The unseen—those who can see reality in the Westlands for what it is—like me, see the artifice, constructed by the mage king to trick residents into thinking this is a land of bounty. We taste slime instead of wine when we drink from his cups. We feel rough fiber instead of silks when at court. We feel the dirt beneath our feet instead of streets paved with gold. Granted, the castle and all its splendor are real, just not as real as the king would like.
But no one believes us and if we dare speak up, to the arena we go.
When the typical residents pass by on the street, they don’t see the hunger in the eyes of the unseen or the aches in their hearts because it isn’t only food that has been kept from the people. Many have been robbed of much more. Fae have gone missing. Lots.
Since leaving the castle, I’ve made it my mission to rob from the rich and give to the unseen because even though the cakes and delicacies are largely glamour, there are still crumbs to spare here and there.
Fist meeting flesh sounds from the street.
I’ve had the sense knocked out of me enough times to have learned that confrontation is not the solution. I don’t like the idea of the guards beating the poor guy to death. I’ve seen it happen. There’s no good reason that he’s been stopped, at least that I can tell in this instance.
I scramble behind a low wall and gather a handful of loose stones. My aim is precise from practice and necessity. I release the first rock, grazing the sleeve of the guard’s uniform just below his right shoulder—the punching arm. He stops. The body beneath him cowers. The guard looks around dumbly as though trying to decide if a gull dropped on him or if there is someone else he should leather.
I bolt behind an abandoned building and send the second rock sailing. It pings the other guard off the helmet. He shakes his head and narrows his eyes in my direction. I’m not stupid enough to remain here so I slip back to the wall and rapidly volley four more rocks, none of them intended to harm, just draw the attention of the guards away from the guy, now groveling on the ground. If he has sense, he’ll run.
The moment I hear the guard’s heavy boots approaching, I scramble behind several other buildings, scale a fence, sink a boot in a tub of water by accident, and then rush across a yard. I slide under a cart and then slip down an alley, hoping it has an outlet.
As I pass dimly lit dwellings, uncertainty rumbles in my chest. I’ve taught myself not to flinch when I hear a sound behind me. It’s better to play it cool when it comes to demons. Instead, I slow my pace.
A gurgle.
A grunt.
A great mass with blubbery skin like a slug launches itself at me. The fetid stench confirms that it’s another demon.
I draw my sword, but that gelatinous skin jerks my hand and my weapon falls away. More demons emerge from the shadows. Black teeth, forked tongues, and snake-like eyes leer at me. As one, they attack, jumping on me, sending me crashing down onto the cobblestones. I’m too far outside the castle walls for anyone to hear me. Well, anyone other than the king’s guards.
The demons smother me and once more, there’s that terrible sucking nose. A grim, violent feeling rises up inside as if my fae light is being extinguished.
There’s only one solution. Once more, I summon my magic. I let it float to the surface, intending to zap the demons without alerting the guards to my law-breaking. Then again, perhaps using it earlier was what brought them down this way. Did they think the guy used magic?
I let the magic rumble under my skin, just enough to get them loose.
However, my surroundings dim. I can hardly breathe.
There are too many of them.
I draw more on my magic, but it’s almost like it’s out of reach.
Darkness fills my thoughts. Hatred. Anger.
I counter it with love. Kindness.
It’s the way of the fae. Light and dark coexisting. In balance. It’s a necessity for me.
My magic heats and cools. Rises and falls. I gather it up all around me like a blanket and a shower of power, casting it out. The demons are blasted away and vaporize instantly.
Little crackles fill the air like static and then blink out.
I hasten to my feet, brush off, and find my sword.
No doubt, the guards will be along any moment. I dash along the wall and back to the spot where I’d marked a rune of passage. I selected this spot because I know all that lies on the other side is a tavern where the tabber is good at keeping his mouth closed.
I mark the rune anew and when I appear on the inside of the wall, a patrol of guards set up a checkpoint, brightly lit with torches.
They must’ve learned of my magic outside the wall and traced it to the rune. I never got around to learning how to conceal traces of rune magic.
A wiry guard calls to me.
I quietly fade backward until I’m nearly a shadow beside the tavern, but a hand grabs me roughly and makes a guttural sound as though asking what I think I’m doing.
I try to shake my arm loose and wrinkle my nose with confusion. “Where am I?” I ask innocently. “I must’ve been sleepwalking.”
“Likely story,” the guard says.
“Out for an evening stroll?” I try.
“More like using magic.”
Two pairs of eyes appraise me from beneath their helmets.
“Identify yourself,” says
