like a cat. You’ll go through two outfits a day at least.’” It was a passable imitation.

“You do,” Mazin insisted, eager to change the subject. “I’m sure you’ll have to change before we even get to the train.”

Mari let out an indignant huff and without any warning launched herself at Mazin. They immediately wrapped their arm around her and rolled over so they ended up lying on top of her, effectively ending her game before it began. She let out a dramatic hacking laugh and made a valiant play at struggling. After a few moments of futile wiggling (Mazin was short, but dense), Mari wheezed loudly and flopped dramatically onto the ground, admitting defeat.

They could feel their baba’s eyes on them as they play-wrestled with Mari, and they tried to ignore him. He said nothing, but they were pretty sure they knew the expression on his face. That was the “I’m definitely going to corner and interrogate you about what you just said when we’re not in the presence of a young child” look.

“I hope you two won’t be like this at the Gathering.” Hadil reached over and placed her hand on Mazin’s head. “You’re going to be representing not only your coven, but your family.”

Mari huffed and wriggled out of Mazin’s grip. “I thought it was the other way around,” she said with all the confidence of her twelve years. “I thought we were representing not only our family, but our coven.”

“Who said it like that?” Hadil asked, treating the question with a seriousness it didn’t warrant. “That’s ridiculous!”

They argued good-naturedly back and forth for several moments, but it all went over Mazin’s head. Their brain got stuck on ‘the Gathering’ and the anxiety they’d been semi-successful in pushing away returned full force.

It was an honor to represent your coven at the Bright Gathering. It was not necessarily an honor to attend—every witch worth her salt made a concerted effort to attend at least one Bright Gathering in her lifetime. But to be chosen by your Matron to represent your entire coven in her stead...that was an honor usually reserved only for Seconds or Thirds and Mazin, magic-less and nonhuman, wasn’t even in the running.

It was an honor they didn't want, but it was an honor nonetheless.

Witches very rarely gathered en masse, especially not on the continent of Kiera where the practice of their craft was often punishable by death. When they did come together, it was almost always for a Bright Gathering. Held every thirteen years, the Gathering was a time when entire covens came together and exchanged news and stories, shared discoveries and warnings, and put aside their differences for a week or so of festivities.

The main event of the Gathering, of course, were the Trials, when fledgling witches were tested on their abilities and proved themselves worthy of joining their sisters as fully realized witches. Given the span of time that passed between Gatherings, hundreds of witches were Tried at once, and it was usually quite a spectacular affair.

Mazin had only ever been to one Gathering, and they hadn’t ever planned on repeating the experience. It wasn’t as if attendance was mandatory. They didn’t think their baba had ever gone to a Gathering, except for when he took his Trials. He certainly wasn’t going to this one. And Mazin would gladly have stayed with him, if their father’s distant cousin hadn’t gone and gotten herself killed trying to sail in a storm.

Immediately Mazin was horrified by the venom of the thought and composed a prayer to Tami’s soul begging forgiveness.

The Setthe clan was huge, and Mazin didn’t personally know most of them, but it was still shameful to think so flippantly about the death of a family member. Tami was only distantly related to Mot but they had been very close. He had chosen to remain behind with the rest of her immediate family and hold vigil for her here on the island rather than attend the Gathering and risk missing the departure of her soul.

As soon as Mot decided not to attend the Gathering, he ought to have sent his Second in his place. Unfortunately, his Second was Mariam, and she was twelve. Some witches were cold enough to send their child-princesses to the wolves, but Mot was kinder and cleverer than that. Rather than send his Second or even his Third as head of the coven, Mot had done what he did best: he defied tradition and made several metaphorical rude gestures in the metaphorical face of the other Matrons, and he’d sent Mazin, his non-magical stepchild as the ceremonial head of the coven. While part of Mazin rejoiced in being part of what was essentially a giant “Fuck you,” to the witching community, most of them resented having to actually be a part of it.

The very idea of walking in front of a crowd of people as some sort of authority figure was enough to make Mazin’s head spin. They couldn’t even comprehend having to put on a farce of confidence or normalcy for a week straight.

Mari grabbed their arm and tugged hard, jerking them roughly out of their thoughts, which had begun to spiral.

“Don’t you think, brother?” she demanded and Mazin, without the faintest idea what she was asking them about, mumbled their agreement. Her entire face lit up and she let out a triumphant, “Ha!” and turned back to Hadil with a smug grin. “See? Mazin thinks so too!”

Hadil laughed. “You know damn well they weren’t listening to a word you said.”

“They didn’t need to listen,” she insisted. “They know it’s going to be amazing! It’s going to be the coolest thing we’ve ever done! Ever!”

In dramatic contrast to Mazin’s depressed resignation, Mari was delighted that she was allowed to attend the Gathering. She’d been overjoyed when she found out that Mazin would be attending as well, and had spent every day since then talking about what fun it would be for the two of them to be off by themselves. Her excitement was the one good thing Mazin had chosen to take away from this situation.

“Don’t forget I’ll be there too,” Hadil pointed out. “You won’t be doing anything too cool while I’m keeping watch.” Her smile was affectionate and teasing. She’d agreed to accompany Mazin to the Gathering, knowing from years of experience with Hai what disaster could occur should they be allowed to attend alone.

“We’ll ditch you!” Mari announced, and tugged on Mazin’s arm again. “Won’t we, Mazin? Won’t we?”

This time, Mazin didn’t answer, choosing instead to just laugh and throw their arm around her shoulder.

“Didn’t you come down here for something?” Mazin asked, and immediately wished they hadn’t. What if she’d come down here to fetch them, and bring them up to the others? They shuddered at the thought.

Hadil answered, “Mot was looking for you.”

“Well actually,” Mari chimed in, “he was looking for Baba. But he came to ask Mazin where he was and then he couldn’t find Mazin! And then he got all scared that maybe you’d gone for a walk, but I told him nope! You were probably hiding downstairs like you always do!”

“We’re not hiding,” Hai protested. “We’re simply enjoying the quiet! Gods know there’s no quiet to be found up there!”

Indeed, the noise above ground had grown to what must be deafening. Mazin stomach clenched and they found themself actually leaning away from the door as if that would somehow shield them from the sound.

Okay, you need to write a lot of shit here wow.

They were nowhere near the ocean anymore, but the windows were enchanted to keep the passengers within from going mad. The true nature of the places “in between” realms was something no mortal mind could handle, and even immortal minds often balked at it.

Some shit yo

“Yeah,” they agreed. Their fingers, unadorned, were silent. They asked, “Hey, Hadil, did I…did I leave the broth open when I left the kitchen?” It came out almost pleading, and they winced. Every moment they sounded more and more childish. It was unbecoming.

She responded to the question with all the exasperation and amusement that it warranted. “I doubt it,” she said. “You’re less forgetful than you seem to believe you are.”

They huffed. “I doubt it,” they parroted. But they leaned back, reassured. They had little faith in themself, but an abundance of faith in Hadil. She had been the only steady thing in their life since they were a child. If she believed that they had not forgotten, then they had no choice but to trust her.

Hadil didn’t ask what was bothering them, not with her mouth. Her very presence, however, was a question, and it was a question Mazin was familiar with. Her eyes drifted to the illusory ocean reflected in the window, and she tilted her head slowly to the side. She couldn’t understand their strange relationship with water—and with the ocean specifically—but she still made an effort to take it into consideration when she spoke to them.

“It’s not that,” they assured her unspoken worry. “I’m just…worried about the Gathering.”

She sighed deeply. “I understand,” she said. At the look they shot her, she defended herself, “I really do! When I was…about your age, my parents sent me to represent our coven too.” She claimed Windback as theirs without hesitation, and across from her, Serva made a displeased noise. Hadil ignored her. “Hai wasn’t there, of course, so it was just me alone. I was convinced that I was going to do something horrible and screw things up so badly that I’d bring dishonor on the name for generations. I almost did, actually.” She chuckled and reached out to touch their hand again, this time dragging her fingers from the back of their wrist to the tip of their middle finger, a gesture of reassurance and faith. “But I had my sisters with me, and my Keeper, and they helped me through it. I’ll do the same for you, if you want me to.”

Mazin leaned into her brief touch. They were, again, far more reassured then they let on, and more than they could put into words. As they always did when words were difficult to find, they simply went without.

Hadil hummed softly and wrapped her fingers around theirs like they were a child. Once again she said nothing with her mouth and plenty with the rest of her.

Once upon a time Mazin might have chafed at Hadil’s nearly smothering affection (smothering compared to anyone else’s, they supposed). They had certainly resented it as a child, and done what they could to convince her to leave them to their misery and fear. Only now that they were entering adulthood did they appreciate that Hadil had given them all the love and attention that she had given to her own children.

It wasn’t, of course, that their father and their baba didn’t love them. They just…showed it differently. Mot was all about showing rather than telling and he struggling with Mazin who needed constant explicit reassurance. And Hai…well, their baba was getting better, but his constant anxiety made for a strained relationship. And neither of Mazin’s fathers were sure how to treat them, a child born of two worlds who had never been invited into either.

Hadil wasn’t sure what to do with them either, Mazin knew, but she tried. Or, more accurately, she made a bigger show of trying, which was something Mazin had learned to appreciate.

Mazin felt a shift in their stomach and in their chest, distracting them from their reflection. The train was beginning to slow. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say: the train began to shift. They weren’t really moving on the physical plane, so they couldn’t slow down exactly. They were doing the dimensional equivalent, though, which was to say:

They were nearing their destination.

It felt like it had only been a few hours since they’d set out, though when Mazin looked out the window, the scene was the same as the one they’d left. The dissonance between what they saw and what they knew made them nauseous.

Mazin’s stomach churned and they had to look away. Their nerves were growing overwhelming, and the anxious buzz in their mind was deafening. “Just worried about the Gathering,” they’d said, as if that was a small thing to be worried about. Foreboding warred with anxiety warred with resentment.

Mazin winced and, once again, prayed to the deceased for forgiveness.

They sighed and shifted their weight ever so slightly.

It’s an honor to represent your coven at the Gathering, they told themself again. Maybe if they thought it enough times, they’d start to believe it.

Beside Mari stirred awake, twitching and grunting like she was being physically dragged from her dreams. Mazin turned their gloomy mind onto her, and so turned to happier thoughts.

“The sleeping kraken awakes,” they joked, and received a smoldering glare for their wit. Well. As smoldering a glare as a twelve-year-old could give, which wasn’t actually very smoldering at all, especially considering it was interrupted by a large, foul-smelling yawn.

“Are we there yet?” she asked the moment she’d regained her breath.

Hadil answered, voice distant. Her attention was mostly absorbed in a string puzzle that Mazin guessed was supposed to be a cat.

“Not yet,” she said. “But almost.”

Mari attempted to twist her body into an upright position. “Darn,” she said, with as much fire as a child could put into a curse word. “I was kinda hoping that I’d go to sleep and just wake up and be there.” She huffed for a few moments, and then looked out the window, and then huffed again. “That thing is useless. I don’t wanna see the ocean! I want to see where we are!”

Someone’s cranky, Hadil mouthed to Mazin in exaggeration, rolling her eyes. She turned back to her puzzle, which was nearly complete. All the cat was missing now were his paws and face.

“You can’t see where we are,” Mazin explained absently. “Because technically we aren’t actually anywhere.” Mariam almost certainly had had this explained to her before, but Mazin found that the best way to stave away growing terror was to babble, and the best thing to babble about was something they themself enjoyed hearing. “We’re travelling along a ley line,” they continued, their tone taking an almost smug edge. “The train bends the path between ‘stations’ so we can arrive much faster than we would traveling physically, but in doing so we slip out of this realm and into another where the distance between those points is less. Technically, we’re in another world right now. Or, rather, we’re in between worlds. We are literally in between where we were and where we’re going, in the most literal and metaphorical sense of the phrase.”

Mazin had always found the function of ley line trains fascinating. They were an orcish construct based on dwarven principles, and, as was to be expected they were an absolute marvel of mechanical magic. Mazin couldn’t think of anything a magically inclined human had ever created that even came close to the genius, both in theory and in practice, of the trains. There was a train for every ley line, or very nearly every one, connecting across the known world. They traveled between Crossroads and other places of magical concentration, using the unusual magical properties of the ley lines to reduce journeys of weeks or months into days or hours.

“You know, if we were traveling on foot, this journey would take us weeks,” Mazin pointed out. “There’s a whole continent between Ariren and Sunstead, but the train reduces the trip to just a few hours for us, and about a day for the rest of the world.”

Mari groaned softly, rubbing at her eye. “Well, we’re not going fast enough.” As simple as it had been, their explanation went over her head, in equal parts because of her drowsiness, her youth, and the fact that she hadn’t actually been listening. “I want to be there already,” she announced.

Hadil sighed and cut in again. “I know. We’ll be there soon.”

The instant the word ‘soon’ came out of her mouth, they all felt a great heavy shift, as if the world around them suddenly smaller and they themselves remained precisely the same size. Mazin felt themself sliding forward slightly where they sat.

The train was slowing down even further.

(As much as a thing that wasn’t actually moving could slow down, of course.)

Mari shrieked. Serva, who had been dozing off across the aisle, jolted awake at the piercing sound, looking around wildly for a few moments before seeing Mari in her usual state of exuberance. She rolled her eyes and sat up, smoothing down her wrinkled clothes. She and Hadil exchanged long-suffering glances, but neither said a word.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh old gods!” Mari’s voice grew higher and higher as she began to chant in excitement. She was impossible to ignore. She grabbed Mazin’s hand and tugged at it hard, as if physically trying to pull them into a state of delight matching her own. “We’re here, we’re here!”

“So we are.” Hadil lowered her hands, having mangled her cat into some horrifying chimera monster with four too many feet. She tucked the string discretely into her pocket, all evidence of her mistakes gone from everywhere save her mind and Mazin’s. Mazin relaxed as she lifted her hands and began to sign again as she talked.

“Hush, little one, you’re going to wake the whole train at this rate,” she scolded Mari gently and with little success.

Mari tugged Mazin’s arm harder, and without thinking, they lashed back. Their hand shot out and ruffled her already untidy hair. She shrieked again in protest, and they winced at the sound. She pulled on their entire shoulder with all of her meager strength. Though they were bigger and stronger than her, they were unprepared for her retaliation, and she pulled them completely over.

When they looked to Hadil for help, she shrugged. This was their own fault. They looked past her, to where Serva was watching them, eyes sharp and disapproving. It had been a long time since she had been twelve and twenty-four, and the antics of the young weren’t as amusing to the not-as-young.

Mazin sighed and pulled themself upright with some difficulty. “C’mon, Mari, calm down.” They tried to sound stern. “We’re representing the entire coven.”

“Ugh, you’re only saying that cause you can’t beat me!” she taunted, though she did lower her voice.

They reached out before she could react and pulled her against their side, shoving her head down between their ribs and their forearm. She shrieked, though this time it was muffled against their ribcage, and struggled in vain against their stronger grip.

“You were saying?” they teased.

Mari put up a good fight for a moment, and then went limp. She gasped as a new thought came to her, their scuffle momentarily forgotten. She wriggled so that her face was free, and craned her neck to try and look up at them.

“Do you think we’ll hear news of the Witch Killer?” she whispered loudly, eyes growing wide with delight at the prospect.

Mazin winced and some of their disquiet, which had dissipated in the face of Mari’s delight, returned. Yet another reason they dreaded leaving the safety of their home. As if all of their personal problems weren’t enough, there was also the thrice-damned Witch Killer.

Even the Setthe coven, isolated as they were to the east, had heard the disturbing tales that had begun to spread across the land of the Witch Killer that roamed the lands to the west. Witches--young witches, not even old enough to be Tried—were being found dead in the safety of their own domains, slain within shouting distance of their families. There were always signs of struggle, albeit a struggle won very quickly. Though many claimed that all the deaths had to be attributed to the same being, the strangest thing was that none of the witches died the same way. One, the rumors said, was strangled, and yet another had her throat slit, while another still had been struck once on the head.

Mazin shivered, and loosened their grip.

“I doubt it,” they said finally. “That’s just a window tale, and you know it.”

Mari groaned and twisted, but made no further efforts to escape. They released her, and immediately began to brush at her hair with their fingers. Her hair was not like theirs, which only made them love it more. Her hair was thick and coarse and wild with giant curls, and it was often peppered with strange bits of debris that had no business being that far off the ground. She liked to wear it down and free, which more often than not ended up with it looking matted and messy. She didn’t seem to mind, and neither did Mazin, so long as she let them brush it.

“C’mon,” they said again, pulling their hand away from her head to speak. “We are representing the coven, you know. We have to at least look presentable.”

Mari raised an eyebrow, and looked meaningfully at Mazin’s chest.

They waved her unspoken criticisms away. “It’s not my fault no one in the witching world understands true fashion when they see it,” they said dismissively, with a smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

“You’re wearing a bright orange scarf and a purple undershirt,” she said, and her opinion of their unconventional attire was quite clear in her tone.

“True. Fashion,” they repeated, tugging gently on a wayward lock.

“Mari, darling, I’m afraid I must take your sister’s side,” Hadil spoke up. At their incredulous looks, she corrected herself, “I meant about acting respectably.” Her face and voice became sterner. “I realize this is only your first Gathering, but you are your father’s Second. Mazin may be representing him today, but you are the one who will lead one day. Everyone will be looking to see what kind of heir the coven has, and you must do your best to make a good impression.”

Mari sighed dramatically. “You’re not my Keeper, you know,” she said, as she always did when Hadil made sense.Hadil snorted. “It takes a village to raise a child, little one. I’m only doing my part!”

Mari stuck her tongue out, and got it pinched for her trouble. She yelped and swatted at Mazin’s hand. This devolved into another playful wrestling match, which ended, as most did, with Mazin allowing Mari to overpower them. For a brief time, they forgot where they were and the conversation they’d just had, and the carriage was filled with laughter.

Serva interrupted their moment of levity with a cough and a meaningful look.

“It would be best for us to deboard,” she said. Her voice was as soft and pretty as her face, but her tone was steel.

Mazin winced and nodded. They pushed Mari off them gently. “Right, right…”

The carriage had long since stopped, and they couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

They pulled themself to their feet, laboriously stretching muscles that had been in one position for an undeterminable amount of time. It took them a moment to regain their balance and strength. They patted down their clothes, all their questionable color combinations and mismatched textiles, and took a deep, deep breath.

“Here we go,” they said shakily.

“Here we go,” Hadil echoed, with more confidence.

Mazin chanced a glance at the window. As they did, the illusion of the ocean faded to reveal an eerily similar field of yellowish green grass, and far beyond a dark line of trees that swallowed up the horizon. They could see the train platform, and standing several yards beyond that a trio of people waiting for them, too far away from them to make out their features.

They’d arrived.

“Best not to keep them waiting,” Hadil said softly, and Mazin nodded.

“Right. Right.” They didn’t sound as confident as they would have hoped. They smoothed their clothes again, and waited for the others to take formation behind them. Mari stood to their left and Serva to their right, and Hadil stood almost directly behind them. If they weren’t standing so close together, they would form a diamond formation.

Mazin squared their shoulders, stepped forward towards the carriage door. It had no handle or apparent hinges, but they knew, almost innately, how to open it. They reached out and placed their hand over a seemingly random place on the polished wood. There was a hiss and swirl of magic beneath their palm, and the door swung outward.

Given the drama of the moment, it passed relatively quickly. Mazin opened the door and they got out of the carriage. They had a moment of disorientation as their mind caught up to their body and their feet caught up to their mind, and their knees caught up to their feet. Until all of those things happened, they wobbled a little bit, expecting the ground to sway beneath them. They hadn’t been on the land for a long time now, and before that they’d known almost entirely sand. It was entirely unfamiliar for them to be standing on a still wooden platform.

After they took a few moments to find their feet, they took in their surroundings.

The field was just as flat and yellow-green as the window had made it seem, and the trio of witches just as featureless and distant.

There was more, however, than the window had first revealed. The plains were not, as they appeared, entirely endless. In the not-so-distant distance, there was a forest to the west, vibrant and green and tall. There were small hills all around rising lazily against the blue of the sky. Many were topped with what might have been wells or lanterns or pyres, unlit in the brightness of early evening. To the north, there were mountains, far enough away that they were pale blue in color and barely a knuckle above the horizon.

But of all that, it was this patch of land, featureless and ordinary, that was the most interesting of all. Mazin could feel the significance of the place, buzzing beneath their skin and pressing on their chest. The magic here was restless and expectant, waiting for some cataclysmic event to release itself a single violent burst.

The platform was mostly bare, save for two long benches at either end, and carved wooden figurines at each corner that were too small for Mazin to see clearly without getting to their knees. All about the platform grew thin trees with pale trunks and bright leaves. They were thin and tall, and their branches were weaved together up above to form an organic canopy for the witches to gather beneath. The air was sweet and heavy with the scent of their budding flowers, tiny red spots in a sea of light green and dappled gold.

The magic around here was like a physical weight, settling on Mazin’s chest and face like a heavy blanket. A few hundred feet to their left, further down the ley line, was the Crossroads. From this distance, it looked like nothing more than a huge boulder, albeit a boulder with an unusual shape and slowly shifting color. Mazin had never followed this ley line before, and they itched to follow it a little further and see the Crossroads for themself. They’d heard that, in darkness, it shed an ethereal light and sang a faint, hypnotic song.

The rest of the coven filed out of their carriages at their own glacial pace, amassing in a loose congregation on the platform. A few all but fell to their knees as they exited the carriages, and others leaned heavily on their fellows. A few were actually crouching down with their heads bowed, breathing heavily and clutching their heads or stomachs. All of them, however, remained more or less behind Mazin, who had had the foresight to stand as near to the edge of the platform as they could without falling over it. They weren’t looking at the horizons any longer, but instead back at those who had gathered behind them.

There were nearly three hundred members of the Setthe family who practiced witchcraft, and a little more than half of them were here today. Mazin ventured out of their home only rarely, and they knew many members of the family by name only. Mot had recently been convincing them to venture out with him more and more in short trips along the coast, and had snuck them out onto the ships when they were younger, to get better acquainted with the family.

It felt strange, being at the head of them all. Mazin was used to seeing all these people at a distance, and thinking of them as a faceless congregation of people who didn’t know or care for them.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are we going to go?” Mari demanded, snapping Mazin out of their thoughts. Many heads turned in their direction, and Mazin found themself at the center of attention. Their heart began to pound and they struggled to keep themself from visibly shaking.

“Right…right…” They patted themselves down again, suddenly self-conscious. What if they were too…colorful? They’d defended their wardrobe choices to their sister, but now they were going to go in front of strangers wearing…this. They preferred to wear something comfortable and safe and tight, but they realized now that they were in a crowd how outlandish they must look. Most others in the coven were wearing dark blue and grey, the colors of the sea, and Mazin was wearing… well. Orange and purple. Now they did also have some dark blue and grey somewhere on them, but…they were also wearing bright orange and purple.

“I…I don’t look ridiculous, do I?” they asked, softly so only those closest to them could hear.

Hadil let out a muffled…something—it was either amusement or a failed attempt at words—but settled for shaking her head when they turned to look for her input. She made a noncommittal sign with her left hand.

Mari, smart girl, remained silent.

They sighed. Well, they had to go on, didn’t they? Whether they looked ridiculous or not.

They stepped forward, and set their foot on the first step leading down into the field.

As if it had been waiting for Mazin’s move, the world seemed to slide into motion. A flock of birds took off suddenly in the distance, and a cool breeze rose up to dance with the grass. The trio of witches in the field began walking forward.

The hosts of this Gathering: the Frenrir coven. Mazin knew little about them. They vaguely recalled them from their first Gathering, a very boisterous and colorful group who uniformly ignored the unspoken rule of keeping to one’s own coven. Forest witches, the most dedicated to the purer dark magics taught by the elves all those centuries ago.

They were tall and walked quickly, and the woman standing at their head reached the bottom of the stairs at the same time Mazin did.

Their skin was paler than Mazin was used to, bronze and marked with cluttered tattoos in colorful ink. They were all dressed in dark green, and they were tall. The shortest of them was easily a head taller than Mazin. They resembled trees, with round thick bodies and large dark hair. They approached with wide smile and outstretched palms, a foreign greeting that struck Mazin as rather ominous.

They took the outstretched hand of the leader, even though it made their skin crawl, and they returned her smile, albeit crookedly. She easily towered over them, but stood at such a distance that it was not extremely obvious. She wasn’t much older than Mazin themself, though she wore her youth extravagantly, bursting with energy and excitement.

“Welcome, welcome!” she said. Her voice was full of warmth as artificial as the train windows. She reached out and took both of their hands, clasping them loosely. It was a far more intimate greeting than they’d been expecting—they still, after all this time, expected everyone to act with the same reserve as in Xene—and Mazin tried to keep their face from flushing. “It is a pleasure to receive your coven, and a privilege to house them. May you find shelter and peace among the trees and shadows! Mazin, isn’t it?”

It took Mazin three tries to answer. They were capable at first of only giving silent, stony stares. She didn’t deflate under their unintentionally withering gaze, though they could easily read the confusion on her face. They redoubled their efforts to speak, trying not to think about her skin on theirs.

“Yes,” they finally said, after giving two affirmative hums and a twitchy shrug of a shoulder. They took one shallow, decisive breath, and felt themself go cool. They cleared their throat once, and spoke again.

“I am Mazin.” Their voice was cool and toneless, and inside they were shaking. They had a script for this. This was easy. “You honor us with your hospitality, with your water and your shade. May you ever find peace and strength as you have lent your peace and strength to this coming together. May the sun see you cool and without thirst.”

Their voice shook, ever so slightly, but they didn’t stumble or slur the words. It was a blend of the greeting Mot had prepared for them and a more tradition Xene greeting. They hadn’t decided before getting out of the train which one to say, and only looking back realized they’d mixed them all up.

The woman smiled. It was soft and sympathetic, and she let go of their hands. “Welcome,” she said again, and this time it sounded like she actually meant it. “I’m sure you feel a bit weird from the trip; ley line carriages always leave me feeling a bit sick.”

“I am fine, but…” Mazin looked over their shoulder, at some witches who were crouched and slumped over across the platform. “I think some of the others may not have fared as well.”

“Of course!” She nodded, and Mazin was distracted for a moment by the way her hair bounced and caught the light. “You can rest here as long as you need. When you’re all feeling well enough, we can lead you to the Gathering.” She gestured with one hand to her sisters, who bowed their heads in greeting.

“Thank you.” Mazin tried to sound warm and grateful, matching her tone as best they could. She beamed at them, so they must have done something right. “I didn’t catch your name?” they said slowly, not sure what was proper. They couldn’t remember any rules against speaking to the guides, but they also had never made a point of being intimately familiar with Gathering rules.

Luckily, she didn’t seem to care. She smiled again, brighter than before. “I’m Brynne!” she said, extending her hand again with her palm up. Mazin stared at it for a moment before hesitantly pressing their own palm to the back of her hand. She looked at them strangely, and then shook it off. “These are my companions, Leta and Tamela,” Brynne introduced, indicating her sister again.

Mazin bowed their head. “The sun sees you.”

One of them (Tamela?) bowed her head as well and echoed the foreign greeting with a surprising gravity. The other merely smiled distantly. They were both older than Brynne, and taller, and broader. Mazin thought they both looked a bit exasperated at her exuberance, but they radiated the same calm acceptance she did.

They all lingered in the field there a moment as everyone caught their breath and regained their stomachs.

While they waited, Mari approached, fearless as ever, and bombarded the Frenrir witches with questions, wanting to know absolutely everything about the way they lived and the magic they used and what the Gathering looked like and if they’d ever seen an elf before and did they know her brother was part nyx?

Mazin only half-listened to her chatter, paying just enough attention to make sure she didn’t say anything inappropriate. They drifted a few steps away, going far enough that the physical presences of the others didn’t feel quite so suffocating. They looked up, but the open sky was a bit daunting, and so they looked around.

The grass here really was ridiculously tall. In some places, Mazin was certain it grew taller than an orc could stand, and it never seemed to be shorter than the height of the train platform. The varying height, combined with the breeze, made it look like an ocean of greenish gold, with waves that moved slowly across the plains until they hit the shore of trees or hills. They found some small comfort in the imagery, thumbing the pendant about their neck.

A path had been cut through the grass, or perhaps worn down, or perhaps magicked up. It hadn’t been visible from the train, but now that they were outside it was obvious. It was wide enough that three broad-shouldered people could walk side by side, and it wound through the field like a curving maze before vanishing at some unseen point between them and the forest. It was impossible to plot their course from here, which they were sure was the point.

The rest of the coven didn’t linger overlong, to Mazin’s dismay. After only a few moments, the majority of the coven had gathered behind them, indicating with their twitching hands and shifting feet that they were ready and waiting to go on. The younger witches had bright, flushed faces, equally excited and terrified of the Trials they would face in only a day.

When the last witch declared herself fit to travel, Brynne grinned widely and grabbed Mazin’s hands again. It took every ounce of self-control they had not to snatch them away. Their fingers twitched, but remained in place.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked them. All artificial warmth was gone from her voice, and there was only genuine excitement now.

“Yes,” Mazin lied. “We are all ready.”

“Follow me, then! To the Gathering!” The words sounded like laughter, and she turned, keeping one of their hands in hers, and led them away from the train platform.

By tradition Mazin had to walk alongside her, and lead their coven on. Every instinct was screaming at them to fall a step behind so they could watch her, but every time they drifted back, she would tug their hand gently until they were beside her again. It wasn’t rude, they didn’t think, nor patronizing, nor annoyed, but every time she did it, their stomach flipped uncomfortably.

Brynne and her sisters led them across the plain towards the forest. The path that they walked seemed to open up before them, with every curse and turn invisible until the moment they came to it. Several times they found a fork or a seeming dead end that Brynne navigated effortlessly.

few times Mazin chanced a look back, and saw nothing but a wall of grass behind the trailing members of their coven. The path was closing behind them, it seemed. The part of Mazin that wasn’t terrified of getting lost was in awe of the magic that had gone into preparing the journey.

Brynne dropped their hand at some point, but she grabbed it again if they strayed or slowed, which happened fairly often. Eventually, she just took it again and didn’t let go. By this point, Mazin was mostly used to the sensation and it didn’t make them want to pull away.

It had looked like it must have been nearly half a day’s walk from the train to the forest, or at least several hours, but Mazin was pretty sure that either the path or the horizon had been warped. They would bet their water on the path. The day grew dark quicker than it should have, by their reckoning.

It happened quickly, the transition from the plains to the forest. One moment, Mazin was avoiding a snake’s burrow, and the next they were pulling their foot from beneath a tangle of thick roots. The sunlight was suddenly cut off, and they felt the air around them grow cool and wet without preamble. The trees were widely spaced, but high above their branches formed a thick canopy that hid the sky. When Mazin looked back, they saw a forest they didn’t remember walking through stretching out behind them for miles.

At first Brynne had been silent, which Mazin was grateful for. Every now and then she would look at them or make a noise in her throat that was almost words, but she never seemed to make the commitment. They felt a quiver in their chest and in their teeth, and they rubbed their fingertips against the netting that made up the outer layer of their shorts. They focused all their mental energy on the ground in front of them as it grew more dense and knotty. Behind them, Mari was chattering to the other guides.

This was uncomfortable, but not unsafe. Not unbearable.

As soon as they reached the trees, Brynne’s restraint seemed to break. She pulled their hand a bit firmer so that they were almost ahead of her and she began to talk.

“So you are the famous Mazin!”

They nearly tripped flat on their face, and only a very quick (and discrete) hand on their elbow kept them upright.

“Come again?” Alarm bled into their tone, but their voice was still over-formal and clipped.

“Sorry, sorry! That was kind of sudden, wasn’t it!” She laughed softly as they righted themself. “I just meant…oh gods, that sounded rude, didn’t it? That was rude, wasn’t it, I’m sorry, you probably don’t…” She faltered for a moment, apparently torn between etiquette and curiosity. Then, she asked again, “Are you…the Mazin of Setthe coven? The—” Her voice dropped, apologetic and breathless, “—darkling child?”

Mazin didn’t wince, but they felt a twitch in their shoulders and in the corner of their eye. They nodded slowly, and then realized most of her attention was on the path before them, and she couldn’t have seen them do it. They would have to actually speak.

“Yes.” They could’ve said more, probably should’ve said more, but there wasn’t much more they could think to say. It sounded like she already knew everything she needed to know.

This wasn’t the first time Mazin had ever had this conversation. They were an oddity, for no reason other than the fact that they’d been born. Half-humans weren’t common to begin with. The amount of medical and magical intervention required just to conceive such a child was a commitment greater than most families could justify. More uncommon, so much so that many chose to believe such things were impossible, were darklings: children born from the union of a shadowkin and a mortal. The elves, dwarves, and nyx were increasingly reclusive, and even those that walked freely among mortals were less free with their affections, especially on this continent. Interspecies relations on Kreda were abysmal, and Mazin wouldn’t be surprised if they were the only darkling on the continent.

The silence had stretched on a little bit too long, and Brynne began to twitch. It got to be too much and she blurted out,

“I’m…I’m really sorry, if that offended you or…if bringing it up was rude or…gods, anything like that. I’ve just…I’ve heard a lot…I mean…” She trailed off uncertainly, only to pick back up again a beat later, voice low and words quick. “The first time I saw you, we were just kids, you know, and I saw you from far away, and I’ve heard so much about you since then,” she babbled nervously. “And I mean…you look so much like…oh gods, just…”

Mazin felt a bit of sympathy for her that did not show in their tone. They sounded as cool as ever as they assured her, “It is not offensive. Many people want to know about it, when they first meet me.”

“Oh…well…if you’re sure.” She was quiet for a moment longer. “If you don’t mind me asking…is it very strange? Being…so different? I mean…gods, this is…does anyone ever…well, I just know that here, nonhumans are treated so…well, it’s better where you live, isn’t it?”

Mazin sighed inwardly. “I don’t imagine I feel much stranger than you would,” they said, which was not at all true. “I am as much an oddity among the Setthe as you would be. The Setthe are used to dealing with nyx, so it’s not as if I’m the only one they’d ever met.” Also not really true. The gods that ruled the nyx in the Setthe Sea were violent and unpredictable. The Setthe were used to dealing with their mother’s people…but those dealings usually involved lots of fire and blood and fighting, and Mazin probably was the first living nyx many had seen in person.

“Oh…I suppose I didn’t think of that! I guess a regular old human like me would stand out, wouldn’t I! Was it the same among…oh, never mind! Is it true you…oh, no, that’s not…hm.” She thought for a moment, apparently trying to find the least offensive question she could fathom.

“What about your mother, then?” she finally said, and failed to notice Mazin’s violent start at the question, continuing on, “Everyone always talks about your fathers, you know, how in love they are and how perfect they are for each other, and sometimes they talk about Mariam’s mother, dear woman, but no one ever mentions…well, no one ever talks about your mother. Surely she isn’t…?”

Mazin had to focus on keeping up with Brynne’s brisk stride while avoiding tripping on the dense foliage on the forest floor. They also had to focus on keeping their heart from hammering out of their chest. They swallowed the hard stone that had risen to the base of their throat. What about their mother? she’d asked.

They hadn’t had to deal with questions like this in a while, and even when it’d been a more common occurrence they’d never been sure how much was appropriate to share, or how much they wanted to share. On one hand, telling the whole truth might get someone to leave them alone. On the other, they didn’t really want to tell everyone the whole truth. It wasn’t their truth to know…right?

“I haven’t seen my mother since I was a young child,” they answered, slow and careful. “As far as I know, she is back with her people, and she is well.” They hadn’t ever heard otherwise.

“Ohh…she was a nyx, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“You…well, she must have been very beautiful,” Brynne said carefully.

“Why do you say that?” Mazin was cautious with their question, not wanting to seem too accusatory, but nonetheless feeling suspicious. The statement seemed a bit strange, and off-topic. Nyx were, by their nature, assumed to be beautiful. All the shadowkin were. They were the first children of the world, created in nothing and no one’s image, pure natural beauty. It seemed a bit odd to Mazin, to ask if their mother was beautiful.

Brynne looked sidelong at them, still not missing a step.

“Well, I’ve heard it said you take after your mother,” she said slowly.

“Of course I do. All darkling children do.” Mazin frowned.

Was she making fun of them? Anyone who knew what to look for would know for Mazin was. Their broad shoulders and slight form, tall pointed ears, wide flat nose, and eyes without apparent whites or irises—all of this pointed to their parentage. They weren’t features that were necessarily attractive, but apparently shadowkin had some kind of magical allure that made it easier for mortals to overlook their otherwise unsettling features. As far as Mazin knew, they had nothing of the kind. They were odd-looking, and that was that.

Unless, of course, she was referring to them taking after their mother in the magical sense in which case…that was just cruel.

Brynne hummed. “That’s true, but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so enchanting…and I’ve met full-blood shadowkin.” She turned to them fully, and smiled.

It took Mazin a second to realize what was different about this smile compared to any of her others. It was smaller and there was something different about the shape of it, and in the way her eyes moved, and in the way her brow seemed to raise.

Oh.

Oh.

Mazin’s face heated up as they realized what she was trying to say. They stumbled, and were saved again by a steady hand on their elbow. They accepted her help as best they could.

“Oh,” they said. They weren’t sure how…what to think of that. Flattery and uncertainty and visceral discomfort mixed up inside their chest and just left them feeling upset.

Brynne laughed. It wasn’t mocking, at least not as far as they could tell. “Do you mind me saying that?” she asked, steering them gently around a patch of thorny…something.

“No, no,” they assured her, eyeing the patch of barbs warily. “I am simply…very slow…when it comes to things like that.”

“Oh, well. That’s good, then!” She smiled at them again and their chest tightened. “Not that you’re slow, but…that you don’t mind.”

They walked for a few minutes in silence. Desperate to distract themself, and wanting very badly to make it clear they didn’t want to talk about their parents anymore, Mazin mad a show of looking around them, which became less exaggerated as they became actually entranced by the world around them.

It was beautiful. The trees were dizzyingly tall and about as wide as two people standing shoulder to shoulder. They were the same trees that made the canopy over the Crossroads, with pale bark and light green leaves that allowed sunlight through in many tiny rays. Mazin hadn’t seen anything like them; they looked delicate and pretty, nothing like the short hardy trees of the desert, or the skinny rough trees of the coast. There were other plants, too, like bushes with strangely shaped leaves and powerful aromas, and patches of grass and flowers they didn’t know. Even from a distance, they could smell them, heavy and thick on their tongue, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. All around them, they could hear the calls of birds and animals they’d heard of but never seen, and they found themself looking around despite themself, trying to catch a glimpse of some of them. Thankfully, it was dim enough that it wasn’t overwhelming, and as long as they kept their social anxiety stuffed down, it might never get to that point.

Brynne noticed their wide-eyed scrutiny. “Have you ever been to a forest?” she asked. Her voice was soft, not accusing, but there was a note of disbelief. Mazin’s discomfort at any perceived mockery on her part was far overshadowed by their relief that she wasn’t talking about their mother anymore.

“Not like this one,” they answered honestly, thinking of the thin forests that dotted the coast along their homeland. “I moved to the coast when I was seven, but before that I lived in the Farlands. There aren’t many forests in the desert.”

“No, I don’t suppose there are…” She sounded awestruck, and Mazin was sure she couldn’t imagine a world without trees any more than Mazin could imagined a world without sand. “If you don’t mind me asking, what…how is it different? Just…what you can immediately think of, I guess.”

Mazin thought for a moment. “Well, the first superficial difference I can imagine is the ground…and the air, I suppose.”

“The ground?”

“Yes.” Mazin looked down. “The sand by the ocean gives way. It’s soft and pliant and you have to learn how to walk without stepping too hard, or you’ll slip. The ground here doesn’t give barely at all, or if it does, it’s not in the same way.”

“Really…” She looked down at her feet. “You know, I never even think about the ground like that!”

“The air is also different from anything I’ve lived in,” they continued. “The desert air is dry and heavy, and by the ocean, it can be humid to the point of discomfort. Here, however, it is neither. It’s cool and heavy, but with flavor, rather than with water.” They breathed in deeply, to ensure their description was accurate.

Brynne’s eyes were wide and she nodded slowly. She copied them in breathing in, and she laughed on the exhale. “That’s incredible! I never even think about that stuff!” she admitted. “What else?”

Mazin relaxed, ever so slightly. They weren’t comfortable enough to drop the overly formal speech, but the tension between their shoulders eased. As they traveled, they pointed out small details in their surroundings that struck them as unusual or unfamiliar. Brynne reacted with what Mazin assumed was genuine surprise to each discovery, and her friendly company made the passing journey go by much faster than it would have otherwise. The conversation distracted them from the wards and spells they passed, which ordinarily would have distracted Mazin to annoyance. Something inside them stirred at the brush of magic, and they stamped it down firmly.

As they grew closer to the Gathering, however, the magic was harder to ignore. It was a strange, almost painful itch that buzzed in their bones. Ordinarily, being in the presence of a human’s magic would feel like a twitch of muscle, but this was much more than a simple spell.

“What…what is being used to conceal the Gathering?” they asked, resisting the urge to scratch at their skin. It would do them no good. They tried to calm their mind, shrugging off the discomfort with great effort. It was getting easier, as they got older.

“Oh! It’s absolutely fantastic, it took so long to do!” Brynne’s eyes took a gleam as she began to describe the preparations. “The whole thing is just massive, we had to clear out a whole lot of trees to make enough room! It’s a big…rectangle, I suppose, or a pentagon, and we’ve got fading spells on all the corners, and then we have…wait, no…no, no.” She waved her hand, dismissing her earlier description. “There are fading spells on the long sides, and there are misdirection hazes on the corners…yeah, that sounds better. That sounds right.”

It was common practice to either hold the Gathering in a place so remote that ordinary folk couldn’t stumble upon it, or to enchant it so thoroughly that it couldn’t be found. Although many witches lived among general populations and mingled with nonmagical peoples, the nature of the Gathering was such that outsiders were absolutely forbidden and often outright dangerous. Secrets were passed about during Gatherings, the kind that even the most forgiving of nations might frown at. It was a time of strengthening and peace for witches. Most covens simply chose a remote location and used simple misdirection charms to fend off any wanderers. The Frenrir coven seemed to have gone the extra mile and done both.

“That sounds…very complicated,” Mazin responded finally.

“It was, gods!” She nodded enthusiastically, helping them up a ledge comprised mostly of root and partially of loose stone. She took their hand and lifted them easily up over the ledge. “I wasn’t involved in the actual spell-making, or bindings, or anything like that…that’s not really my strong suit.”

“Oh…mine either,” Mazin admitted.

“Oh…? Oh, that makes sense. You really do take after your mother, don’t you?”

Mazin didn’t respond to that, but Brynne seemed happy enough to move onto another subject.

“Were you at the last Gathering?” she asked innocently. Not facing Mazin, she didn’t notice the sudden twitch in their face, but they turned their face quickly away anyway.

“Yes,” they said shortly.

“Oh, I was too young to really know what it meant, but now that I know, I can’t help but just…wow, you know? I mean…the Rai’lik coven was beyond amazing! I didn’t know at the time, but my mother said that last time, they covered the entire Gathering in an illusion, and then they placed wandering paths all around it!” She recalled the spectacle with a note of wonder in her voice. “All anyone walking up would see was a big swamp!”

“I remember. My father told me it was one of the most impressive pieces of spell-weaving he’d ever seen.” Mazin mostly remembered the extreme discomfort they’d felt. As if their sensitivity to physical stimulation wasn’t enough, their mother’s blood gave them sensitivity to magic as well.

“I think we did pretty good, though…” Brynne’s voice sounded far-off and dreamy, and she paused for a moment to gaze adoringly at…something off to the horizon.

“I doubt we would be able to get there without your guidance,” they said honestly.

She grinned and turned back to them. “Well, I’m glad! You’re absolutely delightful!”

Mazin’s face warmed again. “You…are quite…enjoyable as well,” they said, slowly, carefully, feeling a bit of themself die as the words awkwardly crawled from their mouth.

She just laughed and led them deeper into the woods. They could do nothing but follow.

2: The Multiplying Doors

The Gathering was very crowded.

This shouldn’t have been a surprise, all things considered, and yet here Mazin was: surprised and very upset.

Brynne had led them through the denser parts of the forest, continuing to pepper Mazin with invasive questions and strange compliments as she did so. In spite of her clumsy words, her easy demeanor had relaxed them somewhat, and the time had gone flowed quicker.

As they’d walked, Mazin had become more aware of a growing noise that had begun as a dull buzz. They could feel magic like an itchy blanket being dragged against their skin, and they could see flash of light and color that grew bright and more intense as they’d drawn nearer.

The Gathering appeared first as a thinning of the tree before them, and then beyond that lay a large space that appeared deserted until they entered.

Once they entered, of course, Mazin wished they hadn’t.

It was massive. Mazin couldn’t see the full area of the clearing, as a lot of it was obscured with bodies and tall tents and banners. It had been mostly cleared of trees, though there were still a few groves and patches tall grass where a few children and animals were playing. In the center of the clearing was a gently sloping hill topped by a gazebo-like structure made of tall, thin stone columns.

Several openings in the trees revealed forest paths leading deeper into the wood. Mazin assumed this was where the other covens were going to stay. On the far end of the clearing directly across from them, they could just see one such path which led towards a large lake they could barely make out from this distance. All about them the forest continued on, unbroken, but perhaps a little bit darker than before. To the right, a short wall had been built out of large flat stones, and even from this distance Mazin could feel the powerful spells binding it.

The entire area was lit with a dim light cast by small orbs that floated overhead. There were booths and tables being set up, and vendors and entertainers wandered about preparing for the festivities of the week. Many covens had yet to arrive, Mazin assumed, or were recovering from the journey.

They hadn’t even entered the clearing proper, and Mazin was already overwhelmed. The dim lights would have been fine, if they weren’t moving so erratically trying to keep up with the moving crowd. The bright colors would have been fine, if they weren’t shifting and moving with the wind. The strong smells of incense and herbs and meat and flowers would have been bearable alone, but all mixed together they were nauseating. All of these things together acted as a physical barrier for Mazin to overcome, a pounding in their skull, just behind their eyes, and a heavy weight on their limbs. They almost screamed aloud, and found their fingers twitching to grab at the sides of their head and hide. They clenched their fist and dug their fingernails into their palm. When that failed to work they began to tug and twist at the buckles at their shoulders and hips, playing with the clasps and ties in an effort to relieve some of their building tension.

Brynne trades out for another guide

He was a great deal younger than Brynne, and far less talkative, but there was definitely a family resemblance. He was tall for his age (or so they assumed), and his hair was very long. He smiled at them, for just a moment, and it felt like the sun shining directly on their face.

“You ready?” he asked.

Mazin swallowed hard. Hadil was behind them, hand on their elbow. She didn’t ask if they were okay, not with her mouth. Behind her, the rest of the coven was gathering, and Mazin could hear them beginning to chatter excitedly at the sight before them. They were eager to move on.

“Yes,” they lied.

With another bright smile, he led them down.

There was a well-worn path leading down towards the center of the Gathering. The guide, sure-footed and confident, walked quickly, plunging into the crowd without a moment’s hesitation. Mazin moved more hesitantly, unwilling to shove their way through the bodies if they could help it.

There were many small groups of people sprinkled about the clearing instead of one great crowd, which was almost worse. Mazin had barely any time to recover from one group before they were forced to pass through or beside the next. The buzz of a hundred simultaneous conversations combined into a wall of noise that pressed against their chest and throat. Every step they took forward was followed by another step back, and every person that passed in front of them forced them away.

They felt thousands of eyes upon them, and they wished they’d brought a real jacket with a real body that actually covered some of their skin. Their markings—the natural pale spots sprinkled liberally across their body and the artificial swirling white tattoos that wrapped around their shoulders and torso—were all plainly visible. They wanted to wrap their arms around themself to hide them, but their fingers were still occupied with the buckles.

Mazin, by tradition, could stand behind no one as they went. Ordinarily they would have ducked behind Hadil and allowed themself to stay in her shadow, but now they were forced to lead her and the rest of the coven. Even the boy who was escorting them had to walk a step behind them. He was doing well, all things considered, gently corralling them subtly with gestures and nods and soft calls.

“Hurry up!” Mariam hissed behind, not nearly as quiet as she seemed to think she was.

“I’m going,” they hissed back, much quieter than her. The sound of her voice gave them something solid to latch onto, and they replayed it on a loop in their head.

Someone stopped just in front of them, then turned and shouted to a friend, and it took every ounce of self-control for Mazin not to strike at them. Hadil didn’t grab their elbow, not where everyone could see, but the next time she touched their shoulder, there was a roughness to it that conveyed her displeasure.

It wouldn’t do to start the Gathering with violence, however unintentional.

The dread that Mazin had felt on the journey had become a physical thing, a pit of slime in their throat. They tried to stay focused on their guide, pushing away the world until all that existed was this boy at their side, twitching his arms and nodding his head and occasionally calling them back when they strayed.

“Brother, who’s that?”

Mari stepped a bit to the side where they could see her and pointed her fist towards a group of brightly dressed witches. Their skin was nearly identical in tone but darker in shade to Mazin’s own, a very particular reddish brown made darker by the sun and sand. Their clothes had no sleeves or backs, instead clasped or looped around their throats and shoulders. They wore colorful scarves about their heads and necks that were decorated in patterns that flashed with beads and magic. They smiled and laughed freely, and they waved their hands when they spoke, forming signs with their fingers and wrists. Bright jewelry flashed as they spoke, drawing the eye in this dim atmosphere. Most striking was their hair. Not a one of them had hair shorter than shoulder length, and they were all braided and decorated with bells and beads.

Mazin bit the inside of their lip, gathering their strength before talking. They slowed down nearly to a crawl, unwilling to attempt to put the effort into walking and talking at the same time.

“Windback,” they answered. Their voice was soft and they found themself hunching forward as if they could hide themself from the eyes of their former coven.

She gasped loudly and grabbed their arm before remembering herself and falling behind them. She leaned in close and whispered loudly, “Baba’s coven?”

Mazin nodded.

“Tell me!” she demanded, voice still barely softer than a stage whisper.

With a strangled sigh, Mazin admitted, “Hadil would know more than me. Besides, you ask Baba about them all the time!”

“Well yeah, but he doesn’t tell me everything,” she said, and then, truly whispering, told them, “He’s too sad.”

Though that wasn’t her intention, Mazin felt guilt shoot through them, and they quickly turned their gaze away from their mother-coven.

Mari was right. Their father’s grief—among other things—about leaving his coven had always been plain to see. He spoke wistfully about his life before he’d met Mazin’s mother—when he spoke of it at all--and most of what Mazin knew about the Windbacks, and the country of their birth, had come from Hadil or their own disjointed childhood memories. They remembered playing with the other children in the night, chasing each other around the camp fires and getting scolded for knocking over the shaman’s tent. They remembered their mother taking them on short treks into the desert at night to find pools of water deep underground, exposing them to the souls of their ancestors with small, manageable moments of possession. They remembered tense standoffs with other clans—though they had been too young at the time to fully comprehend it—over resources and camping spots.

They didn’t remember what their mother and baba had been like together. They didn’t remember the stares and whispers and backhanded compliments about their strange appearance. They didn’t remember their clan being driven from a city when it was discovered they had a darkling in their midst.

Of course, Mariam didn’t ask about any of that. She went the much more mundane and practical route with her questions. “Aren’t the desert covens…kind of like us? With the sand and stuff? Do they summon like we do?” She poked them again. “C’mon, brother, I know you know. You were a desert witch too, kinda. Aren’t they kinda the same?”

Mazin shrugged again. “Not that I remember.” Another vague answer when they knew more nuanced truths. This time, though, Mari wasn’t content with half an answer. She tugged at the strap on their shoulder, nearly tripping them.

“C’mon, that can’t be all there is to it! What about energies and stuff?” she demanded. She was just beginning to learn the more complicated side of witchcraft, the kind that involved memorizing alignments and powers and the names of the planes. It was a school of knowledge she struggled with, and one that Mazin thrived in—likely due to their ancestral connection to it.

Despite their relative knowledge in that respect, though, they shrugged her off again. Their anxiety had grown to an oppressive physical presence that held their voice hostage. They couldn’t speak and they didn’t want to speak, and they were sure that if they did, all that would come from their mouth was vulgarity. This crowd was hell, but Mari would stop pestering them (hopefully) when they got to their lodgings. Or maybe when they got to their lodgings, they would regain the energy to answer.

Mari was not content to let them fall prey to their fear. In just a few seconds, she pinched the back of their arm.

“Mazin!” she demanded. “C’mon! I know you know about that stuff! That’s what you’re good at!”

They waved a hand roughly in her direction, and the sign they threw at her was forceful enough to inspire her silence. She huffed and puffed and fell back again.

They walked quietly for about two seconds. Mari poked their elbow a few breaths later, speeding up and pointing to another group of witches.

“Who’s that?” she asked eagerly. “More desert witches?”

Mazin wanted to scream. Instead, they turned their head and looked after her pointed hand.

The group that caught her attention this time was less animated and less colorful, though their bodies were similar in build and color. Their sleeveless tunics came up to cover their throats, and their pants were billowing and loose. They dressed all in black, and bold tattoos of black and blue snaked over their visible skin. They seemed much more reserved than those around them, keeping mostly to themselves and speaking in low, slow tones with steady, slow hands. One or two of them had wandered away from the main group and were speaking to others, but even those conversations seemed terse.

“More desert witches,” they agreed, and were grateful to admit, “I don’t know that coven. They weren’t at the last Gathering.” They frowned, looking at the self-important way the witches looked around, and the deference with which their guide treated them. “They look fairly well-established, though.”

“The Nightbloom coven,” Hadil said, voice low and almost…reverent. “Very old line. We met them once…but you were too young to remember. They don’t come to the Gatherings very often. Probably think it’s beneath them.” She let out a sigh. “It very well might be. Supposedly they were the first clan in Xeneth to learn magic. I think we’ve got a drop of them somewhere, Mazin. Your baba has their look about him.”

“Oh.” Mazin shivered. “They have a seer.”

Mariam chirped excitedly and began to hop as she walked, trying to see over the crowd to find the seer. “Where? What do she look like? Does she look weird? Brother! Can you see her?”

Her excitement was well warranted. Seers were a different kind of mage, and one of the rarest. Unlike witches, who’d learned their methods from the elves and bargained for their power, seers had learned from the nyx—Mazin’s mother’s people. The nyx taught seers how to channel power in the purest sense of the world. By allowing themselves to be wholly possessed, seers had more power at their disposal than any other mage, and only in Xeneth were such talents celebrated. The dangers posed by the craft meant that very few attempted to master it—and even fewer survived said attempt.

Mazin had never met a seer in the flesh before. Their baba was supposed to have been the Windback seer. He’d been sent to be trained by the nyx in a very select group of children. He’d supposedly exceled at it, showing promise unseen for generations, but he’d ultimately abandoned his duty to raise Mazin.

Even from this distance, Mazin could feel her…pulling. Something about her called to the shadow in them, and as they watched, she turned and looked at them and—

“It’s interesting that they’re here. I wonder if…” Hadil broke Mazin’s concentration. She was staring at the Nightblooms as well, though her gaze was less arrested than Mazin’s. She trailed off and cast a quick look at Mariam, and evidently decided that whatever she had been intending to say was not meant for younger ears. “Well, it’s sure to be interesting. I wonder if any of the other old covens are here.”

With that, Mariam’s attention was diverted, searching for these ‘old covens,’ but Mazin and Hadil both found their eyes going back.

In a few minutes, Mari was poking at Mazin again, indicating yet another group of strangers they knew distantly and impersonally. Their knowledge of other cultures was tested as Mari demanded explanation of every minute detail. They pointed out the Yung coven, the Veering coven, a group of very lost and confused dryads, and the Xer coven—specifically their Second who, like Mazin, was only half-human.

“You should be her friend,” Mari decided with all the innocent confidence of youth. “You’re both half-human! You’d get along!”

Mazin’s laugh was loud, forced, and extremely uncomfortable, and Mari, showing wisdom beyond her years, quietly dropped the subject.

A few moments later, she was tugging at them again, pointing towards the edge of the clearing.

“Who is that?” Her voice, which had been excited and curious before, was low and awestruck.

Mazin turned their head to look, and nearly tripped again.

There was…something standing at the edge of the clearing. It was humanoid, they thought, but it towered above the crowd it. It wasn’t nearly tall enough to be a giant, but it was too large and slender to be an orc. And it didn’t look like an orc. It was dressed in several layers of thick clothes that hung on its frame, and several dark scarves were wrapped around its head, obscuring its face. A soft glow emanated from somewhere beneath the cloth. It had a commanding and intimidating presence, turning its blank face slowly over the growing crowd. There was a large club resting against its thigh, and though its posture was relaxed, Mazin had no doubt that it could put the weapon to use at a moment’s notice.

They frowned. Something in their chest shivered and turned away, but they forced themself to squint at the thing a few moments longer. They could definitely feel some kind of magic emanating from it, but it was nothing like they’d felt before. It was…hot almost.

“It’s…I’m not entirely sure what that is…” they admitted slowly.

“It’s probably a sentinel of some kind,” Hadil spoke up behind them, though she didn’t sound sure either. “There’s no human settlement near here, but we’re near an elven forest, if I recall. Supposedly the local covens are on good terms with the elves, but…you can never be too careful.”

“That’s true,” Mazin agreed.

How dedicated the Frenrir witches were.

A few moments later Mari was pulling at their sleeve again, pointing out someone else, and Mazin supplied names as well as they could, but they found their eyes wandering back towards the figure standing watch at the far end of the clearing. It turned its face towards them as they stared, and they looked away hurriedly, stomach clenching.

And in this manner they, slowly, agonizingly, made their way across the Gathering.

Not soon enough, they left the huge clearing and their guide led them down a faint path that cut through the forest. They left the crowd and the light behind them, but the noise followed them as they went. That too eventually faded as they walked on.

Mazin could feel the lake as they approached, haughty and standoffish, but welcoming. It had only been one day, felt like it had been weeks since they’d been near water, and they felt the absence of their home like a gaping hole in their chest.

“Here you go!”

The guide stopped as the forest opened up onto the bank of the lake. Mazin was momentarily breathless. The lake was grand and wide, extending almost as far as their eyes could see. The water was a deep blue that was near black at the center, lapping lazily against the dark sand. Mazin could feel some of the tension from the travel starting to ease.

A great deal of thought had evidently gone into their lodgings. The huts weren’t made of actual driftwood, but they looked similar enough that anyone who hadn’t grown up by the sea wouldn’t know the difference. They were built low to the ground with bowed walls and roofs, giving them the appearance of large upended boats. Netting hung from the windows and doors, and brightly-colored bits of glass and rock dangled from the corners, which were few and far between.

The guide led them nearly to the door, stopping at the three short steps that led onto the patio. He turned to Mazin with practiced expectance, and for a few panicked seconds, Mazin’s mind was completely blank. Fumbling, they remembered their manners.

“You honor us with this shelter, well-crafted and strong,” they intoned finally, bowing their head deeply. Their voice was not as steady or deep as they could’ve hoped, but at least it was audible. “May the gods below shelter you as we have been sheltered. Bring my thanks and my blessings up to your Matron, long may she reign in peace.”

He grinned up at them. “May your path be clear, sister,” he responded. He turned to leave, and then turned back, looking at them curiously. “You okay, though? You look spooked.”

Mazin waved his concern away. “I am fine,” they assured him. “I merely…dislike crowds.”

He winced sympathetically. “I gotcha, sis.” He lifted his hand, splaying out all of his fingers. “The rest of the covens’ll probably be here pretty shortly. I’ll come get you, or send someone for you, or somethin’, first thing for the opening ceremony. You good for that?”

They nodded, biting their cheek to keep from saying a negative. The boy grinned.

“Great! See ya tomorrow then!” he called, and trotted away to escort another new arrival. No rest for the guides of the host coven.

Mazin watched him until he vanished into the forest, and then turned to the lodgings and stepped up to the door. This, at least, was no cause for anxiety. An excuse to go inside and hide from the noise, the color, and the wall of bodies? This was a prayer answered.

There was a pleasant tingle of magic as they passed through the threshold of their temporary home, and for a brief time, they were safe.

It was pleasant inside as well as out. All the huts were connected on the inside, with bright beaded curtains separating them into large rooms. The walls were painted with patterns of waves in slate grey and light blue, and there were even little fish swimming, some of which had little gems for eyes. All about the room were comfortable-looking chairs shoved together in groups, and hammocks were strung up near the windows. The large rug in the center of the room, however, was what really drew the eye: it was a huge tapestry depicting an eel locked in combat with what might have been a giant squid. Or perhaps it was several eels locked in combat. Or maybe two squids. It was kind of hard to tell. There were a lot of long…things involved. Definitely either eels or tentacles.

Mazin had to enter each doorway and announce that it was safe before anyone else in the coven could go through. This took quite a while, as the complex seemed to grow to accommodate the growing number of people within it. For every door Mazin entered, another appeared on the far end of the room. Every room was ever so slightly different. The variance, however minimal, kept away the panic that repetition would otherwise inspire.

They knew they had reached the end when they found a room that was completely different. They ended their journey in a small room as near to the back of the complex as there physically could be. It was almost completely bare, decorated only with a small round rug depicting one of the goddesses the Setthe coven worshipped. Ra, Mazin was pretty sure. It was a foreigner’s interpretation, though, so it was hard to tell if it was meant to be her or her brother.

This final room had no windows, but it did have one door leading back into the next room of the complex and one door on the far wall leading, they assumed, outside. There was a thick blue curtain hanging that swayed gently in the breeze, and they could hear outside the hissing of grass and the distant lapping of water against the shore.

Though they shouldn’t have, they paused before turning back into the next room.

No one would notice, surely, if they slipped out for just a few minutes…

Giving in to the tug in their chest, Mazin stepped forward and pushed through the curtain.

The lake was a few minutes’ walk from the complex, but if they hurried, they could be there and back and finish their inspection before anyone began to wonder why they were taking so long.

There was a slight itch on their skin as they strayed farther from the compound that grew to uncomfortable and nearly stifling. If they were human, it would probably be painful. They were straying from the enchantments placed around the Gathering for their protection, and walking over the wards that had been placed to warn straying witches to return back to their coven.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Mazin was no oblivious straying witch. Such magic was less oppressive against nonhumans, and little more than an annoyance to full-blooded nyx. Mazin pushed through with minimal difficulty, focused as they were on their prize.

Their pace picked up as they drew nearer to the water until they were nearly running down the steep bank to the water’s edge. They stopped short just shy of the edge, not foolish enough to get that close. They just stood there, and let the physical nearness calm them.

Now that they were here, Mazin could see that it wasn’t a lake, as they’d first thought. It was a river. They were standing on the inside of a steep curve in the river’s path that hid the rest of its long body from view. It stretched wide and extended far in front of them. The other bank was to their right, a quarter or more of a mile away. Its back was clear and bright, reflecting what sunlight fell through the trees. Now that they were this close to the shore, and past the Gathering enchantments, they could see that the trees only continued a little ways beyond the opposite shore to their right. Beyond it, they could only see pale green, another field like the one they’d come from.

That didn’t hold their interest for very long. They turned their attention back to the water. They didn’t dare fully immerse themself in the river’s mind, but they extended a small tendril of their own soul forward, brushing tentatively against the vast swirling emotion of her presence. Like many nyx gods, she had no name, but her purpose was clear. She was singing beneath the sun and wind, dancing over the hills and rocks to the east. She beckoned to them, enticing them with flashes of what she experienced as she ran across the land.

Join with me, she whispered, join me and we’ll run!

Any true nyx would find the call impossible to resist. Nyx were completely dependent on the water, more so than even the elves and dwarves depended on their trees and stones. They allowed their minds to be completely consumed, and this was not without its price. Those few that left their halls to walk among mortals did so only briefly, or else they risked…wasting away, or worse, Enlightenment. Once upon a time, they may have had a choice in the matter, but in recent generations, no nyx could defend themselves from the beings who lived in the water.

Mazin resisted the urge to leap naked into the water.

I cannot, they told the river silently. My heart remains on the land.

The emotion Mazin felt in response to their refusal was akin to a displeased hiss. The river pulled at them again insistently, but no more words came into their mind.

Mazin remained by the river only a few minutes longer. They could spare no more before they had to turn and go back up the bank. It was more difficult this time to ignore the wards plucking at their skin, but they managed.

They pulled the curtain securely over the door behind them, making sure not to let even the slightest ray of light in. It was calming to tug the soft, thick fabric into place, and they didn’t mind when the breeze undid their work only seconds later.

They turned away and continued their tour through the complex. Eventually, they went through enough doors to end up circling back around to the front room, and they knew their duty was done.

Hadil was waiting for them, and she smiled warmly as they returned. She remained silent, but her fingers betrayed her pride. Mazin couldn’t help the flush of satisfaction and it eased their discomfort.

“Is all well?” Serva asked, and they nodded.

“Yes. This place is safe and bountiful,” they responded, allowing the rest of the coven to enter the complex and rest.

When the entire complex was declared safe, Mazin could rest as well.

Though they wanted to retreat to the back room and hide, they knew their duty, and they knew what it would look like if they immediately hid themself away from the rest of the Gathering. So instead they chose a relatively solitary spot near the back of the front room and sat awkwardly in one of the wooden chairs. It was not their resting spot of choice, but it would suffice. They needed a moment—or fifty—to recover their strength, and gather more for what was expected of them over the next week.

For a little while, they watched the others move around. A lot of them remained in the front room for a while and talked, but eventually there grew to be too many bodies for even this large room to hold. Little by little the Setthe coven trickled out and into other rooms, though Mazin could still hear the din of their voices and feel the heat of their bodies as if they were all together.

A few came up to Mazin and spoke to them, mostly to either introduce themselves or marvel at how much Mazin had grown since the last time they’d met. They responded as best they could, but they left every conversation feeling a twinge of awkward shame. Not for the first time, they wondered if Mot was right in criticizing their solitary ways.

Though Mazin would never be allowed to lead the Setthe coven, they were still perfectly capable of taking over the family and leading the fleet in Mot’s place after he retired. It was a strange distinction to make, especially considering that in many places, the Setthe family and the Setthe coven overlapped (though not nearly as much as it had in Xeneth, where nearly every member of every clan was a mage of some kind; there wasn’t even a separate word in any Xene language for ‘coven’ and ‘clan.’).

Finally, everything settled down to the point where Mazin could pull their knees to their chest and lean back. They couldn’t sleep, not so soon after napping on the train ride over, but they closed their eyes anyway. Sunlight came into through the window, defying logic and the time of day, warming and calming them. They allowed their mind to slip away to a dark bottomless void that had long housed their dreams.

A hand landed roughly on their arm and they were jolted rudely from the beginning of their faux-slumber. They opened their eyes to find Mari’s face mere inches from their own. They tried to stifle their alarm at her unannounced proximity, and narrowly avoided smashing their forehead into hers.

She jerked back suddenly, a sour expression on her face. “Are you going to sleep all day, crabby?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Mazin considered the question for a long while, and then pretended to consider it longer. “Well…yeah,” they admitted, feigning an innocent tone. “I am a darkling, you know. We are infamously nocturnal creatures, and it is daytime.” They sighed dramatically. “I’m going to waste away if I don’t sleep right this instant.”

She huffed and shook her head. “That’s bullsh—” She stopped herself short and looked around. When no one leapt from the shadows to scold her, she took a step forward and said again, voice softer, “That’s bullshit.” Her face flushed with the excitement of saying a forbidden word, and she continued, “You stay up during the day all the time! And you promised you would show me around!” They opened their mouth to reply and she cut them off, “And pointing out people as we walked through doesn’t count! You promised to show me around!”

They had promised. As soon as Mazin had acceded to their father’s wishes, Mari had immediately begged them to personally escort her through the Gathering. She refused to be accompanied by anyone else, and had dragged promise after promise out of them. She’d chattering nonstop to anyone who would listen about how amazing it would be to meet every single coven at the Gathering with her big brother (or big sister, depending on Mazin’s mood that day).

Mazin had regretted making the promise almost as soon as they’d made it. They were capable of being selfish, as much as anyone else, except when it came to their little sister. They’d probably dance naked in front of the entire Gathering if they thought she wanted them to. They wouldn’t enjoy it—not one bit—but they would do it, and when it was done, through their mortification they would feel a spark of pride for having gotten her to laugh.

Just because they weren’t going to disappoint her didn’t mean they had to do anything right now, though. For now, they could still lie about.

“I know you just woke up,” they started, “and I know you’re excited…but I have to do the opening ceremony in…probably a few hours. As soon as everyone arrives.” She looked geared up to argue, and they rushed on before she could gather a sensible argument. “No, no, listen, I promise, I will show you around…but let me get that out of the way first. I have to, you know…” They motioned to their body, referencing to the anxiety that she could neither see nor feel. Mari was always ready to talk and perform, and she didn’t care how many people might be listening, or watching, or judging. “…prepare myself. Get my speech ready, and steel myself for the crowd, and gather my wits and all that.”

She let out a strangled noise of frustration. “Noo,” she said, whining like a child. She flopped down on top of them across the chair as if she was trying to lay in their arms. “You’ll be too tired after.”

“We’ll run out of time if we do it now,” they argued. “Sit up, you look ridiculous with your ass out like that. I mean. Your butt out like that.” They corrected themself belatedly. Just because she was going to swear when their fathers weren’t around didn’t mean they had to. They nudged her shoulder gently. “Up.”

She let out another mumble of disappointment, but obliged. She sat up but fell to her knees in front of the chair, palms resting on their stomach and arm. They itched to shove her hands away, but forced themself to remain still.

“Promise you will, though?” she pressed, voice soft and pitiful.

“I promise.” At her look, they repeated, “I promise, Mariam. On my soul.” They drew the promise sign in the air between their chests, binding themself to their word. They felt the tiny thread of their oath wrap around their heart, joining countless other little promises they’d made to her over her lifetime. By the time they died, Mazin was sure their bones would be pure black with all the promises they’d made--and kept—to their sister. Or so they hoped. That, they thought, was the sign of a life well lived.

Mari’s face twitched and she almost smiled, but with great effort she kept her distraught expression in place. “You’re a darkling,” she said glumly, “you don’t have a soul to swear on.”

Mazin tried to hide their wince, but one of their hands flinched away from hers. From anyone else, the words would have struck deep and stung, but from Mari, who was still too young and sheltered to fully comprehend the true depths of what she was saying, they chose to take the words as the affectionate joke they were intended to be.

So rather than react with the anger and hurt such a statement would normally warrant, Mazin mock-gasped, clutching at their chest dramatically. “Oh, gods!” they exclaimed, throwing their other hand up to cover their eyes. They heard her giggling softly before quieting herself. “Oh, every lost soul and exalted ancestor of my blood, what cruel words you’ve thrown! Oh, how you’ve wounded me! Ye, of my blood and bond, have laid me low this day!” They threw their arm out, nearly smacking her as they flailed in the throes of exaggerated hurt. “Oh, I perish! I perish at your unbelievable cruelty! Leave me to my death, o sister, that I may languish in the deep anguish of my solitude! Oh, leave me alone to my agony! What cruel harsh words! What terrible truths you speak!”

That broke her mask, prompting giggles at their show of dramatics.

“You’re ridiculous,” she told, resting her chin on the edge of the hammock.

They broke character and reached out to rest their hand on top of her head. “I get it from my father,” they said, voice now deep and serious. Their face was burning; people were looking their way, and while logically they knew no one cared how silly they acted with their sister, parts of them wanted to start screaming to make everyone go away.

Mari wrinkled her nose, oblivious to Mazin’s inner torment. “You’re right,” she agreed matter-of-factly. “Baba is even more ridiculous than you. He’s…super ridiculous. Ultra ridiculous. Absolutely ultra super crazy ridiculous…like a whale with reading glasses!”

“Now you’re getting ridiculous.” They ruffled up her hair, much to her dismay, and pulled their hand away. “I really do promise,” they said in a more somber tone. “As soon as I’m recovered from the opening ceremony, I’ll show you around, and I’ll introduce you to…well, I don’t know anybody, but I can point people out. Famous people. That’ll be cool?”

“That’ll be cool!” she insisted firmly. “That’ll be really fun!”

Mazin sighed. “Man…I’m lucky your idea of fun is so lame.

She smacked at their arm. “’m not lame,” she argued. “I’m amazing.”

“You are.” Their agreement was prompt and heartfelt. They reached out and tugged at one of her curls affectionately. “I really do promise, Mari,” they said solemnly.

Mari sighed and acquiesced. “Alright. That’s as good as I’m gonna get, huh.” To soften the sting of her sarcasm—and to assure Mazin that she really was being sarcastic—she learned forward and kissed their forehead a bit too hard. “I guess I’ll leave you to take your weird fake shadow nap,” she said.

“It’s not weird.”

“It’s super weird,” she assured them, and left them in peace. She wandered over toward Serva, who was more than willing to put up with her nonstop chatter and pestering. Serva loved Mariam. Everyone loved Mariam.

Mazin sighed. “Super weird,” they agreed with the silence and shifted their body to a position slightly more comfortable. They swung their legs over the arm of the chair and laid with their back against the other arm. They tugged at their clothes until they sat smooth and unwrinkled against their skin, and they began their rest.

They had been told multiple times by multiple people that their idea of a “nap” was, in fact, super weird, and they’d stopped arguing about it.

Nyx almost never slept, and humans slept often, and their children were caught halfway between the two. Mazin often wanted to, but they didn’t actually need to sleep deeply like their fathers and sister did. They could comfortably go a week without sleep, and uncomfortably almost three. If they found themself overwhelmed and in need of a quick rest, though, they could just take a “nap,” which was more like what full-blooded nyx did.

It was less of a sleep and more of a deep meditation, but it involved all kinds of fun and mostly harmless side effects such as their skin greying out, their markings glowing silver, their eyes rolling up into their head, and the air around them getting darker and colder than was comfortable for anyone else to endure. They were sure that, if they were among their mother’s people, it would be nothing worth noting. Among humans, however…they were weird.

The room had cleared, or at least quieted, as others went to rest or prepare for the ceremony, and when Mazin closed their eyes again, it was easier to slip away.

They went down towards the river again, in spirit this time rather than in the flesh. Their mind slipped out of their body with difficulty, nowhere near the smooth and comfortable transition that a nyx or seer could make. They remained tethered to their body by a thin thread of consciousness, simultaneously aware of their physical flesh and their spiritual while not being tied to either.

It was an experience impossible to put into words. It was like free floating through a great blackness, a comforting and cold dark place where they were isolated and yet never alone. They were aware distantly of other nyx, dead and alive, and even some elves at a great distance. All sensation was muffled and even their thoughts were slow and lazy. Time and space and all higher thought faded away to irrelevance.

The only thing near enough to them to distract was the river, still singing. Now that they were in this state, Mazin could almost see her as she’d been in life: a full-blooded nyx, thin and dark and made of sharp points and hard edges. She had not been beautiful by shadowkin standards, with features so soft and human-like, but she had been powerful and arrogant, and her death had been glorious. She was driven, as most of the old gods were, by a single purpose, though hers was more harmless than most. She wanted to continue her work, to share her music with the world.

She beckoned to them. Here, they had no body for her to control, and she had no will to force upon them. Here it was only their two souls, drawn together by blood.

Mazin allowed her to draw them away from their body, where it was safest. If they drew her in, she could take control of their unguarded form easily, and they would be lost. Instead they danced on the bank, drawing strength from her without stealing her power.

Join me, she asked, and it was less a plea and more a command. She beckoned and swayed. Can you imagine the music we could make, the two of us? You are young and dark and full of life! I…I am beautiful, yes, and I am powerful, but I am old and beginning to brighten and wither away. Soon I will fade away, and then where will we be?

Mazin was silent in their refusal. A part of them was drawn to her, and to the others who lived at the bottom of the river. They were separated enough that they could keep their wits even as they joined together to dance.

Just a dance, they thought…surely just a dance couldn’t hurt.

3: The Over-Bright Overture

It seemed only a few moments passed before they were shaken gently from their false slumber. They returned slowly and clumsily to their body, and their mind protested mightily at the sudden weight of flesh and responsibility. One by one they regained control of their limbs, and for a long and terrible moment they were acutely aware of every muscle and drop of blood in their body. Just when the sensation became too much to handle, their nerves normalized and they were back to only being acutely aware of the world around their body.

Mazin opened their eyes to a room without light. Night had fallen completely while they’d slumbered, and without the moon or any torches they were in near-complete darkness. Their eyes adjusted quickly to the black. They were lying still in the chair by the window, staring blankly at the ceiling. Just above them was a cute painting of a crab wearing a sun hat and riding a piece of driftwood. Their shoulders felt stiff and twisted from lying in such a strange position for so long.

They turned their head. Hadil stood over them with her hand on their shoulder. She had changed out of her comfortable traveling clothes into something more formal. Through the dim, Mazin could make out the black and gold scenes embroidered across her chest and stomach, traditional depictions of Xene gods. Her hair was braided in a fashion nearly identical to theirs, though hers were more intricately patterned to distinguish her age and higher status in the clan. Her face was painted with red shadows around her eyes and white stripes on her lips. When she kept her mouth closed, it looked like she had fangs protruding beneath her mouth.

She was dressed for the ceremony.

“Good evening,” she said slowly. Amusement and affection softened her voice and made their transition to wakefulness easier.

They ran a hand over their face and pushed themself halfway up. They tried for only a few seconds to speak, but knew it was a lost cause. Instead, they nodded, and formed the sign for “pretty” at her while nodding at her change of clothes.

She chuckled, leaning back. “Thank you.”

They looked beyond her to Mari standing near the door, impatient and dressed in a pretty dress of dark blue with grey trim and a glittering scale pattern. Near her was Serva, who looked as imposing as ever in a plain tight shirt so dark a shade of grey that it was almost black. They were both dressed in fashions befitting the Setthe coven, while Hadil, as always, remained faithful to Windback.

“Good evening,” Mazin greeted carefully. Their voice felt heavy and slow, and it came out sounding like a question.

“Evening,” Serva replied coolly.

Mari just sighed and made an exaggerated motion at the sky, indicating the time. Mazin stuck their tongue out and she let out a strangled moan.

“You’ve been sleeping all day!” she signed emphatically. It was always a very big deal when Mariam began to sign in the ways of their baba. She usually only adopted their ways when she was upset or trying to make a point.

Hadil gripped Mazin’s hand, calling their attention back to her.

“There is someone at the threshold,” she said softly. “Here for you. It’s nearly time for the opening ceremony.” She looked at them meaningfully. “You should get dressed before you greet whoever it is.”

Dread and duty settled over their shoulders heavily, and they nodded.

“Of course…”

They swung themself off of the chair with a soft groan. Their

The room—and the entire complex, in fact—was empty except for the four of them. It seemed everyone else was either still getting ready or had gone ahead. Even so, this front room felt too large and public and their skin began to crawl.

They’d dropped their bag down beside the hammock. It was a gift from Mot, one of the first he’d ever given them. It was enchanted with giant magic and held far more than its physical volume would suggest. They didn’t know—and probably didn’t want to know—how he’d managed to get his hands on it, but it was amazingly useful. They’d packed enough to get them through the week and then some.

“The room back there is empty,” Serva pointed out, and waved away their thanks. “Hurry.”

Mazin retreated quickly at first, and then slower when the weight of everyone’s eyes on them became too much to bear. They ducked gratefully through the curtain into the next, smaller room. It was indeed empty, and just the right dimensions that they didn’t feel strange disrobing.

They shed the ensemble they’d worn on the train and changed into one that was, they assumed, equally ridiculous. Their unique sense of fashion was shared by no other living being on the planet, apparently. At least this outfit covered their midriff, though it bared their arms and back as was the Xene ceremonial fashion. They wore neither the dark red of Windback coven nor the blue-grey of Setthe coven. They’d toyed with the idea, but it felt too much like favoring one father over another.

Instead they wore a long, pale green tunic with loose black pants with embroidered patterns of falling seashells and breaking waves. Everything was double-layered so they couldn’t feel the stitching on their skin. There were lot of pockets to hide their fingers in, and lots of little hanging beads that they could play with.

There were just enough nods to both covens that they couldn’t be accused of favoring either, and the textures of the fabrics were uniform enough that they wouldn’t get overwhelmed. They probably did have too many fishing nets incorporated into the outfit for more people’s tastes, though many people considered one fishing net to be too many.

Mazin patted their clothes flat and tugged at every hem until everything sat comfortably against their skin. They reached up and tugged at their braids, making sure none were unravelling.

They wondered…were they going to tie them back? They’d already come to the Gathering with their hair down, but…

There weren’t many in the Gathering who would know the significance of the cut of their shirt, or the patterns in their pants, or the way they wore their hair. To most, such details were insignificant, especially when one took into consideration the general absurdity of their fashion sense.

For those that did know, though…Mazin’s shirt was a finger-length too long to be anything but feminine, but the embroidery on their thighs was obviously invoking masculine deities, and both details were far too obvious not to be deliberate.

Though if their presentation was ever in question, their chest binder was plainly visible through the open back of their shirt.

They ran a hand over their face, silently berating themself for overthinking this again. They’d had this exact panic when they’d packed for the week, and they’d made their choice then. But a decision made at a distance was far different than a decision made in the moment. What had seemed so clean and simple a few days ago was suddenly much more…intimate.

Ugh. There was no need to rehash an old decision.

They left their hair down.

Shame and uncertainty mixed in their belly as they tucked a few thin braids behind their ear, and they wondered if anyone would say anything. There were bound to be people in the crowd who recognized them. They’d left the Windback coven when they were six, and many would still remember them as Nilima, daughter of Hai.

They sighed and tapped their own forehead. “This is stupid,” they said softly. “You’re probably not going to spend any more time with those people…and if you do, who cares. They won’t care…they won’t care…”

They sighed and remained a moment in the dark solitude, hands pressed against their stomach. The fabric settled a bit strangely across their hips and lower back. They spent a good five minutes tweaking it until it sat right on their skin, and then another two tugging at the fabric across their chest.

This was dumb.

Hadil said nothing about the outfit when they emerged. Perhaps it was too dim for her to make out the unorthodox colors. She also said nothing about their hair. She just held out her hands. They bowed their head and allowed her to touch up their braids. She adjusted the bells and beads that their father had woven into the braids, and attached little seashells to the ends with strips of pale blue ribbon. She sighed softly as she worked, and Mazin’s heart raced at the sound.

“What? What’s wrong?” Their voice had returned, low and afraid.

The panic must have been evident in their tone, because she immediately quieted them, patting their head as if she was quieting an energetic pet.

“Nothing’s wrong, I swear it, I just…” She smiled at them, warm and proud. “I think Hai would be really happy to see you, going out there in front of everyone like this.”

Thanks to dark skin and dark lighting, Hadil didn’t notice Mazin’s face heating up. Behind her, Serva coughed, soft enough that it might have been just a hitch in her breath.

They knew she was right…and that made it worse, somehow. They’d fought both of their fathers almost every step of the way, for ultimately selfish reasons, and knowing how proud both of their fathers were of them in spite of their juvenile behavior made Mazin feel slightly ill.

“Alright,” Hadil said, tugging their braid one more time. “Go out there and meet whoever’s waiting for you.”

Mazin made their way towards the door at a glacial pace. Suddenly the attractively sized room was too large and spacious, and they felt claustrophobic.

It’s alright, they told themself, it’ll just be the guide. Maybe it’ll be Brynne.

They stepped out of the curtain and were immediately face-to-face with their visitor, who was standing as close to the threshold of their sanctuary as it was physically possible to do.

It was definitely not the guide.

She was very tall and very wide, and in that way she resembled their father. In every other way, however, she was nothing like their father. Her skin was pale and pinkish where Mot was as dark as the depths of the sea, and her yellow-gold hair was cut short. Her eyes were very pale and very cold, though they warmed by a small degree when they saw Mazin. Her mouth, which was not made for smiling, smiled very widely.

Mazin knew her, impersonally. Ava, the Matron of the Xer coven. Mazin was surprised until they remembered how often she hung around their father during Gatherings. Mot always seemed less eager to be in her presence than she was to be in his. The Xer and the Setthe were not officially allied, but that didn’t stop Ava from seeking Mot’s company every chance she got. Mazin privately believed that she was sweet on him, or perhaps she lusted for him, or perhaps she was jealous of him.

Behind her was her Second, who resembled her as much as she resembled Mot, and her Third, the half-blood Mariam had pointed out earlier. The two of them resembled each other a great deal, and they resembled Ava not at all. They shared identical uncomfortable smiles and identical uncomfortable eyes.

“Ahh, it is the little crab!” Ava said, likely not intending the nickname to be as kind as it came across. Open disappointment did not color her voice, but her displeasure was obvious in the little twitches of her fingers and mouth. “Where is your father, little thing? I came hoping for Setthe.” She ignored Mari and Serva, who stood inside the door behind them,

“You may address me as such. My father is not in attendance.” The end of the sentence rose, as if it were a question, and Mazin kicked themself.

A stricken expression took over her face as the implications of the statement became clear. Her smile faded quickly and she took half a step forward, hand outstretched but hovering too far away from Mazin for them to guess at her intentions.

“He is not…surely…?” she asked, unable to bring herself to say the words aloud.

For a moment, Mazin was confused. Such a strong reaction to a simple statement. Then, far slower than it had for her, the implications of what they’d said became clear.

“No! No, no!” they frantically waved away the thought. “No, Mot is fine. He is healthy, but he is grieving. He is on vigil, and can’t be called away. He sent me to represent in his stead.”

Her concern vanished instantly, replaced by, in very quick succession, relief, annoyance, and nonchalance. “Who died?” she asked, in a tone that suggested that she did not much care.

“His niece. Taken by the frost.” Mazin’s tone, to their chagrin, nearly matched hers. It was equal parts social habit and equal parts true disinterest. They always tended to match the tone and expression of people they conversed with when they were unsure how to police their own responses, and they were not close enough to any of their cousins to feel very deeply about any one’s death. “Most of his blood family is home as well.”

Ava’s eyebrow raised coldly. It was made for that. “Does he not have a true heir?” she asked bluntly, too bluntly for Mazin to be as hurt by the words as she no doubt intended. Beside her, however, her own Third winced and Mari gasped sharply. Xer’s eyes darted to her and something in them was cold and delighted. “What a fine little heir she is! Surely she should be the one standing in front of me, not…well, for lack of a better word…a step-child?”

“My sister is twelve,” Mazin stated flatly, ignoring the insult. Step-child was no dirty word, but anything was insulting when it was said in that tone of voice. “She is not old enough to take the Setthe name, even temporarily. Until that time…I am Mot’s child, as much as Mariam, and I stand in his place.” They lifted their chin, and forced themself to look her in the eye for as long as they could stand, and then a bit longer.

“Hn. So it is, I suppose,” she said, and it didn’t sound like an agreement.

The conversation should have been over, Mazin thought, but Ava remained, looming over them casually. She was obviously not going to just go, and Mazin wasn’t sure what was at risk if they just turned and walked away. Magical properties they understood perfectly. Coven politics, they did not.

“Can I help you?” they finally asked, their voice just a bit colder and surer than before.

“Well. I had hoped to meet up with your dear father,” Ava began, purposely avoiding calling Mazin by their temporary title. Despite the obvious slight against their person, they didn’t bring it up due to equal parts cowardice and disinterest. “But you will do. It is tradition, you know, for we Xer to escort you Setthe to the ceremony. A show of…friendship, isn’t it?”

Mazin frowned. “Of course…” They said slowly. She wasn’t entirely wrong, though her use of the word ‘tradition’ was misleading. It had only been a tradition as long as she had been alive, and only since she’d met Mot face to face. Less of a tradition, more of a habit, and an annoying one at that. In Mazin’s opinion, of course.

Ava’s mouth turned up at the corner. It was not a smile. She stood up a little straighter, surprised Mazin as they’d been pretty sure she had been standing up straight to begin with.

“Well. We should be off, then,” she said, and turned. Her entourage fanned out behind her, clearing the path before them. She extended her hand out. “Lead on, darling.”

Mazin took a deep breath and stepped down. The path, they trusted, would lead them where they needed to go…and if not, they could follow the light. There was thick forest between their sanctuary, but there was a golden glow and the distant sound of reverie that guided them towards the Gathering. A path opened up before them as they walked, just barely wide enough for them to walk abreast.

Ava kept step with them. Behind them, their Seconds and Thirds trailed silently, following in the stead of their Matrons. Mazin was certain they should be talking to her, but they hadn’t the first idea what to say. They tried to remember what Mot had said to her when they’d accompanied him to the last Gathering…but the entire thing was a blurry mess of guilt and shame in their mind, and they couldn’t recall a single word.

She made it easier by speaking up herself, though of course what came out of her mouth was nothing pleasant.

“I’m surprised,” she said, tone unreadable. “You say your sister is too young to lead, but you cannot be above…what, one and twenty?” She reached up and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. It would have been a becoming motion, on anyone else. “In my opinion, that is much too young. Darling Setthe should have appointed his Third to represent him, if he was so worried about appearances. To put a child at the head of half a coven…well, I trust him, of course, but I fear he may be putting too much on your little shoulders.” She glanced at them out of the corner of their eye, critically gauging their bared shoulders, which were in fact small compared to hers. They didn’t notice, staring hard at the ground before them.

Mazin’s head listed to the side. “If my father didn’t trust me, he wouldn’t have sent me,” they said, not necessarily because they believed it. It’s what Hadil had told them, and it’s what they would say. They wanted to tell her that they were actually twenty-four, but they had the feeling that would play into what she wanted. “He means no disrespect to Serva, I’m sure—” They lifted their hand and formed their fingers into a respectful sign over their shoulder, “—but is it not traditional for family to represent family? I am his child. Not his heir, but his child nonetheless. It is not so unnatural that I should be entrusted to act in his stead.” They paused, and hastily added, “For the duration of the Gathering, of course.”

Words were very important when talking to witches. An incorrect phrase or vague meaning could spell disaster.

Ava snorted. “I suppose that is one way to look at it,” she said, not agreeing with them.

“By the laws of land and soul, I am his child,” they defended themself solemnly.

She glanced sidelong at them, and the gentle mocking in her eyes briefly faded. “Now that is something I have never seen dear Setthe do,” she said thoughtfully, completely ignoring their declaration. Her eyes lingered on their hands, which danced and fluttered at their chest. “Is that some desert custom? It is absolutely adorable.”

A stab of defensive anger briefly flashed through Mazin’s chest, and they shoved it down quickly. Adorable, she called it. They weren’t unused to their speaking habits being a point of interest, or even being a source of ignorant mockery. Even at home, only their baba, Hadil, and Mari signed with their hands as they spoke, and they were often on the receiving end of many blunt and insensitive questions. It was different, though, to hear questions from someone who was not in any way related to them, even distantly. And given Ava’s attitude so far, they assumed this was a new petty way to upset them, to punish them further for daring not to be their step-father.

“This is the way of my father’s people,” they confirmed icily. They could explain to her all the different connotations hand signing added to a language, or how using one sign for a word over another could completely change the meaning of your sentence. They could explain the subtle differences and dialects that made the language just as meaningful as nuanced as spoken word. Instead, they said, “It is a necessary custom when winds and sand can steal your voice.”

“I suppose so,” she said again. “It’s quaint. I’m sure Setthe finds it absolutely charming.”

Mazin didn’t trust themself to answer that. They didn’t even try.

They walked on in silence for several more long moments. Mazin’s indignant rage simmered for a few minutes before they shoved it away, acknowledging it as a useless source of distress in a time when the last they needed was one more thing to be distressed about.

Finally, the Gathering came into view. The trees ended abruptly, and the huge clearing they’ traveled through earlier that day opened up before them. It seemed even bigger than it had before, large enough now to hold potentially every witch in the world. It was already packed with people, and Mazin stopped suddenly as if running into a physical wall. To their dismay, Ava stopped beside them, surveying the crowd with a cold eye.

“Quite a turnout this time,” she mused, though her tone made it sound like an ill thing.

She was right, though. Mazin couldn’t remember the specifics of the last Gathering, but they were certain even that crowd hadn’t been as overwhelming as this one was now.

There were far more people in the clearing than there had been before. Mazin was certain that every witch in attendance was gathered in this spot. It was a sea of colors and fashions and noise. People from nearly every country on the continent were wandering among each other, holding loud conversations in a hundred different languages. Those who had previously kept in groups before now mingled freely (for the most part) through the crowd. They walked arm in arm with friends long unseen, introduced themselves to strangers without fear, and wandered leisurely towards the stalls and booths set up around the perimeter of the clearing. They were only kept from wandering too far by the huge bright figures that paced the perimeter of the clearing.

There were nearly a hundred of the sentinels now, of varying heights and builds, walking slowly around the Gathering. They cast their own faint light, and Mazin could see a few of them wandering the deeper parts of the forest, patrolling. It should have been comforting, but it unsettled them. They didn’t like unfamiliar forms of magic, and they hadn’t the faintest idea what manner of creature the Frenrir had employed to guard the Gathering.

If Mazin didn’t have to actually interact with it, the multicultural melting pot would have been a beautiful thing to behold. Some of the countries represented here were at war, and yet their citizens walked easily together, laughing beneath the golden glow of the Bright Gathering.

“Shall we go? I’m sure they’re waiting for us.” For you, was the unspoken implication of her words, or so Mazin assumed. There were only so many ways they could interpret the wry half-smile she turned their way.

“Of course.” They waited half a beat, but when it was clear she would not be making the first step forward, they steeled themself.

You can do this. You have to do this. Mot chose you to do this.

They took a deep, deep breath, and took a step forward. And another. And another on top of that. Three steps became thirty, became fifty, and they tried to focus on nothing except the shimmering lights that hung above their destination, and the sound of their own breathing.

The crowd parted for them--or, more likely, for Ava. They were a face far less recognized and a presence easily dismissed, whereas she was tall and intimidating and obviously moving with purpose. Mazin found comfort in the fact that people were likely watching her instead of them.

Finally, they came to the opening of the tent where the Matrons were gathered before the ceremony began. It was not as large or flashy as some of the other tents, which housed performing troupes and portable warehouses and other such things. It looked like it had been designed to be only as large as it needed to be, and was decorated in a somber, dark fashion. It was obviously not a Fenrir design. They favored floral designs and sunshine emblems, and this dark material was decorated with small beads or crushed stones that gave the impression that this was not cloth but a swatch of the sky cut down and draped over a few wooden poles for their use. It had an air of importance and sanctity that made them hesitate to step foot over its threshold.

Mazin loved it. If there weren’t a crowd of people around them, and such an uncomfortable woman beside them, they might have stopped and just stared at it, perhaps walked around it and ran their fingers over the material. It looked soft and pretty.

But, alas, there was a crowd, and such a woman. Ava gave them a brief moment to stare awestruck before pushing ahead, pulling back the curtain and turning to them with an expression they were fairly certain was a sneer.

“After you, my dear,” she said softly, nodding her head with purpose.

Mazin couldn’t help hesitating for the briefest moment just before stepping into the tent. They murmured a quick prayer before entering. Hadil sighed and Ava’s lip twisted, but Mazin ducked inside before either of them could make a comment on the odd behavior.

Mazin was far too old and knowledgeable to believe the window tales that nyx didn’t have individual souls and so couldn’t pass through doors and entrances without divine help. They had grown up, however, surrounded by superstition and paranoid uncertainty. They loved their baba dearly, but he gave credence to nearly every rumor and legend he heard, and had firmly instructed Mazin as a child to implore the goddesses every time they entered a new building so their life wouldn’t be taken away.

The tent was crowded. For everyone but Mazin, it probably wasn’t uncomfortably so, but they found themself immediately miserable.

It was much brighter inside the tent than outside in the clearing. Magical lanterns floated in the dark spaces left by the large candelabras that were placed on the tables set around the perimeter of the tent.

All the Matrons were gathered here, along with the two highest ranked members of their covens. Many of them were far older than Mazin, but there were one or two who were freshly crowned and looked as nervous as they felt. Mazin’s first instinct was to seek them out, but The Matrons didn’t mingle as freely as the people outside. In here, it was easier to draw the divides between schools of witches, and see where the true alliances were laid.

Technically all witches practiced magic in the same fashion, taught to them centuries ago by the elves. They had been taught—along with the warlocks—how to bargain with otherworldly spirits and channel their magical power into spells and wards. As time went on, however, divides grew between groups who believed that only certain beings could be appealed to, while all others were dangerous or lacking.

A few turned curiously as they entered, but Mazin kept their eyes resolutely on a bright pattern in the tent wall and avoided eye contact. They picked a relatively empty corner and staked it out, their entourage clustered loosely around them.

Serva looked around, arms crossed over her chest.

“A good turnout this time,” she commented. “I haven’t seen some of these faces in...” She trailed off, flashing a quick look at Mari. “…a while,” she settled for saying.

“I know for sure they weren’t there last time,” Mazin said, nodding their head towards the Nightbloom witches who were standing silently towards the back of the tent. Their eyes roamed over the crowd almost in total unison, and more than once Mazin found themself the sole focus of three pairs of unfriendly eyes. They quickly looked back to Serva.

"No,” she agreed. “They weren’t. Though they don’t normally show up for these things, unless something big is happening.”

“Is something big happening?” Mari asked loudly. Serva shushed her, tugging at her hair gently. “Ow! Sorry! I just wanted to know!”

“Keep your voice down, little one,” Serva scolded her. “You should be watching and listening, not talking. This will be your place, one day.”

Mari scoffed. “One day in forever,” she said, but kept her voice down. After a few beats, she hesitantly repeated, “Well…is something big happening?”

Serva sighed. “Yes,” she said simply.

Mari squeaked in excitement and leaned in close, hands twitching as she restrained herself from reaching out and grabbing Serva in her enthusiasm. “Oh, what?” she demanded in a dramatic stage whisper.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” she replied sternly, her tone clearly ending the conversation. “All you need to do is pay attention.”

Mari sighed in exaggerated dismay and leaned against Mazin. She looked up at them imploringly, though no plea was forthcoming. They wrapped an arm around her shoulder and held her against them.

“Will I need to go out for the ceremony?” she asked.

“No. Only the Mothers perform the ceremony,” Serva answered coolly. “The heirs just watch.”

Mazin tried not to shudder. Another loophole that had forced them into this position. Many covens forbade direct heirs from performing certain ceremonies and rituals in order to prevent attempted mutiny, which meant Mot could not have asked Mari or Serva, his Second and Third respectively, to step in for him. To do so would have violated magical law, and placed his Matronship in jeopardy.

A few more witches filed in, and Mazin watched them take a place near one of the tables, talking quietly and animatedly.

“By every star! Nilima? Is that reall you?”

Mazin’s stomach plummeted and their entire body went cold. That name…it had been years since anyone had called them Nilima, and the sound of it still made them feel sick. The next breath they drew was ragged and pained, but they forced themself to turn around and face the speaker, who sounded vaguely familiar.

The witch smiled widely, revealing teeth that had been filed sharp and painted in fanciful colors, displaying her status as a warrior. She was as short as Mazin was, but not nearly as broad. She was dressed similarly to Hadil in a sleeveless and backless dress embroidered with black and silver. Her hair was braided, and the black strands were barely visible behind the multitude of beads and bells decorating her as an accomplished and powerful witch.

They knew one another, though not as intimately as her tone would have suggested.

Fikriyya, the Second of the Windback coven. Mazin hadn’t seen her in more than ten years, not since the last Bright Gathering. They had been only thirteen then, and too afraid to be forthcoming.

Mazin tried to smile despite their rolling stomach and pounding heart. “Auntie,” they greeted her as warmly as they could, holding out their hands in an intimate Xene salute.

Her smile was dazzlingly bright as she laid her palms over theirs. “You’ve grown so much!” she admired, stepping closer. She didn’t drop her hands, instead gripping theirs tighter and pulling them close Mazin’s discomfort grew as the distance between them shrank, but they dared not pull away. Fikriyya looked them up and down, though Mazin got the impression she wasn’t really looking at them. “Oh, you look so much like your baba now!” she declared. “Is he here? Oh, I haven’t seen him in…years! How have you been? I haven’t seen you in so long and you were so quiet I barely got to talk to you!”

Mazin was certain that the only reason they could endure Mariam’s endless chatter was because they’re grown up around Fikriyya. Their baba had told them once that she could talk the moon out of the sky. They knew there was no point trying to answer her until she paused to take a breath…although it seemed her stamina had increased since the last time they’d met.

“I heard you live with the Setthe now! Your father really married one of them? The pirates? Is that exciting? Have you sailed out with them yet?” She gasped in what may have been fear, and then kept right on talking. “I hope they’re taking good care of your baba, you know how he gets! So sad and…jittery! Is he doing better? Is he here? Why are you here? Not that I mind, of course, darling, I haven’t seen you in years, but honestly I thought for sure I’d never see you at one of these things till you got married! Oh!” She gasped again and tugged them closer, pressing their hands against her chest in sudden delight. “Are you getting married? Are you—” her voice dropped, “—are you going to retake your Trial?”

Mazin’s stomach dropped again and they tried not to flinch away from her. Luckily, she seemed to finally have tired herself out, and they shoved their answers as quickly as they could into the brief silence. The only way to talk to Fikriyya was to be as fast and breathless as she was, which was not something Mazin excelled at.

“It is a little exciting, but no, I haven’t gone sailing. No, Baba’s not here, he’s with Mot back home,” they started, “but Mariam’s here, if you want to meet her. He’s doing much better. I’m here because Mot and Baba are holding vigil. I’m not getting married, and I’m not—” their voice broke, and they shoved down a sudden wave of shame. “—not retaking my Trial…” They paused for an instant and then, very quickly and barely above a whisper, they added, “Also, my…my name’s Mazin…” Their voice grew softer as they said it, and the dreadful possibility presented itself that they would have to repeat themself.

Fikriyya paused. She blinked owlishly at them for a moment…and then looked them up and down again. She looked at the masculine cut of their clothes, at the feminine fall of their hair, and at the artificial flatness of their chest. She looked at their freckled face and bared shoulders, and at the tattooed white tips of their fingers. That was the most telling sign of all, and they wanted suddenly to jerk their hands away and shove them deep into the recesses of their clothes.

“Oh.” For a long moment, she was quiet, staring at their hands dumbly. Then she took a deep breath. “I see. So you’re…unaligned then.” She put their hands down slowly. “Well…that’s good. Right? You’re…happier now?”

“…yes.” Then, realizing she had asked two questions, they rushed on. “No, I’m not…not unaligned. Definitely not unaligned.” They tried—for some ungodly reason—to laugh, but the sound came out harsh and dwindling. They didn’t pull their hands away, but they meaningfully wiggled their fingers in her grasp.

“That’s…good…” She stared at their face for a long while without speaking.

Their face began to burn and they finally pulled their hands away. She let them go without resistance, and pulled her own hands away. She pretended not to press her palms flat against her sides, and Mazin pretended not to notice.

Serva had marvelous timing, as always. Just when Mazin felt the need to nervously babble become impossible to suppress, they felt her cool presence behind them, and her hand rested briefly and gently on top of their shoulder.

“Setthe,” she said carefully. In her voice there was the barest hint of a challenge, and though they couldn’t see her face, they saw Fikriyya pull back ever so slightly. “You must prepare.”

“Of course,” Mazin’s voice came out small and childlike, and they excused themself bluntly from the distressing conversation.

Serva kept her hand on their shoulder silently, both protecting them and pushing them along. They allowed her to steer them towards the least imposing woman in the tent. She was taller than they were, but she had a soft, kind face and large, slow hands.

Elene, the Matron of Frenrir coven, and the host of this entire affair. She’d been making her way around the tent talking to almost everyone.

There were two other Matrons hovering near her, and they all turned to watch Mazin approach.

Their throat was dry, but Mazin bowed at the waist, keeping their chin up.

When they finally dared to look at her face, Elene’s face was bright and smiling, and she had clasped her hands at her chest in delight. Though she was much taller and broader than they, she didn’t seem to tower over them. The softness of her face and body, and the warmth in her eyes which combined to present the least threatening presence Mazin could fathom.

“It is my honor to be received, Matron, in the warmth and safety of your home,” they said solemnly. “May the souls of my ancestors watch over you and guide you to the path of what is right.” An old greeting—outdated, to be more precise with their language—but one they’d liked as a child and memorized by twelve.

“Such a polite young boy!” she declared, and they couldn’t tell if the joy in her voice was exaggerated. “You’re Mot’s child, aren’t you? I didn’t know you were so old! I knew your sister was just a tiny wee thing, but I didn’t know you were so much older!”

“I’m ten years Mariam’s elder, ma’am,” Mazin said. They considered, briefly, correcting her calling them a boy, but dismissed the notion quickly. It would be too much trouble, they were sure. And they’d found it didn’t hurt near as much to be mistaken for a man as for a woman.

“It’s good of you, to step in for your father,” she said, in the kind of dreamy oblivious tone that made Mazin instinctively wince in preparation of foreseen conversational blunders. “Considering your situation, it can’t possibly be easy for you!” she continued, fulfilling the prophecy of insensitivity.

Whether she was referring to their “situation” as a stepchild or their “situation” as a darkling, Mazin wasn’t sure. They chose to feel slighted on both counts and THEY chose to challenge her on neither. They just smiled thinly and nodded vaguely and let her talk.

Another conversation I guess fuck

Mazin tried to distract themself from the approaching ordeal, but everywhere they looked were reminders. There were many familiar faces—though only vaguely familiar—and those were not as much of a comfort as they may have been otherwise. Seeking unfamiliar faces, however, was just as anxiety-inducing. Several times they got caught staring, and Serva stopped allowing them to duck behind her after the fourth time.

The fifth time, though…

The Matron was standing alone near the very back of the camp, and something about her seemed…strange. Different. She looked at first perfectly ordinary, dressed in what Mazin assumed was a local peasant frock. Her dark hair was barely restrained by the scarf wrapped around her head. She didn’t talk to anyone else, and in fact everyone else seemed to be actively avoiding her. She scanned the other Matrons very slowly, reminding Mazin uncomfortably of a snake carefully following its prey. Her Second stood behind her, almost completely engulfed in a shadow that didn’t quite match up with those around it. He was very thin and very short, and at first glance Mazin took him for a child.

When his eyes met theirs, their entire body went cold and hot at once, and they felt a peculiar tingling in their chest.

His eyes were wrong. Clear green irises that even in the dimness seemed to glitter, but even from here Mazin could tell the whites of his eyes were dark and muddy. They found it nearly impossible to tear their gaze away, and they got the unshakeable sensation that he was suddenly standing right in front of them, even though they could clearly see that he was across the tent.

They felt something creeping up on them, and the familiarity of the feeling simultaneously panicked and calmed them. It was very much like what they’d felt with the river, and it was very much like what they’d felt years and years ago, when their mother had taken them swimming in the ocean. It was the feeling of loss, of their soul and will being bound and teased and married to the soul and will of another. As a nyx, it was what they craved and needed. As a human, it was all they abhorred.

It was only when he looked away that the feeling faded, and Mazin was left breathless. They were too quick, they thought, turning away and seeking Serva, but for once they didn’t much mind what anyone thought when they grabbed at her hand like a child. She held it with practical coolness, wrapping her fingers loosely around their palm and holding it a certain distance from her chest.

“Who is that?” they asked, though they didn’t dare look back in that direction.

Regardless, Serva seemed to know who they were speaking of. Her lips twitched and she glanced—very briefly—that way. “That is the ‘something big’ your darling sister was so eager to discover,” she said, voice low. “That is Brenrir.”

Mazin felt a thrill of terror and excitement go through them—and damnable curiosity as well. They almost looked back.

“Blood witches,” they said softly, and immediately wished they hadn’t. Their skin went cold and they were sure that one of them was looking at them.

“Yes.”

“Why—” Their voice failed and they took several deep breaths to steady their nerves, which were now much less calm than they’d been hoping for. “Why are they here?”

“I don’t know,” Serva admitted, “though I’m sure we’ll find out soon. It must be pretty important if they were even let in. They were banished generations ago.”

Mazin was torn between the need to get as far away as possible and the urge to look again.

So much for calming down.

Mazin made up their mind to keep their eyes to themself for the rest of the evening. They were going to get in trouble otherwise. They weren’t sure if that feeling of being possessed was genuine or if their mind had invented some new thing to be afraid of, but they didn’t need to find out.

Luckily, there was little more time for them to blunder further. With no more business to attend to, the time had come to begin the ceremony. Mazin wasn’t sure how they—or anyone else—knew when it was time, but suddenly everyone moved as if of one mind. The gathered witches gathered into two loose groups of Matrons and Seconds, and Mazin was forced to part with Serva. She gave them a reassuring nod as she stepped away, and they could feel her eyes on them as they joined the other Matrons at the front of the tent. Her scrutiny was not as nerve-wracking as anyone else’s would have been—in fact, they took comfort in it.

The Matrons—and Seconds—arranged themselves loosely based on seniority. Whether this was seniority of the Matron or the coven was never entirely clear, as some went one way and others another, but Mazin had been told how to conduct themself in this. Mot given them very clear instructions regarding where they were to stand in relation to the other witches, and there’d been more than a small amount of pride in his voice when he’d said,

“You’ll be as near the front as you can be, right behind those Higheve and next to those scheming’ Veering bi—witches. Just don’t step on the host’s toes, and you’ll be clear blue.”

Mazin recognized the Higheve Matron, at the very least, from the last Gathering, and went to stand by her. She gave them a small smile that they rushed to return. They watched the others arrange themselves, a halting dance with many unwilling dancers. There was no official structure to how the Matrons were to position themselves, but, as Mazin understood it, it was something of a pissing contest. Every Matron tried to stand as near the front as she could without causing offense to someone obviously her superior. Mazin didn’t really understand it. They were all going to stand on the same stage. What did it matter what order they walked it?

They changed a quick glance over their shoulder before they stepped out of the tent. The Brenrir witches stood still at the back of the tent, watching the others with their strange eyes. Mazin looked away before they could notice them.

With no announcement but a great deal of fanfare, the Matrons emerged from the tent.

Mazin focused on the Higheve Matron’s shoulder and dedicated all of their mental energy to walking exactly four steps behind her. If they focused on that, it would be easier to ignore the crowd pressing on them from all sides.

In a loose star formation, the Matrons crossed the clearing towards the large raised platform from which they would begin the Gathering in earnest. The crowd parted for the stately procession, the buzz of conversation reaching an excited crescendo before abruptly going quiet as the Matrons ascended—one by one—onto the platform.

Mazin was the fifth to step up, and they took their place where the sigil of the Setthe coven was burned into the pale wood. They kept their eyes fixed on one spot, where Higheve’s shoulder had been, not allowing themself to see the sea of faces looking back.

And the opening ceremony happened. It’s very pompous and dramatic and witch-y. It’s also, like, not important to the plot. Just imagine it, cause I’m not writing it rn

Mazin struggled to breathe. All the panic they’d shoved away came back full force. They didn’t even wait to find Serva again, walking straight through the tent and out the other side.

Even out here, there was no respite. A small crowd had gathered here, elder witches and Heirs, talking amongst themselves as they waited for the ceremony to finish. None of them spared Mazin a second glance, allowing them to stumble away in relative grace and dignity.

They barely made it past the trees before they collapsed, head spinning and heart pounding.