“Bellicosity ill suits you, my dear.”
Ksen scoffed at this, turning away from the great cliff-side window to face his mother.
“The world dies, and you fault me for seeing a solution? An end to this accursed state that our fair city finds itself in?”
Fixing her son with a steady gaze, Kloma pondered her response, silence reigning in the lounge for near on a minute.
“The priests cannot be touched, Ksen. You know this.”
“We both know, mother, that beyond that iridium wall of theirs lies the end of this half-light,” Ksen swept his arm over the emerald-tiled rooftops of Maknopolis, “lies the return of sun and moon and stars. And I will end it—know this—or I will perish.”
“You are a merchant, my dear. We are but merchants.”
Gone was all fury and scorn in Kloma’s voice, for a resigned weariness had crept into her heart. Ksen was truly his father’s son, for that same fiery resolve now blazed in his eyes. The same resolve she had fallen for so many seasons ago, when seasons still existed, when famine had been but a grim tale told of ancient times.
“It is not who I am, but what I do. And none—none, mother—have done what must be done. None have dared scale the wall to slit that heretical princeling’s throat, that foul abomination birthed by our king’s whore-witch.”
“If you think killing a child will—”
“That is no child! We all heard its screeching when it was born, we all know that Ahra cursed us for the perfidy of allowing such an aberration into our midst!”
Ksen was now pacing the room, with Kloma sitting straighter on the divan, hands gripped tight over her lap to hide their trembling. She wanted to reassure her son that all would be well, that he was wrong; she knew it was futile.
“Ksen... the twilight priests are all who stand between us and oblivion. Their magics feed—”
“Even you! Even you call them that! If father was alive today... Twilight priests!”
Ksen spat, not caring a whit how undignified such an act was in the presence of his last remaining family.
“Our Sun King cavorts with that vespertine serpent, she births a demon, and suddenly holy Ahra is forgotten by our people? Benevolent Ahra, who created our world and tended to it fairly with his rays?”
Kloma shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks.
“Son, you don’t un—”
“Understand? Oh, oh I do! Those priests not converted were slain, and now we bow and scrape to this new sect of... of what!? They serve none but themselves and the abomination that, so soon after its spawning, already talks like an elder! They hoard their mushrooms and force us into obsequiousness just so we can keep our bellies filled. I understand all too well.”
“No. You don’t,” stated Kloma, her voice once more a thing of steel. “Ahra is... was a mad god, a jealous god unwilling to share the world with night. It is not our king, but Ahra himself who plunged us into eternal dusk. This is so.”
Ksen stared at his mother, open-mouthed, arms now slack at his sides. When he finally spoke, it came out as a whisper.
“No. Soon, it will end.”
With this, he headed for the door.
“Wait, Ksen...”
He did not. Ksen trotted down the stairs. Leaving the villa, his left hand shifted to the dagger buckled at his waist. It was time to scale the wall, time—
‘Bwhahoooowoohooo!’ came the long, mournful sound of his father’s hunting horn. Ksen stopped, swiveled around. There, on the ledge, stood his mother. They locked eyes. She jumped, plunging to the streets far below. In the distance, the great shining gate ground open. Out marched the grey-garbed twilight priests, armed and chanting. They came for him.
