The telephone rang.

  "Yes?" Genevie answered. "Who are you?" A young man from Blackwood told her an unlikely story about a creature that terrorised his village and left him stranded underground for weeks. She had heard it before. It was the story that had brought her this far.

  WANTED. EZRAEL VANCHELIS.

  Salomae descended from the deck and entered Genevie’s cabin. She lingered at the door with a dead smile on her face. The girl had a sharp nose. She could smell the shifting auras. Hidden beneath her lavender cloak, she moved like a ghost, drawing closer to Genevie.

  "Mistress?"

  "I have found her," said Genevie. "We must dock."

  Shados climbed from a portal that opened between the Dark World and the Living World. He was a dark being with bright white eyes and two horns. He came with his companions, bowing to the Sorceress of Night.

  He searched through her closet for a gown. She had plenty, from black dresses to dark grey coats. She stood as they undressed her. The creature combed their bony fingers through her hair, untangling the dark strands one by one.

  Shados placed his lifeless hand on her chin and twisted her lashes with tweezers. She had a few colours to choose from, yet always preferred deep violet. Genevie studied her reflection. God had blessed her with elegance. Shados knelt to fit black boots on her, one foot at a time. She held her breath as they tightened her belt. He then brushed specks from her pleated skirt with a roller.

  There was one more thing she needed. She tapped her desk and an ink bottle wobbled. Shados caught it and set it back down. She glanced at the unfinished pages of her manuscript. Drawings of monsters she had defeated and now commanded lay scattered across the table.

  Tracing a finger along her shelf, she stopped at the Book of Monsters. She fixed it to her belt and turned with open arms. "How do I look?" she asked. Shados moaned and groaned. "Thank you." She waved her hand, and a portal opened in the floor for Shados to crawl back through.

  Genevie grabbed her hat from the hanger as she left. She climbed the stairs to the deck, where raging sea winds drove her back. They roared like never before. Sailors shouted as they dashed across the wet floor. She gripped her skirt and forced her way up. The winds tossed her more than once, whipping salt into her face. She knew magic, but keeping her hat on her head was a miracle.

  She unfastened her grimoire and opened it at the centre. Stretching out her cursed left hand, she lifted her voice and called to Grefus, god of space. The raging sea faltered. Its black waters grew darker. Vast portals opened beneath the surface and colossal beasts swam free.

  The creatures brushed against the vessel, drawing the sailors to the rails. "Ready!" she called, and the crew sprang to action. Two men manned mounted harpoons. The water foamed, her monsters crooned, and they swam to the bow.

  "Ready, Mistress!" a sailor shouted.

  "Fire!"

  The harpoons struck. Thick chains rattled as they hooked onto the beasts’ backs. The ship jolted under the pull. Genevie steadied herself on the railing, flicking her wrist for a spell. The beasts obeyed her call, surging forward, dragging the ship across the sea. She held her hat and admired the city lights ahead. Soden. Not her home, yet near enough. Thirty years after leaving, Genevie had returned to the most cursed continent in the Living World. Dominus, the land of conquerors.

  Salomae said, "The ship will sleep in Donna Maria."

  The sorceress held her chin, weighing the risk of docking before she was ready. "We cannot take chances. Cast the spell."

  Salomae’s dead smile brightened for a brief moment. With one hand outstretched to the sea, she closed her eyes and breathed. She then covered her mouth and blew into her hand. Pink vapour seeped between her fingers, spreading thicker and wider. The sailors abandoned their duties, distracted by the magic cloud. Soon, everyone was engulfed in it. When the mist cleared, Genevie’s vessel and its crew were no longer Krima from Solvaria, but rebel smugglers, earthen.

  Their ship joined a hundred others on the wild seas, drifting faster and faster towards the dock at Donna Maria. Many of the vessels bore signs and symbols etched into their sides, glowing blue and grey. Crafter and marker ascension had always been strong in this part of the world.

  At the docks, voices rang out from other ships as captains barked orders. Ramps slammed against the waterfront and refugees poured onto land. Huddled together in black and brown, they clutched their luggage tight to their chests. Waiting for them were the Bannermen.

  Genevie dismissed her creatures and bid her sailors farewell for the next month. As they stepped off the ship, they carried briefcases and rucksacks. Salomae followed her, and soon they were hemmed in on every side by thousands of immigrants.

  Everywhere she turned, the scene was the same. Stalls served steaming bowls of soup under makeshift sheds. Bannermen wandered through the shelters, checking people’s hands. "No one leaves Maria with digits!" they shouted again and again. Most had no markings on their hands. The few that did were taken aside, led away from the shelters and back onto the vessels. Genevie guessed they would face procedures to strip them of their tattoos.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The practice of indexing earthens sickened her. She remembered standing at the Assembly Hall when Regis first proposed it to the Councilmen. Ashel Sorel had opposed it fiercely. Never before had she seen such a calm man lose his temper so quickly. She had stood at his side and paid the price when the time came. This was the future they had dreaded. Yet, even so, she found something admirable in the Bannermen’s discipline.

  They pushed forward, though the crowd seemed endless. A long queue led to a white screen where circular lights hovered above a stand. A photographer encouraged each person to step up. The camera flashed, and then a Bannerman guided the subject to a table to sign documents.

  From there, the newly registered joined hundreds of others, trudging through thick mud under relentless rain. They climbed towards a barricade in the middle of the road, where Bannermen in raincoats shone lanterns in their faces. Once satisfied, the rebel soldiers saluted and pointed them further up the road.

  The Bannermen barely looked at them. They had no knowledge of Swayer magic and never suspected Genevie’s disguise. The two women passed through and reached the bus station.

  Taxis honked at one another as they fought for space on the road. A woman stepped off a bus and screamed, racing through the mud to embrace a man and the girl beside him. Scenes like this played out everywhere. Brothers and sisters reunited. Without much fuss, Genevie and Salomae made their way through the station until they booked tickets for the next bus.

  "So many colours," murmured Salomae at the television inside the bus. "It makes me dizzy."

  "Then stop looking at it."

  The broadcast came from a local station. It showed the destruction of Tardis, then cut to the Assembly Hall, where Yunnish officials addressed the Henrikian Councilmen. "Is this her?" asked Salomae, pointing to the sun-haired woman from Genevie’s childhood. "Your nemesis."

  "I never used that word," said Genevie. "But yes, this is her. Schemel Sorel. Never in a million years would I have predicted she would become High Commander."

  "Will she be a problem?"

  Genevie scoffed. "Don’t insult me."

  It pleased her somewhat that outsiders might think she and Schemel were close in age. Either she had remained youthful for too long or Schemel had grown old too quickly. Either way, it was a compliment.

  The bus blared its horn, creeping forward only a metre before halting again. They could not have arrived on a worse day. After hours of crawling through the congested town, they finally broke free. The sorceress spent the time reading a map she had drawn from her sleeves, marking out local hotels and guest houses.

  They splashed through thick mud, turning slowly along narrow streets. She glanced down just as a blob of spit landed at her feet. Looking up, she saw a bare-chested man staring from an upper-floor window. They pressed on, stepping aside for a cart and its owner to pass. Smoke drifted through the air, thick with the scent of grilled meat.

  Salomae’s head spun as flashing neon signs lit every corner. Gambling houses shone the brightest, drawing crowds of boys to their entrances, all entranced by a sporting event Genevie had no interest in. They slipped through an open house corridor, crossed another street behind the wall, and climbed onto a cement block to pass through a broken wall. At last, they reached the guest house, only a stone’s throw away.

  Someone was preparing for a celebration there. Women worked behind cauldrons, fanning flames and stirring pots. The rains had not been as harsh in this part of town, judging by the relatively dry compound. Nearby, another group of women packed boxes into the back of a pickup truck. One woman rose from behind a cauldron, wiped her hands on her apron, and came over.

  "Have you come for the wedding?" she asked, bright-eyed. "You must be Lydia’s relatives."

  "No, sorry," said Genevie. "We’re here for accommodation."

  "We have plenty of room for you," the woman replied. "You can stay as long as you want."

  She was not lying. The guest house rose several storeys high. A young man escorted them to their room. His name was unimportant, as were the things he talked about.

  "...the rooms are usually empty at this time of year," he said. "People come in mostly at Christmas, unless there’s an event nearby."

  "Christmas," said Salomae.

  "Yes?"

  "Christmas! We celebrate Christmas in December, don’t we?"

  The boy laughed softly, and Salomae flushed, unable to look away for a moment as he tried to compose himself. "You remind me of Lydia when she first came to Soden. She wasn’t used to living here either. But you’re very different in other ways. Where are you from?"

  "Um, Lydia," said Salomae. "Your family is happy about this wedding. Lydia is a good girl."

  "I guess. You’re all invited, by the way."

  "We won’t be staying for long," said Genevie. "Thank you, regardless."

  "Why are you getting married so soon?" Salomae asked. "Don’t you want to live first?"

  "What do you mean? I am living. We grow up and marry. That is part of life."

  "But you don’t want to get married."

  "Salomae," Genevie cut in.

  "You don’t love Lydia."

  The two stopped walking, forcing Genevie to halt as well. The boy clutched the keys in his hand and frowned at himself. Without a word, he moved on, and Genevie gave Salomae a sharp scolding with her eyes. The Swayer only flashed a mischievous smile before catching up with the boy again.

  "You were kind to Lydia when she came from the cursed lands. You slept with her three times in room three-four-eight, and six times in room three-nine-five. It was good and you liked it, but that does not mean you want to marry a slave girl."

  The boy froze, unable to look away from Salomae’s pride-filled face. He had every reason to strike her, yet only whispered, "Who are you? Who told you all those things?"

  "You wear it on your face, like an SOS. It will do your future wife no good if you hate her. Tell your mother to cancel the wedding. Be brave and tell her the truth."

  His eyes widened. He pressed the keys into Salomae’s hand and bolted down the hall. They watched him vanish down the stairs. Genevie snatched the keys from Salomae and marched on.

  "Mistress," Salomae called, hurrying after her.

  "This is why Floren cast you out," Genevie said. "You never learn when to keep quiet."

  They entered their bedroom. Salomae sat on one bed, turning to face the wall in silence. She could sit like that for hours. Genevie ignored her, setting her luggage on her own bed. She drew out her grimoire, flipped it open, and pulled a pen from her sleeve. Placing the book on the window sill, she breathed in the evening air and opened to a blank page. Her scent spread as she sketched a monster, preparing for Regilon’s eventual arrival.