.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

ARSONIST'S LULLABYE!

i. a searing burst of light

THE ARMY CAMP STOOD LIKE A FOUL SCAR against the barren landscape, dirtied tents leaning against one another pathetically; stained canvas ships shivering in a colourless sea. The shadow fold had that effect on things, Fianna had found. As soon as her unit had arrived at Kribirsk a week prior, she had stared at the great slash of darkness cutting through the countryside, unable to look away as the blackened clouds twisted and pulsed in an arrhythmic heartbeat. 

There were often times when, with the Unsea looming overhead like a bad omen, she would look down at her scarred hands, as though to reassure herself that she wasn't fading away to nothing; wasn't being changed and warped into something wholly unhuman. 

"Again!" The Grisha instructor's tone was harsh, impatient, ringing through the frigid air of the training area.

The Inferni cracked her knuckles, struggling to bite back the scathing reply practically begging to leave her lips. The Etherealnik group had been working through drills since before sunrise, and her feet had gone numb soon after - the Ravkan seasons were harsh, and despite the nine years she had spent in the saintsforsaken place, her body had never quite adapted to the climate. Fianna glanced up at the oppressive wall of shadow once more, uneasy in its presence. She couldn't bear to imagine the sort of creatures that lived within, never to know the feel of sunlight on their ruined flesh.

"O'Haodha!" the instructor barked, snapping the girl out of her reverie. "What part of 'again' didn't you understand?"

"Sorry, Natacha," Fianna said, gritting her teeth and trying to focus on the practice dummy. 

Hearing a snicker from behind her, the redhead turned, eyes narrowing at the sound. Her brother stood, arms crossed over his lanky frame, emblazoned in the glittering silver thread that indicated his rank as a Squaller. His mouth had curled up on one side, his eyes glinting with their familiar mischief. He gave a slight incline of his head, as if to say Go on. 

"Shut up."  She mouthed, her gaze sharp enough to burn right through him. 

Aware of the other Etherialki's eyes on her, Fianna planted her feet like she'd been taught to, before striking her flint. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself breathing life into the small spark, letting it grow in her gloved hand; a smile appearing on her face at the feel of the sudden heat on her skin. It bloomed like a rare flower in her palm, a wild and terrible beauty that was hers to control. 

"Good," Natacha said approvingly from somewhere behind her. "Now direct it."

Moving her hands in a sweeping arc, Fianna drew the flame through the air; a burning slash of colour against the grey canvas of the campground. She couldn't help herself - a small smile graced her lips, her cheeks flushing with colour as the euphoria of summoning shimmered in her veins like gold dust.   

She had once feared her power; had shied away from using it while her classmates had flourished with theirs. She had been forced to watch as her peers learned to manipulate the elements around them, while she had simply struggled to manage the war being waged inside her own mind. 

Despite the words of the teachers at the Little Palace, insisting that her power was a gift only bestowed upon the lucky few, Fianna's thoughts would spiral out of control; bringing her back to that fateful day when she had destroyed her old life with a catching spark that had soon become a raging inferno.  

However, unbeknownst to her, the human soul can only handle so much sorrow before it is burned up by anger; a fragile wick eaten up by flames of loathing and hate. 

She had been eight years old when she had summoned flame for the first time since the accident, an ashen-faced child, sickly from repressing her power. The light had thrown shadows across the sunken hollows of her face, flames reflected in her tired eyes as she stared and stared, a new hunger settling into her bones. This beauty, this destruction was hers to command, and she would wield it with all the might left in her ravaged soul.

It was then, as the girl held on to the barest whisper of flame, a frightened bird in her cupped palms, that she vowed to hone her abilities. To one day return to the place she had once called home, and finish what she had started. 

Fianna shook her head slightly, dislodging thoughts of vengeance from her mind as she noticed that the chatter around her had ceased. 

A hush fell over the Etherealnik group as a Heartrender strode through their ranks, his kefta a harsh red slash in a sea of blue. They subconsciously straightened their spines, smiles sliding from their faces and replaced by a mix of fear and awe. 

"The General wishes to speak to one of your Inferni," He said, not even bothering to disguise the obvious boredom in his tone. 

Natacha's brows rose by a fraction of an inch, as the younger Grisha around her exchanged curious glances. "Is that so? And which one would that be?" 

"O'Haodha."

Fianna's heart dropped into her stomach, cheeks burning as the people around her jostled each other and stared, wide-eyed. The General didn't make a habit of speaking with Grisha who hadn't completed their training, which meant one of two things. 

Either the girl had done something very right, or something very, very wrong. 

"Go on," Natacha smiled, nodding in reassurance. 

Casting a look in the direction of her brother, Fianna began to follow Ivan, taking deep breaths of cold air in hope that it would ground her. 

"You'll be fine," Faoilain muttered to his twin as she moved past him, earning a sarcastic grin in response. 

"I always am, aren't I?" 

Turning on his heel, the Heartrender stalked away into the labyrinth of tents, leaving Fianna to hurry along in his wake.

"No need to wait for me," she grumbled under her breath. "Bloodletting prick."

The Heartrender turned left, then right, then left again, cloak billowing behind him as the redhead struggled to keep up. 

Fianna glared at the back of his head, wondering if she'd be able to set fire to his hat and get away with it, before knocking right into someone, who let out an irritated "Watch it!" 

"I need to watch it?" Fianna snapped, rubbing her forehead and wincing. "You're the one who wasn't looking where you were going!" Brushing off her kefta, the Kaelish girl looked up, eyes narrowed. 

The girl she had collided with was shorter than her, and dressed in the drab olive uniform that marked her as a member of the First Army. Wisps of black hair escaped the coil at the nape of her neck, framing her scowling face as she bent down to retrieve the countless scrolls of parchment that had been flung into the mud. 

"Grisha," Fianna heard her mutter darkly, shaking her head. "You lot think you can just strut around while the rest of us have to pick up the pieces, don't you?" 

"Well, at least we don't run around the place insulting people!" Fianna shot back, although she couldn't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. She'd never seen a member of the First Army dare to talk down to someone of a higher rank; this particular one was either extremely brave, or extremely stupid. "How did they even let you become a soldier with that attitude?"

"Cartographer." The girl corrected tersely, mouth drawn in a thin line. 

The redhead raised her eyebrows, a humourless laugh escaping her lips. "Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" 

The girl didn't reply, simply huffing as she gathered the remaining rolls of parchment, before briskly turning on her heel and stalking off. 

"Also I wasn't 'strutting'," Fianna called after her retreating figure. "I was trying to keep up with some arsehole Heartrender-" she looked around, suddenly aware that he had vanished through the labyrinth of tents without bothering to wait for her. "Oh, that prick," 

By some miracle, Fianna managed to find her way to the General's tent at last, only slightly out of breath as she approached the large canopy. A vision in ebony silk, the tent towered over the others around it, making them look small and grubby in comparison. 

Ducking underneath the doorway, Fianna found herself inside the General's spacious private quarters, the flickering lanterns throwing shadows against the sweeping curves of the ceiling. The girl took a few halting steps forward, boots sinking into one of many plush furs that littered the floor. In spite of her nerves, the sheer opulence of the tent's interior caught her interest. Hesitantly, she was drawn to an ornately-carved table, running one finger down its glossy mahogany frame in wonder. 

"Well, don't just linger by the door," a voice said delicately, making Fianna jump. She turned slowly to face the darkened interior of the room, fighting the urge to shiver as a chill ran down her spine. 

General Kirigan sat in the far corner of the tent, slouched low in a rich velvet armchair. One elbow rested lazily on its gilt armrest, palm upturned in a subtle question. "Won't you sit down?" 

Wordlessly, Fianna crossed the room to where he sat, lowering herself to sit on a smaller, and considerably more modest wooden chair across from the General's. 

"You asked to speak with me," the Inferni cleared her throat. Then, as an afterthought, "Sir?" 

Kirigan said nothing, raising his steepled fingers to his mouth as he scrutinised her. "Yes," he said slowly, still looking intently at her. "I suppose I did."

Fianna shifted in her seat. All that staring was making her horribly uneasy. 

"I asked you to meet me today, as I have an assignment for you, and wished to give it to you in person." He reached for the crystal carafe resting on a tray beside him, smoothly pouring its dark contents into a matching glass. 

Silence filled the tent's lavish interior, and Fianna had to resist the urge to tell him to spit it out. 

"And what sort of assignment would that be, Sir?" she asked instead, fingernails digging into her scarred palms. His next words could either be a glorious opportunity, or her death sentence. 

"I want you to accompany tomorrow's team of Grisha on the sandskiff." 

Fianna's eyes widened, her breathing coming to a ragged halt. Her mind went completely blank. Blood rushed loudly in her ears. She could see the darkness, the deformed creatures that bred like vermin in the bloated shadows. The hangman's noose was tightening around her neck, and it was woven with rope of deadly twilight. 

"But-" She swallowed, her voice sounding unlike her own in the silence that stretched between them. "Sir, I haven't completed my training yet. Surely there's someone more capable you can bring...?

She hated how her words sounded like a plea. 

The General tilted his head slightly, a small smile curling his mouth. "I'm afraid it's not your decision to make."

Fianna opened her mouth, before promptly closing it again. 

"Besides, Natacha has told me that you're one of the most skilled Inferni under her guidance,"  he continued, raising the glass to his lips idly and eyeing her over the gold-embossed rim. "There's no need to be so modest." 

Little did he know, it wasn't modesty at all. In fact, Fianna took great pride in her summoning abilities, and in different circumstances would have been pleased to undertake a job for the general. But the girl had seen them, the blessed few who managed to survive the crossing through the Shadow Fold. She knew the damage the shadows could inflict, had seen for herself the soldiers who, by some curse, had danced with death and returned to tell the tale.

There had been a Tidemaker in the rank above her own, Yana, who had been sent out on a crossing to Novokribirsk the previous spring. Fianna couldn't help but remember the day the older girl had made her homecoming, an empty shell bled dry by the evils that lived within the darkness to the west. It had been a routine crossing that has swiftly transformed into a massacre, claiming the lives of almost everyone on board. Almost. 

They found the girl's body in the lake on the grounds of the Little Palace, only two days after her return. There was an ancient darkness in the Fold, and poor, pretty Yana had been consumed by it. 

"So," Kirigan said idly, black eyes searching Fianna's own as he shattered the silence. "I expect to see you leaving on that sandskiff tomorrow morning." 

Numbly, the girl nodded as the noose wreathed in shadows tightened around her neck. It would steal the life from her lungs, no matter how hard she fought to escape. 

♧

IT WAS TWILIGHT IN KETTERDAM, AND THE WRETCHED CITY WAS SHROUDED IN DARKNESS. Mist clawed its way up from the blackened canals, blindly reaching across cobblestones still slick from the day's rain. It was a desolate place, but the Barrel was another evil entirely. Darkened slums that leaned drunkenly; derelict boat-houses filled with shadows and deceit; alleyways with glinting eyes and sharp teeth. The scents of cheap liquor, desperation, and rot invaded your nostrils no matter where you were, burrowing into your heart and taking root.

Despite the city's obviously unsavoury nature, for Dhananjay Parsa, it was home - or rather, a place he had been forced to adapt to, learning to cheerfully coexist with the darkness - a small flash of sun after months of rain.

His mind wandered as he navigated the winding streets, cracked leather boots beating a steady rhythm on the cobbles - head ducked downwards, dark eyes trained on the glistening ground. It was unwise to let your thoughts go astray while walking through the Barrel. You could end up face down in the gutter, or stripped to your underclothes with nothing but the harsh wind and your own burning shame for company - something he had been forced to learn from experience.

Without slowing, Dhananjay reached into his embroidered waistcoat and withdrew a pocket watch, tarnished and dented, the cold metal sending shivers up his spine. Clicking it open, he peered at the polished face: eight minutes to two bells.

He swallowed. Kaz would not be pleased if he was late again.

Picking up the pace, the boy turned onto the crowded streets of the East Stave, ducking past costumed revellers and tourists, street performers and peddlers. Drunken laughter bounced off the grimy brick walls, ringing through the night air like the cries of some wild beast.

Saints, it's freezing, he thought, rubbing his hands together. Perhaps a glass of liqour won't hurt when I'm inside... or maybe two-

The thought vanished as something, or rather, someone knocked into him, nearly sending him sprawling onto the cobbles. He rolled his eyes, glaring at the inebriated man.

Well, he's definitely a tourist, Dhananjay thought drily. The man's pudgy face was flushed, eyes slightly unfocused, the dazed expression on his face slowly turning to anger.

"Watch where you're going, you little whelp," The older man spat, looking the boy up and down, his slurred speech hardened by scorn.

"Forgive me," Dhananjay raised one brow delicately, not bothering to mask the sarcasm practically dripping from his tongue. "Some tavern is probably missing their resident oaf,"

The man's eyes narrowed, pressing closer until the pair were almost nose-to-nose. "Don't test me, boy." His breath reeked of whiskey, and the boy glimpsed the flash of a gold tooth whenever he spoke.

Dhananjay was vaguely aware of the small crowd that had begun to gather around them, eager to witness a potential brawl. Their eyes were bright, hungry; feral animals waiting for a scrap to fall into their slavering jaws.

His eyes flickered to the Crow Club. Kaz didn't take kindly to tardiness, especially if a large amount of coin was at stake. 

He released a sigh. "As much as I would love to waste my time brawling with some slovenly prick," he feigned an apologetic shrug to the onlookers, already turning in the direction of the Crow Club. "I have somewhere to be."

The words that followed were harsh, hateful, hanging in the air between the two figures as a stunned silence fell over their audience. 

"Just like your kind to run away from a fight," the man hissed, spitting onto the cobbles below, his eyes burning with sheer malice. "Suli scum,"

Dhananjay stopped in his tracks, frozen as blood roared in his ears. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said," the drunk smirked lopsidedly, "that you're a worthless, cowardly piece of-"

He was cut off by a sickening crunch that rang through the night air like a gunshot, mingling with the sickening gurgle of curses now streaming from the older man's lips. 

A tentative hand raised to probe the bloodied mess in the middle of his face, followed by a whimper. "He- he broke my nose!" The drunk howled thickly, red fluid cascading from his ruined face like summer rain onto the cobblestones below. 

The crowd looked on, some grinning coldly, while the others, probably tourists, were staring in horrified fascination. They have so much to learn about this place, Dhananjay thought. With its sweet promises and cruel intentions, the city of Ketterdam would swallow them whole if they weren't careful - just like it had done to him. 

However, instead of leaving him to rot for a thousand eternities in the city's cavernous maw, fate had made different plans. He had been spat out onto the streets of the West Stave, shivering as the mist rolled off the blackened canal and clung to the thin silks that he wanted to claw from his ruined body. 

He had been a child, and the city had shown him no mercy, so why should he show any now?

A dull thud sounded as his fist connected with the older man's flesh, then another, and another. The man was in a heap on the cobbles now, trying to drag himself away. Dhananjay looked down at the pathetic creature at his feet, lip curling in revulsion.

Suli scum. Somehow it wasn't the worst insult that had ever been hurled at him, oh no, certainly not. Where cruel words had cut deep and left him with scars, the boy had been forced to wear them like armor, protecting and suffocating him with each polluted breath he took in the foul city. 

After all, tolerance was a luxury in Ketterdam, a rarity only available to fools and snivelling cowards. 

Dhananjay shook out his hand with a grimace, before pausing to scrutinise the multitude of rings that adorned his knuckles, the skin already forming in tender starbursts of bruises. He bent so he was eye-level with the man, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "If your vile face has broken any of these," he mused softly, delicately adjusting one particular favourite, a glittering ruby on his index finger. "I'll just have to carve out a few of your teeth to make a new one, won't I?" 

The man's eyes widened, whiskey-induced bleariness gone and replaced by the welling of tears. "I- I'm sorry-" he blubbered, pupils huge with terror. "I didn't mean it-" 

"Oh, but I think you did," Dhananjay shook his head, clicking his tongue as though he were scolding a particularly disobedient child. 

"Nice to see you're putting on a show, Parsa," a cold voice said from behind them, and the Suli boy fought to suppress a wince. He could've recognised that mirthless rasp of stone-on-stone anywhere. "But I think it's time to take your final bows." 

"Of course, Boss," then, as a murmured afterthought. "Sorry." 

Kaz Brekker glared at him, gaze sharp enough to cut through steel, gloved fingers flexing atop the crow's head of his cane. There was a pause, silence filling the grimy street as the onlookers gawked. "Be inside in two minutes. Oh, and Parsa?" His mouth quirked up in the cruel approximation of a smile that Dhananjay had become so familiar with. One that, even after all these years, still sent his nerves screaming at him to run far, far away from the boy known as Dirtyhands. "Try not to trek blood into my carpets, I just had them cleaned." 

And with that, Kaz had vanished back inside the dirtied walls of the Crow Club, the familiar rhythm of his cane fading away. 

"P-Please don't kill me," The man on the ground whimpered, reminding Dhananjay of his presence. 

"Kill you?" The boy scoffed. "What makes you think I'd waste any more of my time on a pathetic creature like you? I will confess, I'm disappointed," He wiped his hands on the gilded front of his waistcoat, scoffing as he turned to follow Kaz into the darkened gambling hall. "Although, it's just like your kind to run away from a fight." 

— ♧ —