Satyr’s Children | Book 1: Siren
From the back of the Trailblazers’ Guild’s main hall, an inconspicuous staircase guarded by a watchman led downward. At the bottom stood a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bars and fitted with a small observation window.
Beyond it lay the basement’s first level, where supplies and relic materials were stored. Farther in, another flight of steeper, more dimly lit stone steps descended toward the second underground level.
The air grew noticeably colder there, carrying the smells of stone, medicinal herbs, and a faint, damp mustiness.
Triton made his way through the narrow central corridor. Magic sconces set into the walls of rough stone cast an unchanging, icy light. A few small rooms lined either side of the corridor. Their doors were not made of wooden planks, but thick iron bars.
Inside each room was nothing but a stone bed fixed to the floor and covered with a straw mat, a drain in one corner, and a stone basin embedded in the wall. The cells were empty, and their floors had been scrubbed spotless. Everything was as clean, barren, and cold as a wasteland.
This was the Guild’s “temporary holding area.” It was not a formal prison, but a functional place of transition, usually left vacant. Only prisoners who needed to be observed for a short period or were awaiting transfer would be confined here for a few days.
Spending too much time in a place like this is probably enough to make anyone sick.
Triton stopped in front of the cell at the very end of the corridor.
“Mr. Joe, I’m back.”
“You bet, boy… I can hear your little goat hooves tottering from a mile away.” A semi-transparent hand reached out through the wall and waved at him impatiently. “Where the hell is that little sister of yours?”
“… In the main hall. She seems to have run into someone she knows. She’ll come down after a few words.”
“My, my, my. You’d better promise me that little lady won’t skip her shift, or I’m telling your parents!” An old man’s face suddenly appeared upside down from the ceiling. The elderly male spirit narrowed his cloudy eyes and looked Triton up and down.
“She won’t, Mr. Joe.” Triton sat down on the slate bench beside the cell door. “She’ll be back in a short while.”
The first time Triton met Joe Frostbite, he had nearly mistaken him for the mist-woman. His heart had almost leapt straight out of his throat. Joe, meanwhile, seemed to thoroughly enjoy terrifying the green recruits half to death. He had taken almost perverse delight in teasing Triton mercilessly.
“Ohhh, hoo, hoo! Dear, oh dear! After all these years, are the young members of the Northwatch still this afraid of ghosts?” The old spirit hung upside down from the ceiling, his worn, semi-transparent cloak trembling as he doubled over with laughter. “There are plenty of things in this world scarier than us spirits! Goat boy, you’ve still got a lot of training to do! Ohhh, hoo, hoo…”
Joe Frostbite was the only “survivor” of the collapse that struck the Trailblazers’ Guild basement more than a decade ago. At the time, the Northwatch’s prison had not yet been separated from the Guild. Both underground levels were used to house criminals and store contraband.
A group of prisoners tried to escape using crude explosives. They miscalculated the amount of powder, however, and nearly blew the entire Guild into a pile of rubble. A great many people died in the accident. Old Joe, the petty thief locked up beside the contraband storage area, was among them.
Strictly speaking, he died too. Only, his soul became entangled with the relics blasted apart by the explosion and the chaotic energy left in its wake, and somehow, he became a bound spirit.
At first, Joe thought being able to walk through walls and float through the air meant he had been granted an incredible new freedom. Though it did not take long for him to find out that he could not leave the Guild’s basement at all. Worse yet, he could not even touch a scrap of paper. When he realized he had become nothing more than a shadow trapped inside a box of stone, the old thief nearly lost his mind on the spot.
Eventually, the Guild researchers gave him a “diagnosis.” His senses of smell and hearing were more or less intact. The rest of his senses could only be activated temporarily through “burning.” Food, wood, paper—anything burned somewhere in the Guild’s underground levels would allow Joe to faintly “taste” its flavor and “feel” its shape. If he did not “eat” something this way, his form would gradually disperse. Fortunately, anything that could be burned and was incinerated within his “territory” was enough to keep him going.
That was when the Guild struck a bargain with Joe. He would serve as a guard for the warehouses and prison areas, while the Guild would regularly burn food, paper, and other things for him to sustain his existence.
Joe also discovered that his new condition came with its own uses. He could pass straight through sealed crates and “see” what was inside. He could even pass through living people and sense whether their bones and muscles were sound, or whether they were hiding anything they were not supposed to have on them. Most of the time, however, he did not need to inspect anyone that thoroughly. His nose and ears were already sharp enough.
Like now. Joe sniffed the air and muttered, “Lord, how old are you, boy? And you’re still drinking barley water?”
“How are they?” Triton ignored the old spirit’s teasing and jerked his chin toward the cell.
“That little monster? Same as ever.” Joe shrugged. His semi-transparent body flowed lazily down from the ceiling like a pool of viscous liquid. “Listless. A complete mess. Their head seems perfectly clear, though… But what’s actually inside it? Who knows.”
He pulled his old cloak, now little more than a fading phantom, more tightly around himself.
“I’ve got no interest in crawling inside them. That little monster’s blood isn’t clean. It’s filthy and foul-smelling… You know corruption from the Forbidden Zone can contaminate a spirit’s body too, no? These old bones of mine can’t take that kind of abuse…”
“Thank you for looking after them.” Triton nodded. “I’ll take it from here.”
“You don’t have to tell me that…” Joe grumbled, then drifted leisurely back up into the unseen space above the ceiling. “Without a fat amount of tips, no one in their right mind would spend a holiday cooped up in a stone box, keeping watch over some stinking monster for a bunch of snobs…”
The holding area fell completely silent. Triton sighed, rose to his feet, and leaned toward the one-way observation window set into the cell door, specially made from a magical crystal.
Rusty’s cell was different from the others. There were no bars. All four walls were solid stone, with only a heavy iron door. Its only remaining connections to the outside world were a small ventilation opening high above and several pipe interfaces set into the base of the walls for various magical instruments. Glowing runes had been etched across the floor and walls of the cell. Together with the collar around Rusty’s neck, they suppressed the magic within their body.
The altered Snakefolk lay perfectly still on the stone bed. Had it not been for the faint rise and fall of their chest, Triton might almost have mistaken them for a human-shaped stone sculpture mottled with orange rust.
This was no ordinary assignment. Before Ali and Triton came downstairs, David and Solin had deliberately spoken to them at home, and their words had been unusually stern.
“Remember this: first and foremost, you are guards. Only after that are you ‘observers.’” David’s voice was heavy. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to enter the cell alone. Keep a safe distance from Rusty, even with the collar on. Their tail, nails, even saliva may carry risks we cannot fully account for.”
“Everything you see—their every word, every movement, even changes in their emotions—must be recorded objectively.” Solin continued, with worry in her eyes. “But report only to Claret, who is responsible for this assignment. Do not reveal a single word to anyone else. This is not an ordinary mission. It’s classified.”
“Try to think of them not merely as a prisoner, but as a patient who has suffered severe injuries and lost their memories.” She paused. “The fact that they ‘imitate’ things is itself the most valuable subject of observation. Watch how they speak, how they remember. It doesn’t matter if they cannot recall anything at all. This may help us understand what the Yoke of Power has done to them.”
“If the situation feels right, you can try asking simple, neutral questions about the present. Things like, ‘How are you feeling today?’ or ‘Would you like some water?’ Under no circumstances should you directly ask about Bert or their memories of the past. That could provoke a reaction none of us can control. Sometimes simply staying there quietly and steadily can make them feel safer than questioning them. And if they relax, they may even let something slip without realizing it.”
“That person… is pitiful indeed.” David’s gaze moved over the two children. “But do not forget what they are. Sir Argentum and your mother think that they show no intention of deliberately attacking people. That does not mean they are harmless. So keep an eye on anyone who tries to approach them or make inquiries about them—even people in the Guild who seem friendly enough, or people you know personally.”
“This assignment…” Solin’s voice softened slightly. “The lord and House Morningdew will be watching you too. Do your duty and conduct yourselves as you should, but there’s no need to be afraid. Remember, we’re right behind you. If Miss Claret’s orders ever seriously conflict with basic safety procedures or with your own instincts, stall for time first. Then find an opportunity to tell us immediately.”
“If anything abnormal happens—Rusty suddenly breaks down, the magical restraints fail, or someone without authorization forces their way in—protect yourselves first, then sound the alarm immediately. Your lives matter more than anything else.”
“My darlings…” At last, Solin drew both of them into her arms. “What you are about to encounter is a product of the Forbidden Zone’s corruption, and a figure caught at the very center of a political vortex. Keep your emotional boundaries. Compassion is fine, but do not lose yourself in it. Their fate, unfortunately, will be decided neither by us nor by them.”
“Trit?” His sister’s footsteps came from the far end of the corridor. “I’m back.”
“I’m here, Ali.” Triton turned around. “Run into someone you know?”
“Aeliana from the bakery on Kiln Lane. She gave me some pastries.” Ali opened a small cloth pouch. At once, the warm, comforting sweetness unique to freshly baked goods spread through the chilly basement, making Triton’s empty stomach twist with hunger.
“Here, have some.”
The flavors of pistachio and sweet dates melted across his tongue. Wheat dough rich with clarified butter softened warmly against every taste bud, while the crisp nuts sprinkled over the top shattered between his teeth. Triton quickly finished his share, then licked the grease from his fingers, still savoring the taste.
“This is… mersu?”
“Sure is.” Ali let out a soft sigh. “Mersu is sold on Market Street too, where we live, but in Kiln Lane, where Aeliana lives, this is probably the best pastry you can get. She said she was especially happy to see me today. And insisted that I should take some…”
“Next time we go back to return her cloth pouch, we should bring her a little gift in return.” Triton had only a vague impression of Aeliana, mostly of a human girl with dark-golden hair who always seemed to smell faintly of bread. “Can you recall what kind of hair ornaments she used to wear? Ribbons? Little caps? Or those coarse lace pieces you can weave into a braid?”
“Trit…” Ali’s voice fell quiet. “Aeliana is already married. She has several children now. Her father is gone, and she’s busy from morning until night. Those kinds of ‘little girl stuff’ you mentioned… She probably won’t have the chance to use them ever again.”
“Oh…” Triton awkwardly wiped the traces of grease from his fingers with the hem of his clothes. “She… started a family that early?”
“Yeah. Aeliana is the mistress of the bakery on Kiln Lane now. She even has her own mill. When I first saw her, I didn’t recognize her at all. I just thought she was some ordinary woman who had come to the Guild to see her husband.”
Ali turned slightly and rested her forehead gently against her brother’s shoulder.
“I… can’t really picture that she and I are the same age.”
Ali, what are you thinking?
Triton’s thoughts drifted through the silent basement.
You’re sad, and a little afraid. Are you feeling hurt for what happened to Aeliana, or are you angry because there’s nothing you can do for her? Did seeing her dressed like a housewife frighten you? Are you afraid of becoming like her, or are you afraid that you’re growing up too slowly, and that everyone your age has already left you far behind?
But Ali said nothing. She merely rubbed her cheek quietly against her brother’s shoulder, her mint-green eyes gazing blankly toward the end of the corridor.
“Ali, I had another dream.” After a long while, Triton finally spoke in a quiet voice.
“About House Morningdew again?” Ali immediately straightened, turning to her brother with a wary look. “Last time you said… you dreamed that Claret and String were talking, and they mentioned our mother’s former husband…”
“… Yeah. This time I dreamed that I became Claret again. But she barely said anything. Julchen did most of the talking. Lord Marcus was there with them too, and… a boy I’ve never seen before.”
“A boy you’ve never seen? At Morningdew estate?” Ali frowned. “What did he look like?”
“The boy was quite young, I think he’d only just started growing taller. He was small and thin, with platinum-blond hair, amber eyes, and pale skin. He had freckles and… He looked a bit like Bert.”
“Look like Bert?” Ali rubbed her chin. “That sounds like a Morningdew child. Could he be Claret’s younger brother? But why… have we never heard Lord Marcus mention a fourth child?”
“I don’t think he’s an illegitimate child, though.” Triton sounded uncertain. “I remember Lord Marcus once said that when Miss Claret was born, her hair was platinum blond too. It only turned pinkish-purple after she was given medicated baths. What’s more, if he really is an illegitimate child, Lord Marcus probably wouldn’t have brought him back to live at the estate… right? But you know this is just a strange dream of mine. Maybe everything in it was—”
“All right, Trit!” Ali lightly thumped him on the shoulder, cutting him off. “Forget about the boy for now. Tell me what you dreamed this time! Don’t leave me hanging there!”
…
“Have all the invitations to the Dawnlight Festival banquet been acknowledged by every House?” Lord Marcus sat behind a broad hardwood writing desk, rigid as he was carved out of stone.
“Yes, Father. Every invitation has received a response. All the invited families will attend the dinner, as a gesture of their support for House Morningdew. No one has declined this year, and no one will be absent.”
Julchen sat in the high-backed chair opposite the desk as she gave her report. Standing to either side of her like silent shadow guards were two people: Claret, her pink hair hanging low on the left, and a slender boy with platinum-blond hair on the right.
For a while, the study held nothing but the faint crackle of logs in the fireplace. The heavy wool carpet swallowed every other sound, while the family crest tapestry hanging on the wall gleamed with a rosy sheen in the firelight.
The platinum-haired boy’s lips curled into the faintest smile.
“They wouldn’t dare to decline.” His voice was low, but sharp enough to sting.
“Have there been any changes to the security rosters for the three venues?” The lord’s gaze remained fixed on the documents before him.
“No. The lists have already been signed and confirmed by the captain of the guard.”
“I see.” Marcus finally raised his eyes. His gaze struck at his eldest daughter’s face.
“And House Featherflight?How did you arrange them?”
“House Featherflight has been invited to attend the midsize dinner that the estate will host on the evening of the first day of Dawnlight Festival for the city’s ‘distinguished contributors.’ They will not attend the private family banquet on the following day, nor will they participate in the public celebration in the square on the morning of the first day.”
Julchen answered without the slightest pause, as though she had rehearsed every word in her mind countless times.
“Once the dinner is over, they will return immediately to their respective posts and continue working.”
The lord did not respond at once. He reached for a small armillary sphere fashioned from mithril that sat on the desk—perhaps a gift presented by some Yeelan scholar. Its surface had been polished to a mirror sheen. He slowly ran the pad of his finger along the cold curve of the metal. The instrument’s intricate gears caught the firelight, scattering tiny, shifting flecks of light across the study.
“Tell me your concerns, Julchen.” It was a long while before Marcus spoke again, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Yes.” Julchen raised her chin slightly. The scar running across her cheek appeared especially deep in the sideways glow of the candlelight.
“You told me beforehand that the highest priority for this year’s Dawnlight Festival is ‘stability.’ Under no circumstances can we allow anything to go wrong. Any sign of something that might provoke panic, suspicion, or a challenge to the family’s authority must be stamped out before it can take root.”
“And, you want the key investigations to continue throughout the festival—whether concerning Miss Yunyao, the ‘mimic,’ or… ‘those people.’” She paused. A sharp light flickered in her amber eyes.
“As for House Featherflight, they are useful tools, but also a potential liability. That family has always been loyal to us, and their execution is excellent. The thing is, they know too much, and they are too deeply involved in everything.”
“Whether it was the trip to Highland Street or the escort of the prisoner back from the Forbidden Zone, both Featherflight operations took place in full public view. Hiding them completely would amount to an admission of weakness.” Her voice turned colder. “So we got to be the ones who control the narration.”
“By giving them the title of ‘distinguished contributors,’ we can legitimize and honor their actions. In the eyes of the public, the Featherflights are carrying out a difficult and honorable mission on behalf of Polaris, and have received the recognition they deserve. That will steer the rumors in a positive direction.”
“And to our nobles, officials, and… our enemies in the shadows.” She placed slightly more emphasis on the final words. “This is more than a reward from your lordship to those who have earned your favor. It is also an unmistakable declaration: everything happening in the Northwatch remains under House Morningdew’s control.”
“The guests at the midsize banquet will be primarily junior and mid-ranking officials, senior Guild personnel, and exemplary merchants. With House Featherflight among them, their presence will not seem out of place. This also avoids provoking excessive speculation or jealousy within the highest circles of the nobility.”
She continued.
“The banquet takes up only one evening. Once it ends, they can return to their posts without delaying any subsequent operations. Besides, the banquet itself is the most dignified compensation for remaining on duty through the festival. It is gentler than a monetary reward, and far more clearly a sign of favor.”
“House Featherflight needs to be kept under ‘controlled light.’ If we attempt to keep them hidden, more rumors will grow. If we elevate them too highly, they will lose their usefulness and make enemies on every side.”
“This position is exactly where they need to be.” She spoke each word slowly and distinctly. “With the intelligence of that Trailblazer captain and his scholar wife, they will understand. This is both an olive branch extended by us, and an unmistakable warning. On one hand, the fate of House Featherflight is now bound to the honor and disgrace of House Morningdew. On the other hand, however, if they cannot learn to guard their tongues and tread carefully… they will be ruined beyond hope.”
Julchen finally finished her long speech. Though she had kept her voice as steady as she possibly could throughout, Triton could faintly see, through Claret’s eyes, the unsteady rise and fall of the girl’s chest and the fists she had quietly clenched on her lap.
She was terribly nervous, but her eyes glowed with fervent anticipation. She looked almost like a prisoner at the gallows, craning her neck as she waited for the noose and the release it promised. Or perhaps like a general who had just crawled back to the capital from mountains of corpses and seas of blood, the stains of battle still wet upon her armor, yet she stood proudly upright as she waited for the king to pin a medal upon her chest.
The red-haired lord tilted his head slightly and gently set the mithril armillary sphere he had been turning over in his hands back onto the desk. The metal touched hardwood with a soft click.
“Since everything has all been arranged, it’s time to carry it out.” His face remained expressionless. “You may all leave.”
“Ha…” A brief sound escaped from Julchen’s throat, a single faint laughter. But when her eyes met her father’s utterly cold amber gaze again, the curve that had just appeared at the corners of her mouth stiffened there, freezing into an awkward, fragile crack.
The platinum-haired boy turned slightly and quietly caught her by the sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.
“Then we’ll be on our way, Father. I wish you a pleasant day.” Claret stepped forward. The elaborate hem of her dress swept out in an elegant arc as she lowered her head in a graceful, obedient bow, briefly cutting off her father’s gaze toward his eldest daughter.
The boy seized that fleeting opening. His arm tightened, and with a force somewhere between an escort and a drag, he pulled Julchen off from the high-backed chair that seemed almost like an instrument of execution and forcibly led her toward the study door.
“Let go of me! Pinot, let go…”
The heavy oak door closed with a dull thud behind them, shutting out the suffocating silence of the study. Claret and Pinot supported Julchen between them, one on each side, carrying her almost off her feet down the dimly lit corridor. They did not let go until they had crossed the threshold into Julchen’s room.
It was as though every last bit of strength had been pulled from the red-haired girl. She stumbled, then slid down against the door and finally collapsed onto the cold floor.
“Why did he… What gives him the right to…” Her voice came out warped with bitterness, squeezed through an aching throat. “Not even a single word… Just one would have been enough… When brother was here, he always…”
The tears she had held back all the way there finally broke through the dam. Julchen covered her pale, freckled face with both her hands. Her shoulders shook violently, yet she bit her lip hard, refusing to let out even the slightest sob.
“… Right now, perhaps it’s not the best time to talk about that.” Claret slowly crouched down beside her. She reached out, hesitated for a moment, then gently gathered her trembling sister into her arms. “Father… He’s still grieving.”
The boy called Pinot merely lowered his eyes, looking down at Julchen who crumpled on the floor. He removed a small, dull piece of something from his ear, which was shaped like a fragment of blackened bone, then made several quick gestures toward the sisters.
“Our little brother asks…” Claret translated softly. “Is there anything else you need him to do? He’s going into ‘silent mode,’ Julia, the magic of the ‘Listening Bone’ has run out.”
“Go…” Julchen buried her face deeper into her hands. Her muffled voice came from behind her palms. “You two, out with it… Leave me alone.”
“Jul…”
“Get out!”
She suddenly lifted her head. Her bloodshot eyes glared fiercely at the two of them, tears streaking down her face.
“I said GET OUT! Can’t you understand what I’m saying?!”
The violence and despair in her sister’s eyes made Claret flinch. Her arms slowly loosened around Julchen.
She exchanged a glance with Pinot. The boy nodded. Then the two of them rose silently, taking one last look at the red-haired figure curled up on the floor before quietly leaving the room and gently closing the door behind them.
…
“… How could it be like this?” Rusty’s voice sounded hollow in the dim light. “Bert’s family members… how could they be like this…?”
“I was also… surprised, to say the least.” Triton swallowed. “But when you really think about it, I suppose it isn’t completely impossible to understand…”
“Wait.” Ali suddenly cut him off. Her mint-green pupils contracted sharply.
She stared in horror at something behind her brother.
“Rusty—how the hell did you get out?!”
“Huh?” The gray-skinned Snakefolk tilted their head in confusion, leaning against the doorframe of the cell. “Didn’t you guys open the door?”
“I saw all the runes inside suddenly go dark. I thought you wanted me for something, but I waited for a long time and no one came in. So I pushed the door… And it opened.”
Their voice gradually trailed off, as though they too had realized something from the sudden change in Ali’s expression.
“Ali…” Panic poured over Triton like icy water. It raced down his spine and spread rapidly through every limb. “When you came downstairs… Did you see Mr. Joe?”
“Old Joe? No…” Ali’s face went deathly pale. “I thought he was with you—”
Before she could finish speaking, the magical sconces lining the corridor, which had always emitted a steady, cold light, began to flicker without warning.
Once.
Twice.
The wavering light rose and fell like the dying breaths of some doomed creature, twisting and distorting the shadows of the three figures before hurling them violently across the walls.
Then the sconces crackled several times, sharp and shrill.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
The last remaining light went out completely. Darkness, swallowing everything in its path, came crashing down.
