Court of Twisted Angels

Chapter 1

Kyrie

The packed dirt streets kick up clouds with each step as I slip through the slums of my little town - if I can even call it that. This far north of New Solas, it's really just dilapidated buildings sprinkled between the trees and leading up to the northern mountains.

Wooden vendor stalls line the cramped alleyways, their weathered awnings providing little shelter from the scorching sun. The scent of desperation mingles with spices and sweat as I weave between the masses of people, all of us just trying to exist in the xaphan's world.

A broken piece of mirror catches my eye from one of the merchant's displays - likely salvaged from the wealthy districts. My reflection fragments across its surface: auburn hair tangled from the dusty wind, deep green eyes that have seen too much. But it's the raised, angry flesh curving around the right side of my neck that draws my attention.

The memory crashes over me like ice water. Suddenly, I'm thrown back three years to the abandoned marketplace closer to the white washed city of New Solas.

I scavenge for supplies, looking for anything that we can use to survive when I hear cackling behind me. My whole body tenses, and I slowly turn to see a xaphan standing up the alley, his eyes on me.

I always knew they were cruel, but the way he's looking at me right now confirms that.

He steps forward slowly, wings spread wide and crackling with electricity. "Well, what do we have here?"

His voice drips with malice and I swallow hard, shrinking back. "I- I'm not trying to cause any trouble."

"No?" He cocks his head, a grin spreading across his face that has my stomach turning. "Too bad." He lifts a hand, the air turning charged. "Trouble was exactly what I was looking for.

The lightning had carved through my flesh like a molten blade, searing from my lower back up to my neck. I still remember the ozone smell, the way my skin had bubbled and split. The healers said I was lucky to survive.

My fingers trace the gnarled tissue. Unlike the clean, precise scars left by steel, magic wounds heal chaotically. The scar tissue spreads like branches of lightning frozen beneath my skin, a permanent reminder of that day. Of what the xaphan are capable of.

Around me, the crowd continues to surge through the narrow streets, slowly pulling me from the memory. A child darts past, kicking up another cloud of dust. The merchant who owns the mirror barks at me to buy something or move along.

But for a moment longer, I stay frozen, lost in the fractured reflection and the phantom sensation of wings casting shadows over me, of power crackling through the air and tearing me apart.

A commotion erupts from around the corner - raised voices cutting through the market's usual din and dragging me forward once again. I push away from the mirror stall, drawn by the growing crowd near the central square.

"Another trial!" someone shouts. "They're holding another wing trial!"

My heart skips. The words ripple through the gathered masses like a wave. The trials are brutal spectacles that the xaphan use to dangle false hope before us. They say that you can earn your wings and a new status. Most who enter never return.

I edge closer, shoulder past a cluster of wide-eyed teenagers. A town crier stands atop an old wooden crate, unfurling an ornate scroll trimmed in gold leaf - the unmistakable mark of New Solas.

"By decree of the Praexa Council," he projects over the crowd, "a new wing trial shall commence this week." Murmurs sweep through the gathering. "All eligible humans may present themselves as candidates."

This week. The last trial was barely half a year ago. They usually wait years between, until the crowds' bloodlust starts to stir again.

"Furthermore," the crier continues, "in addition to receiving their wings, the victor shall be granted a reward of one thousand novas."

The crowd erupts. A thousand novas could feed an entire family for years. Could buy medicine from even the most exclusive apothecaries in New Solas. Medicine that could save my mother.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. I stumble back from the pressing bodies, suddenly unable to breathe. The trial is suicide - I've watched too many friends leave for those golden gates never to return. Wings mean nothing if you're dead.

But Mother grows weaker each day. The healers say without proper treatment, she has months at most. And the only cure lies behind New Solas's pristine walls, available exclusively to the xaphan and their chosen few.

I turn away from the feverish crowd, their excited chatter fading as I wind through the market's cramped passages toward home. But the crier's words echo in my mind, a thousand novas glittering like stars against the darkness of my thoughts.

The door creaks as I enter our small wooden home on the outskirts of the settlement. Sunlight filters through gaps in the roof's worn shingles, dust motes dancing in the beams. The scent of medicinal herbs - yarrow and meadowmint - mingles with woodsmoke from the small hearth.

"Mother?" I call softly, setting my market basket on the rough-hewn table.

A weak cough answers from behind the faded curtain separating our sleeping area. My heart clenches as I push it aside. Mother lies propped against threadbare pillows, her once-vibrant auburn hair now dull and limp around her too-pale face. Dark circles shadow her eyes, but she still manages a smile.

"You're back early, love." Her voice rasps like dry leaves.

I pour water from the clay pitcher into a cup, helping her drink. "The market was busy today." I don't mention the trial announcement. Not yet.

My twin blades catch the light where they rest against the wall - gifts from an old weapons master who saw potential in the angry girl who came to him after the attack. The steel is worn but well-maintained, the leather wrappings on the hilts smooth from years of practice.

Mother's breath hitches, another coughing fit wracking her frame. I steady her until it passes, pretending not to notice the flecks of blood on her handkerchief. The rare blood-wasting disease eating away at her grows worse by the day. The local healers can only ease her pain - the true cure lies in New Solas's sealed apothecaries, in delicate crystal vials that cost more than we'll see in a lifetime.

Unless...

My gaze drifts to the blades again. Thousands of hours spent training in hidden clearings, learning to move like shadow, to strike like lightning. All because I swore never to be helpless before a xaphan again.

Now those skills might be the only thing standing between my mother and death.

I dampen a cloth in the ceramic basin, wringing out the excess water before gently placing it across Mother's burning forehead. The water carries hints of healing herbs - meadowmint and moonflower - but their magic is weak, barely enough to ease her discomfort.

Real healing requires the crystalline elixirs of New Solas, their bottles glowing with concentrated magical essence. Here in the outer settlements, we make do with simple remedies and desperate prayers.

"The fever's rising again." Father's voice comes from the doorway, rough with exhaustion. He hasn't slept properly in days, spending his nights in the rickety chair beside Mother's bed. The worry has carved deep lines around his eyes, aging him beyond his years.

Mother's breath rattles in her chest, each inhale a struggle. Her skin burns beneath my touch despite the cool cloth. "I'm fine," she whispers, but the words catch on another cough. "Just need... rest."

I adjust the threadbare blanket around her shoulders, pretending not to notice how it hangs loose where it once fit snugly. The disease consumes her from within, stealing her strength day by day. Even the spark of magic that once danced in her fingertips when she worked her small healing charms has dimmed to almost nothing.

"Of course you are." I force brightness into my voice, though my chest aches. "You'll be up and tending your herb garden again before we know it."

Her smile is weak but genuine. "My brave girl. Always trying to protect everyone."

The words pierce like daggers. I haven't protected her from this. Haven't found a way to access the medicines locked away behind New Solas's golden walls. Haven't done anything except watch helplessly as she wastes away.

And even now, I haven't told her of the solution that has been offered. All because I'm a coward.

Father's hand squeezes my shoulder, but I feel the tremor in his grip. We both know the truth - without real treatment, Mother's time grows shorter with each passing day. The thought settles like ice in my stomach, crystallizing into resolve.

I wait until evening, when the sun's harsh glare softens to amber light filtering through our home's worn shutters. My siblings are asleep in the next room, their quiet breathing a steady rhythm against the cricket song outside. When it's just me and my parents in their room, I know it's time.

"I'm entering the trials." The words spill out before I can lose my nerve.

Father's weathered hands still on the blade he's sharpening. The rhythmic scrape of stone against steel falls silent. Mother's eyes flutter open, fever-bright in the lantern light.

"Absolutely not." Father's voice cracks like thunder. "We've seen what happens in those arenas. The xaphan's idea of entertainment-"

"They're offering a thousand novas," I cut in. "Plus wings. With that kind of status, I could walk into any apothecary in New Solas. Buy whatever medicines we need."

"At what cost?" His fingers clench around the whetstone. "Your life?"

"I've trained for this." I gesture to my blades, their runes gleaming dully in the lamplight. "Three years learning to fight. I can even channel a little. The old weapon master said I have a gift."

"Kyrie..." Mother's voice is barely a whisper, but it draws us both like moths to flame. "My love, no amount of medicine is worth risking you."

"You're dying." The truth tears from my throat, raw and jagged. "The healers say months, at most. And I refuse to just watch it happen when there's a chance-"

"A fool's chance," Father interjects. "Those trials are designed to kill. The xaphan change the rules on a whim, throw contestants against impossible odds for their own amusement."

"Then I'll beat them at their own game." I force myself to sound sure when the thought of being at the mercy of the xaphan has me shaking. "I'm not the same girl who got caught off guard in that marketplace. I'm stronger now. Smarter."

Father bows his head, shoulders slumping. The silence stretches, broken only by Mother's labored breathing and the soft crackle of my flames.

Finally, he looks up. Moonlight catches the tears in his eyes, but his voice is steady. "You're just like your mother. When you set your mind to something..." He swallows hard. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll come back."

"I promise." I cross to kneel beside his chair. "I'll win. For all of us."

Mother's thin fingers find mine, squeezing with what little strength remains. "My brave, foolish girl."

But that's all that's said. So I kiss them each goodnight and go to pack, knowing it will be my last night here.

Dawn bleeds across the horizon in shades of amber and rose as I shoulder my worn leather pack. The weight of my twin blades against my back is familiar, comforting.

Our entire settlement has gathered to see off those brave - or desperate - enough to enter the trials. The zarryns stamp their hooves against the packed earth, their silver coats gleaming in the early light. Steam rises from their nostrils in the cool morning air as they wait, harnessed to wooden transport carts, twin tails twitching with impatience.

Mother leans heavily against Father, wrapped in her thickest shawl despite the warming day. My younger siblings cling to her skirts - Mira with tears streaming down her face, Tam trying to look brave but failing to hide his trembling chin.

"Take this." Mother presses something into my palm - her healing crystal, its magic nearly depleted but still holding a faint warmth. "For luck."

I close my fingers around it, throat tight. "I'll bring back something stronger. I promise."

Father pulls me into a fierce embrace. "Remember your training. Trust your instincts." His voice roughens. "And come home to us."

The transport master calls for boarding. I climb into the nearest cart, wood creaking beneath my boots. Other contestants file in - some wearing determined expressions, others looking shell-shocked, as if they can't quite believe what they're doing. We all share the same desperate hope in our eyes.

The zarryns leap forward at the master's whistle, powerful muscles rippling beneath their silvery hides. Their hooves strike sparks against the stones as we begin our journey toward the gleaming spires of New Solas.

I watch my family grow smaller, keeping my eyes fixed on them until they blur into the crowd, then fade entirely into the distance. The healing crystal pulses against my palm, its weak magic mixing with my own fierce determination. Every step of the zarryns' steady gait carries me closer to either salvation or destruction.

Mother's life depends on which one I find in New Solas's golden arena.