Satyr’s Children | Book 1: Siren
Will tomorrow be a better day?
Triton had asked himself that question countless times.
When he was young, it had never needed an answer. He had parents who loved him, a sister who messed with him, and friends he could run wild with at the Guild school. House Featherflight was not wealthy, but they had never been stingy when it came to raising their children. Growing up, of course, always had its cruelties. There had been disappointments and moments when he felt lost. But ever since Bert’s death, a chill like falling into an icy abyss had settled in him, and it stayed, never gone since then.
Everything in Polaris had changed. The entire city seemed to have been permeated by an invisible curse, every inch of air heavier and colder than before.
Perhaps it was the effect of so many days spent on missions, but Bert’s image kept surfacing in Triton’s mind.
What would he do? What would he do if he found out his fiancée had—
No. If Bert was still alive, Zhao Yunyao would no longer be his “fiancée.” She would be his wife. And she would never have taken poison.
If Bert were still here… If only…
What Triton didn’t know was that many others throughout the city were turning over thoughts much like his own. Even those who hated nobles most bitterly could not help thinking of the young redhead who had once walked among the Trailblazers, his smile bright as the morning sun, when they were facing the thickening, suffocating gloom.
The Northwatch was still full of questions. But the people had killed the person who might have brought them answers with their own hands.
Perhaps they were simply shackled by despair from which there was no escape, so they instinctively grasped at the “future” that had once been as alive as they were, as though it was a cure. They blamed every stagnation and every dead end on one concrete murder—the murder that had extinguished their “light.”
Much like the god who watched over this place: as the body that had once scattered hope and love throughout the mortal world perished, their souls were elevated into a sacred divinity and endowed with extraordinary meaning, forced to bear, on behalf of every living person, the unbearable weight of their expectations for life.
Or perhaps Bert’s death had not been the cause at all. Perhaps it had only been the consequence. Perhaps this city had already…
“Trit—oh earth to Trit! Stop spacing out.” Triton’s sleeve was given a gentle tug by his sister. “We’re almost there.”
Triton rarely came to Highland Street in Northwatch. As its name suggested, Highland Street lay on higher ground, overlooking part of Polaris from above. It was quieter than Market Street, where the Guild and House Featherflight’s stone house were located, and far less sprawling and imposing than the Morningdew estate. It was a secluded neighborhood of quiet surroundings, with most of its residents being scholars, retired military officers, or visiting consultants.
The residence named “Whispering Bamboo” of House Zhao stood at the easternmost end of Highland Street, a detached home enclosed by a private courtyard. From the outside, it occupied less than a tenth of the area of the Morningdew estate, yet it was surrounded by tall, smooth hedges of tightly packed bamboo, providing an exceptional degree of privacy.
There was no bamboo native to Northwatch. Every stalk in the city had been brought there by the Yeelanese, and only the Yeelanese would use this slender plant to decorate their houses and yards.
There was only one reason to make such an ostentatious statement with an exotic plant as an outer wall: House Zhao had never intended to assimilate into the Northwatch. It was a foreign nobility with sufficient wealth, manpower, and a distinct culture of its own—a special presence that deliberately set itself apart from the natives of Halcyon.
An elderly man with graying hair and the appearance of a household retainer opened the gate for them. Dressed in a long robe, he ushered the Featherflights into the courtyard. The building, until then concealed behind the bamboo hedge, suddenly came fully into view.
Whispering Bamboo was surrounded by a dry landscape garden. Its lower walls were built from the gray-white blocks of stone commonly used in the Northwatch, but the upper portion was constructed from finer teal bricks. These bricks had been directly imported from Yeelan. Their mortar joints were remarkably narrow, giving the walls a neat and elegant appearance.
Triton tilted his head slightly and looked toward the roof. Heavy slate tiles, native to Polaris, covered the top of the building, but the eaves curved sharply upward, with traces of a rough, unfinished beast-shaped form. The door knocker on the gate they had just entered had also been a bronze mythical beast. Triton could not tell whether it represented some creature native to Yeelan or something purely fictional, born from legend.
Inside, the warm scents of incense and simmering herbs rushed toward them. The first thing that caught Triton’s eye was not the main hall, but a teal brick screen wall. Simple landscapes had been pieced together across its surface from glazed tiles. At its center was a chi, a sinuous hornless dragon-like creature rendered in lines of turquoise and red agate. It coiled powerfully around a partially unrolled bamboo scroll.
It was the crest of House Zhao. Triton had seen the same pattern before, on String’s longbow and at the collar of his clothes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Featherflight, Triton, Aliferous—thank you all for coming.”
String showed no obvious emotion. He had changed out of his hunting attire and now wore a dark indigo Yeelan robe, standing in the entry hall to receive his guests. The silver chain attached to his spectacles trickled from his shoulder as he bowed.
Triton and his family placed a hand over their hearts, returning the young man’s greeting with the simple courtesy customary in the Northwatch.
The Featherflights took their seats among the foreign furnishings with spare lines and deep colors. Servants brought tea to the guests, the pale-white porcelain making the tea itself appear even lighter. Steam rose from each cup in a thin, solitary column.
Triton accepted his cup the way he had seen his mother do, but he found it difficult to take his eyes off String. The young man sat quietly below his parents in the seating order, his back perfectly straight and his posture impeccable.
Triton could not help wondering how such a slender, gentle boy had managed to persuade his elders to let a “local commoner” family step into something so private—and so dangerous—as this family upheaval.
The hall was utterly silent. Everyone present seemed to have an unspoken understanding, lowering their eyes to the still pool of green in their cups and occasionally taking the lightest sip. The faint clink of porcelain sounded almost like a sigh. The heavy quietness seemed to have taken on physical weight, pressing down on everyone’s shoulders.
A rush of unease stirred in Triton. He quietly glanced toward Ali beside him.
His sister said nothing. Instead, she shifted her mint-green eyes toward the opposite side of the room, signaling for him to look.
Two empty chairs, turned toward the ink-wash painting on the wall, still waited in silence.
The true protagonists had yet to arrive. Only when they took their seats would this heavy conversation truly begin.
Triton nodded, and turned his attention toward the two elders of House Zhao.
The head of the family, Zhao Zhanming, sat upright in the seat of honor. He was well over fifty, with a lean, refined face and a short beard trimmed with meticulous care. His eyes were calm and sharp, like the depths of a still pool. He wore a dark zhiju robe of fine quality, its design strikingly simple. The only understated indication of his standing was the warm jade ring on his finger.
Beside him sat his wife, Li Mu. She wore a modified stand-collar jacket over a dark mamian skirt, her posture as straight as bamboo. Her hair was swept neatly into a bun, restrained only by a small golden crown. The passage of time had left traces at the corners of her eyes, but it had never dulled the clarity or resolve within them. Those were not the eyes of a pampered noblewoman. They belonged to someone who had lived through upheaval, weathered difficult choices, and emerged with an unshaken steadiness.
Whom were they waiting for, then?
Before Triton could think any further, movement came from outside the hall.
Footsteps approached, quick but unhurried, two pairs of boots striking the floor with a similar sound.
A servant pushed the doors inward.
A flash of red entered Triton’s field of vision: Julchen Morningdew. She didn’t wear any heavy cloak, only a formal black dress with fur trimming the collar. But the most striking thing about her was not her clothing. It was the scar that ran across her right cheek, a jagged wound that had healed but remained painfully conspicuous. Her red hair was neatly tied back. Her face was pale, and her amber eyes still like a frozen lake as she looked directly toward Zhao Zhanming and Li Mu seated at the head of the room, and greeted them with a hand-over-heart salute.
Half a step behind her came Claret Morningdew. Unlike her sister’s stern presence, Claret was quieter, once again wearing that porcelain-doll expression steeped in grief. She had changed back into the mourning dress Triton had seen before, the black mourning gauze wrapped around her arm, making her pink-violet hair and bloodless face stand out all the more starkly. Her eyelids were lowered, her gaze fixed on the floor a step ahead of her. After returning the greeting, she clasped her hands awkwardly in front of herself, as though uncertain where to put them.
Zhao Zhanming and Li Mu rose together and returned the greeting with solemn formality. String also rose at once. House Featherflight followed suit, leaving their seats in turn.
This was more than simple courtesy. It was an acknowledgment of the authority represented by the heir to the Northwatch’s lordship—and of the weight of the tragedy before them.
“Miss Julchen. Miss Claret.” Zhao Zhanming’s voice broke the silence. “Thank you both for coming in person. Please, take your seats.”
“Two Morningdews?” Ali lowered her voice, but was unable to hide her astonishment. “Why would—”
Her words abruptly died away.
Triton noticed his sister cast a brief glance toward String.
Right. Both Morningdew sisters had to be here. Only this arrangement could make sense.
String spoke first.
“My elder sister had suffered a sudden misfortune and was fortunately rescued, but she has yet to regain consciousness. The matter is of great importance and must not be made public. Remembering the understanding we shared when working alongside you all to uncover the truth behind the ‘ghost’ incident, my father and I believe that you are the allies House Zhao can trust the most, and the ones best equipped to aid us get to the bottom of this matter. Lord Morningdew has also given his approval.”
He inclined his head slightly toward Julchen. The red-haired girl took over, her voice utterly devoid of emotional inflection.
“Young Master Zhao, House Morningdew shares your anger and grief over Miss Yunyao’s misfortune. This is no longer merely a tragedy of House Zhao, but a challenge to the order of Polaris itself. My father has instructed me to make it clear that every resource at the Morningdew estate will be placed at your disposal to uncover the truth.”
Julchen was the heir to the Morningdew family and String’s rightful fiancée. With such a catastrophe befalling her fiancé’s family, her absence would constitute a serious loss of standing—not only in terms of noble etiquette, but also for the family alliance and her own reputation. Even if this meeting remained strictly confidential, her presence alone was the strongest possible declaration that the Morningdew-Zhao alliance remained firmly intact.
“Thank you both again, for coming in person, Miss Julchen, Miss Claret. With the support of House Morningdew, I am certain the truth will come to light.” String inclined his head in reply.
Triton vaguely remembered that, in that strange “dream” he had a few days earlier, String had mentioned that Julchen dined with him only once a day during supper, which was simply part of fulfilling the contract and maintaining appearances. Attending this meeting, however, was a more formal—and more consequential—act of “fulfillment.” She did not need to have any deep affection for String. She only needed to display the politically proper image of a “fiancée standing beside and supporting her fiancé in his hour of hardship.” That statement alone was enough.
How twisted…
Triton gently set his teacup back on the low table.
Even something as sacred as marriage could be this cold, this calculating, without a trace of warmth.
His gaze shifted toward the silent Claret.
If Julchen represented the authority of the future lord, then her younger sister was her most direct support. Until Julchen had a child of her own, Claret would be the first in line to inherit after her. Her presence meant that House Morningdew regarded this matter with the highest possible level of seriousness. What she had brought was far more than mere “assistance with communication.” Her presence alone was a clear signal that House Morningdew’s will and resources were standing behind this investigation with full support.
Besides, her presence probably had something to do with House Featherflight as well. House Zhao needed a sufficiently compelling reason to place such complete trust in them. String’s word alone might not carry enough weight. But Claret had personally taken part in every operation the Zhaos and the Featherflights had undertaken together so far. If she, and the House Morningdew she represented, could offer their explicit endorsement, everything would be different.
But did that mean Claret was “on the Featherflights’ side”? Had she not already repaid House Featherflight in full for saving Triton’s life, with that precious gift from Sir Argentum valuable enough to repay a life and more? At this point, they owed each other nothing. All that remained was a fragile, temporary alliance held together by the mission. Under such circumstances, could he still call Claret his “friend”?
Look at her, Triton.
The second daughter of House Morningdew sat in the place of greatest honor among the guest seats, directly below Mrs. Zhao.
When a servant served her tea, he bowed a little deeper. When she lifted the plain porcelain cup, even the way her fingertips rested against its side carried the effortless grace of someone whose every movement had been corrected and refined countless times since childhood, polished so deeply that it had become part of her instinct. Contrasting from Triton’s own clumsy lack of etiquette training, even the small sip Claret took seemed ceremonial—the curve of her neck, the slightest flutter of her lashes, all of it as though she were completing some solemn ritual.
And where was he sitting? Toward the back of the room, right beside his family. The four Featherflights occupied one side of the guest seating as a single, close-knit and unassuming whole. Across from them sat the two daughters of the lord, occupying the center of the room’s gravity, as though each carried an invisible screen of authority around herself.
The difference between them could not have been clearer.
He remembered those beautiful yet slightly weary amber eyes beneath her hood in the stone chamber at the Supply Point. He remembered the way she had quietly pleaded across the negotiating table, unable to bear the thought of seeing him hurt again. He remembered the precious jar of Longwing Featherbee’s honey that he had yet to open…
In those moments, the dust of the Forbidden Zone and the dangers they had faced together had blurred the boundaries between their identities, giving him the ridiculous illusion that they might somehow see one another simply as people.
But now, in this foreign-scented hall, reality came surging back like an icy tide.
Julchen could entrust her entire life to a stranger from Yeelan for the sake of her family. Then what about Claret? How could any of the concern she had shown him, every perfectly measured courtesy, even the gift that had preserved his eye and his horn, be anything other than another strand in the invisible web of responsibility and interests woven by House Morningdew?
Ali’s warning now echoed in his ears with painful clarity. He could almost see his sister raising her lantern mace. With its green crystal gleaming, she smashed all of his vague, tender fantasies to pieces.
“She’s very smart. Watch out for her!”
Smart. Yes, of course she was smart. She knew exactly how to use his gratitude and guilt to secure the bargain and take his broken horn. She knew how to find the position most favorable to her family and settle into it with perfect composure in a crisis involving two families and the safety of an entire city. Perhaps her “kindness” had never really been meant for Triton Featherflight as a person, but for “a reliable heir of House Featherflight,” “a useful tool,” “a witness who needed to be appeased.”
An invisible barrier crashed down between them at that very moment. Triton finally realized that it had been there all along. It was not malice. It had nothing to do with whether she liked or disliked him personally. It was simply the rule of this world itself. Within this order, Claret was one of the players moving the pieces. As for him, he was at best nothing more than a relatively handy pawn.
Oh, right. Before this, he had even instinctively pushed that scene out of his memories—the strange, utterly unfamiliar resentment that had radiated from her when she faced the “impostor” wearing her brother’s face.
It had not been the quiet, fragile grief he knew in Claret. It was something else entirely. It was as though some dark, viscous ink had begun seeping slowly through the girl’s delicate skin, making the light around her stagnate and dim. And the blade-bright savagery in her eyes had seemed ready to gouge the eyes from the person standing before her, then grind them beneath her heel.
Perhaps Triton had never truly known the real Claret Morningdew. Or perhaps what dwelled beneath that beautiful exterior was simply a dark abyss that was never meant to be glimpsed, and could never be understood. The mere thought that he had once believed he could reach her true self sent cold dread through him, freezing his racing heart.
What rose within him was not anger, but a dull pain mixed with dawning understanding and disappointment.
Triton turned his gaze away from Claret, and quietly lowered the hand that he had somehow found himself resting against the scar over his right eye.
He gave his head a small shake, casting off the tangle of thoughts, adjusted his posture, and straightened himself slightly.
Calm down, Triton. This is not the time to lose focus.
“… We are honored by Lord Morningdew’s trust, and by Young Master Zhao’s confidence in us. We will indeed do everything in our power.” He heard his father say.
“Please tell us in detail about Miss Yunyao’s condition, what happened, and what information we have gathered so far.”
…
The previous day, String had left home before dawn for the joint investigation in the Stone Church Forbidden Zone.
Normally, Yunyao would rise at Chen Hour (between seven and nine in the morning) and personally go to the hawkery in the corner of the courtyard to feed the family’s messenger hawk, “Bukuai,” with specially prepared strips of meat. The raptor was fiercely loyal to its owners. Apart from the two siblings, it refused to accept food from anyone else, including their personal attendants.
But that morning, by the end of Chen Hour, Bukuai was still in its cage, its cries growing increasingly shrill and agitated. The beating of its wings eventually caught the attention of a servant sweeping the courtyard.
The servant went to inspect the hawkery and found the food and water had not been touched. He then went to Miss Yunyao’s room and knocked softly.
There was no answer.
When the elderly retainer heard what had happened, he quietly reassured the worried Zhao Zhanming and Madam Li Mu.
“Miss Yunyao may simply be exhausted from her grief these past few days. Perhaps she had trouble sleeping last night and only managed to fall asleep in the morning. Or perhaps… she stayed up late preparing incense for the Dawnlight Festival.”
The Dawnlight Festival was only three days away. It was an important holiday celebrated by both Halcyon and Yeelan. In Halcyon, the tradition was to light candles for purification; in Yeelan, people burned incense to honor their ancestors. Zhao Yunyao was highly skilled at blending incense, and every year around this time, she personally prepared the festival incense pellets, often working late into the night.
Zhao Zhanming let out a quiet sigh: “Let her rest a little longer, then.”
He then personally took some strips of meat and went with his wife to the hawkery. Bukuai seemed uneasy, but it reluctantly ate in the presence of its former master, its sharp eyes repeatedly turning toward Miss Yunyao’s chambers.
Si Hour (between nine and eleven in the morning) came and went, yet the chamber door remained tightly shut. Even the morning tea and refreshments that were brought in at a fixed time each day had not been summoned.
The quiet within the residence began to feel unnatural. The servants moved more carefully than usual, unease creeping into their eyes. Madam Li Mu’s fingers, occupied with embroidering an incense sachet, were pricked by her needle several times.
As noon approached, Madam Li Mu could no longer sit still. She and the family retainer came personally to her daughter’s door.
“Yunyao? The sun is already high. Are you awake?” Her voice was gentle, but unmistakably strained with anxiety.
She knocked three times in succession.
Nothing, only silence.
After exchanging a grave look with the retainer, Madam Li Mu drew a deep breath and pushed open the chamber door.
It had not been locked from within.
The room was dim, the curtains only partially drawn. The sweet warmth of burnt cypress-branch incense lingered in the air, mingling with an acrid scent that was impossible to ignore—a mixture of unfinished Dawnlight Festival incense materials and the vapors of some unfamiliar substance.
Zhao Yunyao lay peacefully upon the brocade bed, dressed in simple sleeping robes, her long hair spread loosely around her. Her hands were folded over her stomach, lightly clutching an embroidered incense sachet decorated with grapevines and bamboo branches.
She looked serene. Her makeup was still perfectly arranged, and there was even a faint touch of rouge on her lips, as though she were merely asleep.
Yet on the small table beside her pillow sat an empty little celadon wine cup. There was no wine jug nearby. Only a small clay bottle with its lid removed, its surface completely unmarked.
Zhao Yunyao’s face was unnaturally porcelain-pale. Her breathing was so weak that it was almost imperceptible, while a strange bluish-purple tint had begun to seep into her lips.
Most heartbreaking of all were the faint dried tear tracks at the corners of her eyes. And yet, at the corners of her mouth lingered what seemed almost like a curve of relief.
All color drained from Madam Li Mu’s face. She stumbled to the bedside and reached out with trembling fingers, checking her daughter’s breath and the pulse at her neck.
“Yunyao—!!!” Her cry rang through the entire Whispering Bamboo residence.
As though it sensed what had happened, Bukuai released an agonized, piercing shriek from the hawkery in the courtyard. It hurled itself against the bars of its cage again and again, feathers flying everywhere.
The old retainer recoiled in horror, then he spun around and shouted. His voice twisted in panic: “Someone! Get someone! Call a physician! Seal the gates!”
…
The Dawnlight Festival was almost here.
The continent was about to sink into the longest, deepest night of the year.
According to the traditions passed down through generations in Halcyon, people would burn great “winter solstice logs” on this night, praying that their crackling, blazing light would endure fiercely enough to last until the moment the sun was reborn.
Behind the tightly closed doors and windows of every home, families would gather together. Candles would be lit one by one. Warm, sweet drinks would roll gently in their teapots. Carefully preserved delicacies would be brought solemnly to the table. Gifts would pass from hand to hand, warmth and blessings exchanged in the brief touch of fingertips.
Adults would gather children onto their laps, lower their voices, and once again tell that ancient, gentle legend—the story of an emerald bird that carried the first thread of dawn back from the abyss of deepest darkness.
And then, everyone would wait together. Wait for the long night to be torn apart. Wait for daylight to spill across the window frames once more.
If there was to be another dawn.
