Satyr’s Children | Book 1: Siren
At the very moment the tragedy struck, Gilbert Morningdew's warm blood, like a sentient red serpent, wound its way through the panicked crowd, grazing the tips of Triton Featherflight's boots before finally vanishing into a rust-stained drain at his feet.
On the grate, the cyan-painted bird still held her wings outstretched. Her once-bright plumage, however, had been marred by countless footsteps, caked in mud, dust, and layers of stubborn dark-brown grime, as though she had been crushed beneath the mire.
The elders would always tell the story of the cataclysm that tore the glorious old civilization to pieces. From amidst the ruins and twisted monsters, the survivors, like weeds struggling to live in the cracks of stone, crawled forth and took root once more. They built a new kingdom and gave it a name with tears and longing—“Halcyon," meaning kingfisher. Desperate people prayed that this beautiful creature, said in forgotten legends to possess the power to still the storms, would one day take flight and bring peace and prosperity back to this cursed land.
Where Gilbert Morningdew now lay was a tall, empty pedestal. Earlier that year, a sudden acid rainstorm had corroded the cast-iron statues of the nation's founders that once stood upon it, forcing them to be taken down for restoration; they had not returned since. Before the acid ate away their faces, those statues had been embodiments of the nation's spirit: ragged yet upright, their weather-beaten eyes fixed upon that Forbidden Zone, shrouded in eerie mist and teeming with monsters, as though taking a solemn vow to purge all corruption.
And so, the Trailblazers were born.
They were both the sharpest spear against mutation and corruption and the strongest shield protecting civilization and the city-states. Generation after generation, they ventured into that land of death, wagering their lives and sanity to reclaim lost ground inch by inch and purge the corruption. The capital of Halcyon—Celadon, the great city built from celadon-hued megaliths, like a masterpiece of porcelain—was hailed as the Beacon of Civilization. And at the outermost edge of the light that Beacon could barely reach, fortified cities rose along the frontier—among them Polaris, Triton's homeland, known as the Northwatch. They were called the Brave Shields, standing steadfast at the very edge of the Forbidden Zone.
In the textbooks used by the Guild school, history was painted as a stirring tableau: mighty Trailblazers, tireless as worker ants, cleared away one stain after another from the kingdom's map. The trade routes connecting the great cities, once severed by the Forbidden Zone, were reopened, and caravans laden with goods and hope crossed the reclaimed lands like countless tenacious kingfishers. People called it the revival of the “Kingdom of the Kingfisher," the triumph of order over chaos, proof that all things were once again flourishing.
Young Triton had once been swept up in it all. He was proud to be a descendant of the Trailblazers, proud of the mission Polaris had inherited. More than anything, he loved watching his teachers paint the black patches on the map—each one marking a spot of corruption—over with the blue-green of safety. It filled him with an almost sacred sense of glory, the intoxicating feeling that he, too, was taking part in history.
Yet as the years passed, other colors began to find their way into his lapis-blue eyes. He gradually noticed that the fresh slashes marring his father David Featherflight's heavy armor when he returned from the Forbidden Zone were not always made by monsters' claws. Some had been left in clashes with bandits, gangs, and even other Trailblazer parties, all fighting over relics and resources. He began to hear something else in the whispers that drifted through the Guild hall between missions. There were no longer murmurs of joy over reclaimed territory, but complaints about yet another crushing tax imposed by the capital, and quiet accounts of how the nobles of Celadon withheld, delayed, and skimmed off supplies bound for the frontier.
On that bleak, overcast afternoon, the clouds gathering above the Northwatch were as heavy as the resentment weighing on its people. The square before the Trailblazers' Guild was packed with people, and an oppressive silence was spreading outward with frightening speed. The announcement of yet another tax increase, made moments ago by Marcus Morningdew, Lord of Polaris, had been the final straw, breaking what little reason many people had managed to hold on to through the years of famine.
Triton knew the lord's eldest son, Gilbert Morningdew, though Gilbert preferred everyone to just call him “Bert." Bert had the same rust-red hair as his father, along with a pair of rich, luminous amber eyes, warm as fine aged liquor. He was “a friend to everyone," and he was particularly close to the Trailblazers' Guild. David, who served among the Trailblazers as a Shieldbearer, considered him a good partner and a reliable commander. Triton's mother, Solin Featherflight, who had once served as a tutor in the Morningdew household, thought young Master Bert a man of remarkable grace and charisma. And whenever Triton, as an Apprentice Trailblazer, and his twin sister Aliferous Featherflight happened to run into him at the Guild, Bert would always ruffle their hair affectionately and greet them with a smile: “Good day, my friends. Do pass on my regards to your parents."
Bert was particularly fond of the dangerous work of Trailblazers. He firmly believed that it was “a heroic calling," and his passion for it even surpassed his devotion to managing his family's vast estate. He was just as capable at the latter, but had never poured quite the same enthusiasm into it. More often than not, he spent his nights in the Guild hall rather than returning to his family's lavish manor. At only the age twenty-five, he had already risen to Crystal rank, second only to his lord father. Around this time the previous year, news of Bert's engagement had spread throughout the Northwatch. His fiancée came from the distant Yeelan Empire, a noble lady of distinguished bloodline and extraordinary magical talent. The two had met during a cultural exchange in the royal capital of Celadon and swiftly fallen in love. It was a match made in heaven. For the sake of their beloved daughter, her family had gone so far as to relocate to Halcyon, preparing to put down roots in the Northwatch.
Lord Marcus had once declared, half proudly and half in jest, that with a son as exceptional as Bert, he could probably afford to “retire in glory" ahead of schedule.
Now, Bert climbed onto the acid-scarred pedestal in front of the Guild alone. He wore the everyday leather armor of a Trailblazer, deliberately leaving behind the family crest that marked him as a noble. His face had a smile that was slightly weary, yet utterly sincere. Faithful to his old, headstrong habit, he had brought no guards with him. He firmly believed that the people he had come to meet today were his friends, his comrades—the “family" he had sworn to protect with his life.
“Hear me out, my friends!"
Triton could not see Bert from where he stood, but the familiar, warm voice of the lord's heir rang out through every corner of the Trailblazers' Guild hall, carried by amplification magic, filled with that stubborn warmth that was so unmistakably his.
Triton instinctively looked toward his father. David was in the middle of settling the final payment with a client. The instant Bert's voice rang out, he visibly froze. Then, speaking rapidly, he hurriedly exchanged a few words with the client, took the money pouch from their hands, seized Triton and Ali by the hand, and led them toward the exit.
“He's here. He's begging…" A hoarse voice whispered beside Triton. "Weaving garlands out of promises, fastening shackles around the necks of us living dead…"
Dust danced wildly in the shafts of light sliced through the Guild hall by its tall windows. The crowd began to stir, like a hive disturbed. More and more people surged toward the doors and pressed their faces against the windows. Triton crossed the stone floor that was worn smooth as glass by countless feet, and heard with painful clarity the erratic, pounding rhythm of his own heart beneath his ribs.
“…I know things have been difficult for everyone. The harvest has been poor this year, and there has been no peace in the Forbidden Zone… My father, Lord Marcus, has hardly slept either. The taxes from Celadon are like a mountain upon us, but House Morningdew will bear that weight alongside you all—"
Outside, Bert's voice continued to carry across the square. He spoke of his family's contributions, trying to explain how the produce from their estate helped subsidize the city. He painted a vision of the future, his words coming faster and faster, mirroring the increasingly anxious pace of David's footsteps.
The father had already forced his way through the Guild's doors with his two children in tow, fleeing in haste as though a terrible monster had broken into the city, stumbling and struggling against the tide of people moving in the opposite direction.
David smelled the danger in the air, but he was still not fast enough.
From somewhere in the crowd, a shrill voice shouted, “Easy for you to say! When have you nobles ever truly known hunger?"
The unrest erupted. At first there was only shoving and shouting, and Bert was still on the dais, desperately calling out, “Calm down! Please, everyone, calm down!"
Then the first stone came whistling through the air. It grazed Bert's temple, leaving a vivid streak of blood. He froze, amber eyes wide with disbelief.
Just then, another red-haired figure shot out of the Guild hall like an arrow, shouting sharply at him, “Bert! Look out! Get down!"
It was his younger sister, Julchen Morningdew, the eldest daughter of House Morningdew. Unlike her brother, Julchen rarely set foot in the Guild. People caught only fleeting glimpses of her there, usually when she appeared for rank examinations. The young lady was hot-tempered and difficult to approach, and she seemed to have a strained relationship with her own sun-bright brother. In public, people often saw her impatiently shrugging off his hand or bluntly cutting him off in the middle of a speech.
Well, one could say Julchen was the archetypal young noble lady—a perfect match for every fantasy and expectation people had of the sharp-tongued eldest daughter of a great estate, dressed in fine clothes and looking down at everyone from her lofty perch.
“Julia! Don't come any closer!" For the first time anyone could remember, genuine fear filled Bert's voice.
Too late.
The red-haired girl had already taken the dais in three quick strides. She raised her long whip high, magic crackling along its length in flashes of electricity, trying to frighten away the surging crowd closing in around her brother.
“Look! The two of them are joining forces to oppress us!"
“Julia!"
Several figures charged violently onto the dais. Bert’s first instinct was neither to draw his sword nor to cast a spell. He simply spread his arms, putting his broad back and shoulders between his sister and the mob.
“Don't hurt her!"
“Triton, Ali, hold on to me!" The head of House Featherflight and his two children were nearly torn apart by the riotous crowd. David dared not use any magic; at that moment, even the slightest stir of magical power might be mistaken by the frenzied people around them as the prelude to an attack. Triton and Ali were pinned tightly against their father's chest, the cold metal of his vambraces biting painfully into their bones.
There was no way out.
And so Triton watched helplessly as a dagger, from somewhere he could not tell, drove through Bert's unarmored abdomen, carrying with it a hatred that had been festering for far too long and burrowing far too deep.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
The young body beneath the rust-red hair convulsed violently. He lowered his head and stared in shock at the weapon sinking deeper and deeper into his flesh, the light of life fading rapidly from his widened amber eyes.
“Julia… get away…" After that single, heartbreaking moment of bewilderment, Bert crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut off, falling straight from the edge of the dais.
“Bert—!!!" Julchen let out a scream that sounded scarcely human. She cast aside her whip and threw herself toward where her brother had fallen, only to be seized by several hands reaching from beneath the cloaks around her. A filthy, rust-covered hook slashed across her face from the side. Flesh split open, blood poured freely, carving a deep, bone-baring mark into her pale skin scattered with freckles.
“… Don't look." David's voice came out dry and hoarse as he tried to cover both children's eyes with his hands, uselessly putting his body between them and the scene. But he knew perfectly well that they had seen everything.
Bert's blood swept past their feet.
The city had gone mad.
