Makena Darya

I trudge through the deep snow toward what I can only assume is one of the many permanent settlements or ‘camps’ popping up around the outskirts of the main cities. Since The Hue started, people have begun moving east toward the coast and its larger cities. For many, the idea of a big city stirs hope that they’ll be welcomed with open arms. Unfortunately, someone forgot to mention the barricades of armed soldiers.
There are three blockades within five miles of the city walls. Several more surround the base, and one sits directly atop the wall itself. Hundreds of armed guards rotate through shifts, scanning for someone dumb or desperate enough to try running toward the fifty-foot barricade.
What do they think they’ll do when they get there? Scale it? Fly? Jump and hope for the best? That’s if they make it past the shower of bullets.
The snow has soaked through my trousers, and my legs feel like I’ve been sitting in an ice bath. My jaw stays clenched to stop my teeth from chattering, and even with my hands shoved into my armpits, my fingers stay numb. If it were just a few degrees colder, the sweat on my temples would freeze. The waist-deep snow makes moving at any decent pace impossible. I estimate I’ve only made it six, maybe ten miles in the four hours since I left the warmth of the chambers. I’d give my firstborn to be back in the depths of Hel, stretched across the Lady in Red’s throne.
I can picture it now, her delicate frame draped over my knee as I trace lazy circles along her back in silence. Her unflinching eyes watching her army of subservient inferiors below. The image alone is enough to fill my chest with warmth, biting off the cold for a few fleeting minutes.
I let out a long sigh and watch my breath twist into an angry cloud. At last, I’ve covered enough distance to see smoke curling up from the settlement, dragging itself into the grey sky. As I draw closer, the snow begins to thin, trampled down by feet dragging firewood and food from the forest.
I stumble onto a narrow, shoveled path winding toward rows of makeshift tents. As I reach the outermost one, a sharp ache sparks behind my eyes, dull at first, then worsening like a migraine pressing through my skull. From the intensity of the pressure, I assume there are at least thirty people crammed into the thin canvas walls, fighting for any heat they can leach from each other.
That’s when the smell hits me. A stinking mix of stale water, mud, smoke, rot, and body odour so thick it might as well be visible.
A gust of wind tears through the camp. Moans and groans echo from inside the tents. I pause and watch the canvas flap helplessly, its corners fraying where the green has faded. I move around the tent to ease the pressure in my head, careful not to shift the snow that’s piled up against the pegs.
On the far side is a clearing that opens into the centre of camp. A large fire burns dimly, the flames choking under the wind. It clings to life, fed by what smells like weeks of garbage.
People shuffle around it, hopping from foot to foot, hands stretched toward the smoke, hoping to catch some warmth. I stay near the outermost tents, furthest from the tangle of emotions screaming in my mind. The ache in my skull hasn’t eased since I passed that crowded tent. That’s the curse of being me, I feel everything. Greed, lust, anger, desperation, joy, grief. The more people, the more noise. That’s why I don’t stay on the surface longer than I have to.
The Lady has sent me here to find the most emotionally destroyed human in the area. I just have to hope that someone in this camp fits the bill.
There’s some truth to the dream that the cities once welcomed the desperate. When The Hue struck on May fourth they threw open their gates to anyone who could get inside before midnight. After that, they sealed them for good.
Those who didn’t make it set up camps around the walls. For a while, the cities sent trucks once a month with supplies, blankets, tarps, rations, and a few medical kits.
That was also the day you could ‘apply’ to move inside. If you were useful, you were in. If not, they shot you.
Doctors, engineers and scientists, were among the accepted. Artists, singers, and lawyers were ‘denied’.
Eventually, even that system broke down. The smaller cities collapsed first. This camp sits on the edge of one of the smallest on the coast, which explains its state. I’ve been through others with running water, real tents, even proper fencing. But this one? The only military-grade thing here is the boots on the man standing closest to the fire.
The tents are barely more than patchwork, scraps of canvas and plastic tied together with fraying rope. Stolen or traded or handed out in those early days.
My jaw aches from clenching. I give in to the chattering. My fingers are done, purple, maybe worse. I don’t care. If I return with the right soul, the Lady will reward me. Replacing fingers is a small price for her favour.
I continue along the camp’s perimeter. The fire flickers in and out of view between the tents. I plan to circle until I find the one I’m after, trusting my mind to draw me toward the strongest surge of emotion.
I already know it won’t be joy or love. This place is drenched in sorrow, so thick anyone could feel it. And that’s the challenge. The strongest human emotions are joy and despair. Here, despair is everywhere.
My chest feels like it’s caving in. My lungs squeeze. My ears pound with the rush of blood.
Even in Hel, I don’t feel this suffocated. There, The Lady’s inferiors have no souls, no noise in their minds. Here, it’s chaos.
I keep pushing forward. My invisible fingers reach through the camp, scanning, scratching, searching.
At the western edge of the camp, I climb over a snow-covered log and jump onto it. From here, I can see everything.
The wind cuts hard against me. My entire body shudders. My fingers are past numb. A deep purple has set in. I curse myself for refusing the gloves the Lady offered.
“Darien,” she purred, holding them out. “Take these. I wouldn’t want you losing a finger now that our arrangement has... evolved.”
“Thank you, My Lady,” I said. “But I won’t be needing them. I’ll be back before they become necessary.”
I’d smirked, then winked. “And since our arrangement has taken a more dynamic path, I trust you’ll have no problem replacing what’s lost.”
Then I vanished.
Now, standing on this log, I close my eyes. My mind reaches again, combing through the misery. I won’t return without the soul she wants.
The silence calms me. It fills my chest with warmth. My arms open. My head tips back. For the briefest moment, I feel free.
Until I hear footsteps crunching in the snow.
I open my eyes.
A young woman moves quickly through the trees. The feeling of freedom vanishes, replaced by a burning rage. Not mine. Hers. But I feel it anyway.
“Come on! Come on!” she yells, frustration thick in her voice.
She moves fast, away from the camp, toward the thicket of pines. Her hoodie is pulled tight over her head, jeans torn at the knees, boots pounding through the frost.
Following her is a tall, scrawny man with snow-white hair. Early twenties, maybe.
“Leave me alone, Alec!” she shouts without looking back.
He grabs her wrist. Spins her to face him.
“Seriously, what the Hel is wrong with you?” she snaps, yanking her arm away. “I’m leaving, Alec. Get it through your thick skull. I’m done with this camp. And I am sure as Hel done with you!”
I don’t remember moving. I’m already halfway there before I realise it. My chest burns. If I could breathe fire, the camp would already be ash.
Two more steps. I’m in front of him.
“Who the fu—”
I punch him in the face.
He stares at me, dazed. Then drops into the snow.
A wave of relief crashes over me.
Blood trickles from his nose and lip, melting into the frost.
The woman exhales.
“Erm, thanks, I guess,” she says. Her brow furrows. “I’m Ali. Well, Alika. Ali for short.”
“Darien,” I reply, taking her hand. It’s warm, despite the cold. Her callused skin lingers against mine.
Now that I’m close, I can see curls poking out from her hood. Her face is thin, angular. Her eyes are the deepest emerald I’ve ever seen. Gold flakes spiral around her pupils, branching like lightning across her irises.
She’s gaunt. Starved. But beautiful, by human standards.
My gaze drifts lower. Her lips. Her neck. The curve of her shoulders. Her chest.
“Hey, dickhead. My eyes are up here.”
I snap my head up. She’s glaring at me, arms folded, lips pressed into a tight line.
“I’m terribly sorry, Alika. Forgiv—”
“It’s Ali. Don’t call me Alika. No one calls me that anymore.”
“Ali,” I say with a shallow bow.
She glances down at the unconscious man, then back at me. Her arms stay crossed. I watch her chest rise and fall rapidly.
She’s furious. I can see it, but I can’t seem to feel it.
That’s a problem.
I’m close, so close I should be drowning in her emotions. But there’s nothing.
Just a wall. This has never happened before.
I should kill her.
No one should be able to block me out.
I lock eyes with her. Our breathing syncs. Chests rising and falling. Faster and faster. My heart thuds. The world starts to blur around her. All I can see is her.
She tears her eyes away, back to the scrawny man.
The spell breaks.
My vision returns. My focus returns, and then I realise just how badly I want him dead. But I already punched him. So why do I still feel like I haven’t finished the job? Why do I feel like he hurt me? Why do I hate him so much? The fury swells again. I move before I can stop myself.
His body doesn’t resist as I pull him up by his hair, my blade poised at his throat.
All I can think about is how much I want to kill him. I don’t know why. I don’t care. I just want to end him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Ali screams.
Her voice snaps me out. I’m kneeling in the snow. I look up. She’s standing above me, horror written across her face. I glance down.
My left hand is tangled in his white hair. My right grips the hilt of my blade. Blood trickles from the edge, thin, dark, slow. It drips from the tip and spatters into the snow with a soft tink. A crimson bloom spreads beneath the body.
Relief washes through me. My chest feels lighter with every breath.
I release my grip. Alec’s limp form slumps to the ground. His head hits the snow with a thud.
I rise slowly, legs weak beneath me. This shouldn’t be happening. I’ve killed more times than I can remember. It’s what I was created to do. I serve Her. That’s all.
But I’m trembling.
Why am I trembling?
I stare into the trees.
The cold bites at my skin again. My teeth chatter.
Something inside me has shifted.