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Chapter One
Kianos Aner lay on his bed, inexplicably awake. In late November, over two months ago, his only sister, Kekasmai Aner, had disappeared. It was later discovered that she had been kidnapped by the formidable Manumos, and was imprisoned by them, perhaps even dead. Kianos was the youngest out of four children, and the eldest three had been victim to the Manumos: outspoken, proud, competitive twenty-seven-year-old Sizighos had been slain in battle, along with quiet, thoughtful, loving, twenty-three-year-old Andras; sharp-minded, sharp-tongued, tough but secretly gentle, seventeen-year-old Kekasmai; all that remained of the Aner children was confused, frightened, hopeful thirteen-year-old Kianos, whose sleep had been fitful at the best of times since Sizighos and Andras fell in battle eight months ago.
Mitera Aner sat in the small living room, a wax candle flickering beside her on an end table, the flame getting close to the glass tray it sat on. Mitera Aner rubbed her temples, feeling a headache coming on as she sat in that worn-out chair, eyes looking at but not absorbing a single word of the novel that rested in her lap. Her husband and only remaining child had gone to sleep a long time ago; now she was awake, with only a dying fire to keep her company. She looked up from her book and, accidentally, her eyes fell on the family portrait that had been beautifully drawn when everyone was alive and happier: Sizighos was twenty-five-years-old; Andras was twenty-one; Kekasmai was fifteen; Kianos was eleven, and Mitera and her husband Pethero had been younger and happier there. Mitera smiled despite how lonely the painting made her feel: the family she had been born into was fair-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes; Pethero had pitch black hair and dark eyes. Sizighos, Andras, and Kekasmai inherited the black hair, while Kianos’ hair was brown. Sizighos had his father’s liquidy brown eyes, Andras had hazel ones, Kekasmai’s were green, and Andras had the deep, ocean-like blue that Mitera proudly sported. The children had secretly collaborated to get this portrait done for Mitera Aner’s birthday that year; they saved up all their money for a year and finally had enough to pay the artist.
Despite what his wife thought, Pethero was not asleep. He was lying in bed, wide-awake, well aware that his wife was downstairs worrying. He, too, felt the pangs of deceased children, but could not betray himself by showing this. He still allowed a tiny glimmer of hope to live on. He knew that his children were brave and capable, and there was a chance – a very slim chance, admittedly, but at least there was a chance – that they were still alive. If he grieved expansively, it would show that he had given up hope, and he could not do that. It was the one thing keeping him from breaking down.
Far away, miles from the Aner household in the little village of Jobastol, Ket Thompson was also awake, thinking about mindless things as he leaned out his dorm room window. His roommate, Jadro Lackey, was fast asleep, snoring contentedly. Ket was tired, but the fresh breeze that blew across his face was keeping him from nodding off. The star strewn sky twinkled at him, but he merely blinked back. With annoyance, he noticed that his reddish-brown hair was getting long, and he shook it away from his eyes. Long hair might be the Miringa style, but Ket preferred it short. He had not paid much attention to it since Kekasmai had disappeared, and did not really care what it looked like; he only cared about having her returned, which now seemed like an impossible wish.
Dolores Cushing slept soundly, though, despite her constant worrying about her roommate. Kekasmai’s bed was made and empty, and all of her belongings were still in the room. Anthro Jonat, the man who ran the training program that Ket, Jadro, and Dolores went to, said that if Kekasmai did not return six months after her capture, her things would be removed from the room and given to her parents. Dolores would be assigned a new roommate.
Everyone, it seemed, was doing everything they could to hold on to hope.
OoO
A beautiful scene was going on in the ocean below the cloud world: a young, winged woman burst out of the ocean, her waterlogged clothes sticking to her wound-ridden skin. Her legs lay limp and twisted in the air; they had been broken.
Kekasmai Aner had escaped from her captors, but just barely. Tears flooded her eyes as she remembered the great sacrifice that had been made for her own life, but she quickly dashed them away. She gasped in deep, lungfuls of clean air, the smell of salt permeating her nose, and quickly and clumsily flapped her wings, trying to gage her direction. Light rain pattered onto her wounds, which stung from the salty ocean; she shuddered as her newly short hair tickled the back of her neck. She had escaped a few weeks ago, but had not known where she was, or what direction to go in. She had hidden in abandoned houses, stolen food and clothes, caught fish with her bare hands, and been in danger the entire time. It was extraordinarily risky for her to be doing this, for Manumos have an uncanny knack of knowing the number of living beings in the vicinity.
Now, she knew of a destination which she must reach. It had been written down, long ago, that the Manumos would never tread upon this area. While it was true that a certain Manumo, Runo Gore, had once gone to the Miringa’s sacred place, most of the others honored that pact. She knew, at least, that Sorena Kadaveer did, and believed that she would be more safe there than anywhere else for the time being. She knew what direction it was in, and thus she set off there – to the northeast – hoping to reach it in time to take a short rest.
In a little under an hour – around one o’clock am – Kekasmai reached the small, uncharted island that served as the burial ground for Miringa. She curled up by a large, leafy tree and quickly dropped off to sleep, feeling hopeful.
