Her name is…Iris. She is the first…Cadogan. But I…I knew her as…the Child of the Moon. Cyrus recites a litany in his mind in an attempt to break his anxiety. She is not some mythical creature. She is not a goddess. But to me…she is something far more precious. “Iris.” Cyrus’s voice is gentle as he caresses the name. It is a prayer, a charm to stave off the impending darkness, a lifeline in the tormenting storm.
The mention of her name stops Wolf’s immediate attack. He hears the love in his brother’s voice, and his own jealous obsession flares. Leaning over the coffin, Wolf exclaims, “You pray to her like a deity? You think that your words will somehow change your circumstances? She sent you here to me! She’s the reason you’re in this box, you fool! Iris doesn’t love you! When will you see this? She hates the fact that you’re even breathing!” Wolf hops on top of the coffin, laying down across it as he spills his poisonous words into Cyrus’s mind. “You know, she told me as much once. When you beat her and sent her to my pack, you cemented her love for me. I was her savior! After that day, she sought me for comfort. She yearned for my touch, my kiss,” Wolf waits for a response from Cyrus. “She never thought of you as anything more than a bitter taste in her mouth. Sending you here was just her way of spitting you out!”
“Most of your words are truth,” Cyrus groans in defeat as his newly discovered abilities judge the truth of his brother’s claims. Tears replace his tormented breaths, and his voice crackles as he whispers, “And what you’ve said that is a lie is too immaterial to matter.” So why am I still allowing myself to be locked in the coffin? Why do I let Wolf torment me? Was Wren right, and all of my actions have just been to make amends for my shortcomings? The eyes of the wronged ones gleam with the sliver of sunlight. Broken, crescent moon smiles illuminate the shadows, lines of teeth separating into open maws that threaten to devour Cyrus’s sanity. They’re not really there, Cyrus reminds himself, praying he is telling the truth. But I have to get out of here. “Brother, what would it take for you to let me—?”
Before the thought is completed aloud, a scream at the front of the caravan rouses everyone’s attention. “Nameless! Prepare for an attack! They are coming!”
Cyrus hears the rustle of activity around him. Boots pound on his wagon’s floor, rattling all around his coffin. The soft plunking of arrows hitting their marks is punctuated by shrieks and moans of the dying. “I don’t know what’s worse: fighting a battle such as this or being stuck, forced to hide and listen to its ravages,” Cyrus mumbles as he rocks his body, hoping to roll the coffin to the ground.
“Take no prisoners!” Wolf commands as he races through the ranks. “Let none of the nameless survive! We keep to the laws of the land, boys!” His sword in hand, he mows through the few nameless unchosen that meet him. Most are too skinny or exhausted to even put up a fight. For them, a swift death is a mercy, and Wolf is eager to deliver.
The coffin hits the ground and shatters immediately. Shards of splintered wood raise their thorny fingers, clawing and scratching at Cyrus’s limbs. One large plank gives way and leaves its pieces wedged in Cyrus’s leg. A short dagger grazes the skin under his chin before Cyrus can even attempt to escape.
“You were trapped in that coffin?” a stranger’s voice inquires as the dagger pushes Cyrus’s head higher. The weapon’s wielder is a boy, barely thirteen by the looks of him. Despite his young age, his body wears a map of scars, burns, and other signs of hardships. “You were Wolf’s prisoner then?”
“Something like that,” Cyrus replies softly, laying his head back to expose his neck. “Kill me or get out of sight, child. Wolf will not spare you simply because you are young.”
“I know you,” the child whispers, leaning over to inspect Cyrus’s eyes. “You wore a mask before, but I am sure that I recognize you. My father traded with you down at the last village near the river. He took any business, even from the major houses. I used to sit under his counter where no one could see. I know your voice.”
“Please,” Cyrus begs the child, using his feet to try and kick him back into the forest’s safety. “Hide yourself! Get away from this place before they kill you!”
“Come with me,” the boy demands, pulling at Cyrus’s arm. “You’ll be safe among the nameless! My father never turns anyone away.”
“Run ahead of me and hide! I will follow,” Cyrus shouts as he drags his injured leg behind him, attempting to fulfill his words. The boy pauses, extending a rail thin hand to Cyrus in assistance. Cyrus bats him away, crying, “Don’t look back, just go!”
“My, my.” Cyrus hears the smile in his brother’s voice as he stalks closer, “You’re still as soft-hearted as I remember. Is that why Falcon always did the dirty work? You were too weak!” Wolf stands in line with the child, a bow and arrow aimed at his heart. The boy, sensing the threat, turns to face it head on.
“Don’t do it,” Cyrus pleads, forcing his body to rise. Standing on his gouged leg is torture. Pain jolts down to his toes with every movement. I will defend this child. My life means little enough, but I will gladly give it up to save another. “What have any of the nameless unchosen done to you, Wolf?” Cyrus inquires, hoping
