I'm surrounded by stars, which is impossible because they all fell with the Night.

But when I look up, they're all I can see.

I was once told by a stranger that each burning star had been a soul passed from this world, a solace for our wandering eyes and hearts as we remembered those we loved. He had been stumbling around, tripping on Ether as I helped him away from the speeding zoomers on the street, but his words still left their imprint on me, leaving me wondering what it meant for those souls when the Night fell and the sky became a black void of nothingness.

This sky however, is speckled with life. A sea of twinkling lights sits against the depth of the midnight sky. Are there souls in these stars? Are they watching me now? Each star is an unfathomable distance away, making me feel like just a speck—easy to get rid of, easy to forget.

I glance down to see my boots on barren ground, the same as the terrain surrounding Voltyss. But when I turn around, there is no neon city. I spin in every direction and I'm greeted with nothing but wasteland and darkness, then the familiar feeling that endlessly haunts me—loneliness.

There is no Voltyss. No strong and proud lorkins. No twisty Starfoxes, hazed Duskers, or Bounties bought on shinies. There's nothing but me and the Night.

The moon rises in the sky, casting a wraith-silver glow on the ground below. The Moon King. The brilliance of him beams over everything, lessening the inky darkness of the sky, but not so much as to dim the shimmer of the stars beyond. I should feel some sense of comfort at the light, but I feel nothing except a foreboding sense of doom creeping up my spine.

A cool wind blows, chilling my skin, sweeping my white hair across my face. The strands glow in the light of the moon, making me an easy target under a spotlight. Then the world seems to stop and take a breath and I'm engulfed in silence.

I blink and the stars suddenly seem closer. When I blink again, each light is no longer a speck. They grow with each rise and fall of my chest until it is clear what is happening—the stars are falling. I hear the blaze of fire before I see the emerald flames rippling behind each star like a tail, their roars rising in crescendo as they speed toward the ground, toward me.

I turn and run even though there is no where to go and my legs are suddenly limp, dragging behind me as if I'm trudging through quicksand. The ground is lit green as the stars fall closer and I'm stuck, running in place, a scream on the tip of my tongue.

The first star hits with an ear-shattering explosion that rips into the ground. The force of the impact sends me soaring through the air, farther than I could've run, and I land on my side in the dirt, sliding across the ground as small bits of rubble tear into my skin.

I prop myself up with a grunt, bracing myself to attempt to escape again, but I know there is no use. The moon looms nearer and nearer. The sky continues to fall like a storm of green rain, each star bursting into the ground until there's a wall of emerald fire spreading, closing in on me.

I suddenly don't fear the comets anymore. I need to run, but this time from whatever is behind that wall of fire.

My dream shatters, falling away as the first nightstalker emerges from the green flames.

#

I wake up to a blinding light positioned over my body. A hard flat table is beneath me, the silver cool against the back of my bare legs and arms. Barely able to open my eyes against the bright light, I lift my head from the table, squinting down at my body. My lace-up boots, black pants and jacket, and knife belt are gone and have been replaced with a thin pale blue smock, nearly identical to the one I'd worn in the Med Center after the nightstalker attack.

But this isn't the worst part. My eyes adjust to the light and widen when they fall on the shackles locked around my wrists and ankles. I jerk my arm, testing the cuff's hold, the rattle of my movement echoing around the room. It's clear I'm not going anywhere, and it leaves me feeling like I'd sunken into an inescapable hole.

"Great," comes a voice that sets my nerves on fire. "You're awake."

My head whips to the right and my gaze falls on Zuma. She sits on a stool, tall enough that her feet dangle above the obsidian floor. That's when I notice the entire room is black, aside from the table I'm lying on and the light above me.

The Chamber.

I remember when Venjo had begrudgingly given me a grand tour of the House of Horns upon my membership. The farthest room, located in the basement, had been the last stop on his tour. He told me the Chamber was reserved for traitors and that I never wanted to find myself here. "The walls and floors are black for a reason," he'd said, letting my mind run wild to all of the terrible possibilities of the gruesome stains hidden in the stone.

Zuma's curly green hair is a violent contrast against the wall behind her, making it a wonder that she wasn't the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Her ivory horns look much more dangerous than before, as if she'd sharpened them since the last time I saw her.

"I was beginning to think you were going to be a complete bore," Zuma says, donning a fake pout on her glossy lips. "I almost slipped you some Ether, just to jolt you awake, but then I realized you'd be so lost in a trip that you wouldn't even know what was really happening to you." She leaned forward on the stool, her bronze-colored eyes glinting at me with promised violence. "I'd much rather you be very aware of it all."

She smiles then, a cruel twist of her lips, then grabs something from the table beside her. Lifting it in front of her, she presses the small button I know is on the bottom curve of the grip. The familiar violet volts spring to life, dancing around the blade with a zipping hum. I've never wanted my knives in my hand more than this moment. I'd never used them to kill anyone, but it was a comfort to know I had them if I needed them. They are mine.

Zuma watches me, a wicked triumph gleaming over her features as she stands from the stool. Her heeled boots click across the floor as she stalks toward me. And I can do nothing but lay on the table, a prisoner of my own making.

"Won't this be poetic?" Zuma taunts. "You, losing your ears to your own weapons?"

I hate that she knows the knives are of my own tinkering. I hate that she knows how much of me went into those sparks and wires and coding. And I hate that she plans to use it all against me.

"This will be much cleaner anyways," Zuma shrugs. Bringing the volted knife closer to her face, she turns it, inspecting the blade as closely as possible without shocking herself. "The electric burn stops the bleeding on contact, right?"

I don't answer her.

"I'm surprised Boss let you keep these," Zuma scoffs. "It took me a year of service before he let me carry my own volter, much less let me handle my own missions. Then you come out of nowhere and are made a lightrunner like that." She snaps her fingers and I notice how her ivory claws are much sharper than Venjo's. She traces one pointed tip down my arm, letting me know just how lethal they are. "You're just so special, aren't you?"

Not really, I want to say, but shake my head instead. If only she knew what it was really like to be me.

"Oh, don't play dumb with me." A green curl slips in front of her face, nearly hiding her wink. "It's just us girls here." She cocks her head as she watches me squirm under the light. "No one else volunteered for this. Just me. I half-expected Venjo to want to earn back some dignity after he royally screwed things up with Boss. But no... he's still not over his little whatever it is he has for you."

I cough, choking on my own breath. "What?" I rasp, confusion clear in my voice.

"Oh." Zuma's perfect eyebrows rise. "So now you talk." She waves me off with her hand and chuckles. Then she slowly circles around the table, lightly dragging her white claw across the silver with a faint screech that sweeps a chill down my spine. "I don't know what Venjo's deal is, but ever since he saved you, he hasn't been the same. He used to be fun." She shrugs her shoulders, then peers closer at me, a crease forming between her brows. "You look confused. I thought I was clear."

"Saved me from what?" I bite out. "Venjo Zhane has done absolutely nothing for me."

"Oh shit." Zuma throws her head back and laughs, her green curls bouncing with her shoulders. "This is adorable. You didn't know? Venjo is the one who found you bleeding out in City's Edge."

The three nightstalker scars across my back suddenly burn when she mentions the attack, reminding me of the terror of that night and the arms that scooped me up...the face I couldn't remember.

He could've left me to die, but he didn't.

"So, he comes back here that night, yeah?" Zuma continues as she twirls my knife around her fingers, "covered in your blood, and he goes from the feared prodigy of Jojin Zhane to a confused guy who flinches at the slightest drop of blood. I would say you've given him every reason to hate you, but he sure does look at you more often than he does me."

I don't know what to do with the barrage of feelings that drown me on the table. I'm frozen with shock, but inside, I'm battling a wave of forgiveness and pain and doubt. I'm sweating, but I feel so cold in this damn room. And I know why. I know what is coming next.

"Maybe it's these damn ears," Zuma muses. She lowers the unlit blade dangerously close to my temple without warning. "I don't know why Boss is so fascinated with keeping them as souvenirs. It's not like they're anything spectacular. You're a runt compared to the pics of elves I've seen."

"But I'm the only elf left." I manage enough courage to reply as the incoming pain nears. Maybe if I piss her off enough, she'll kill me quickly instead of slowly. "And what are you? Just another lorkin in this over-crowded city?"

Zuma sucks in a fury-filled breath through her teeth and viciously grabs my ear, pulling it tight before pressing the sharp blade against it. She slowly slides the steel across my skin, drawing a line of blood, but I clench my jaw against the terrible sting, my chin wobbling as I try to hold back my cry.

Suddenly, the lights above flicker before going out completely, leaving the Chamber in pitch darkness. Zuma curses and pulls the knife away from me, letting the cool air bite at the open cut. I hear her move away, her footsteps falling in an uneven tempo as she stumbles through the dark and rams into the desk table on the far side of the room. The sliding sound of drawers opening fills the silence as she rumbles blindly through the desk, mumbling a string of awful things about whoever didn't pay the electricity tax this cycle.

I am very aware of the dark. It's everywhere, everything, seeping into my bones, caressing my skin like velvet death. It's all I see, all I breathe. If there were no cuffs on me, I would still be pinned to this table from my consuming fear of the dark.

"Finally," Zuma sighs. A white lightstick clicks on in her hand, pushing away the shadows just enough for me to spot the anger twisting her features. "Idiots. All of them." She stands from her stool and stares through the darkness between us, a sneer crawling across her lips. "Sometimes I think if all us girls banded together, reckless shit like this wouldn't happen. Well...except for you. You seem to screw things up often. I'm going to go sort this out with the idiots upstairs."

I watch her walk away, the light going with her, and tremors begin in my hands, snaking up my arms and into my chest. She fades to the door, the blanket of darkness almost smothering me again. Pausing in the doorway, Zuma glances over her shoulder.

"Don't go anywhere," she says before breaking off into a dark laugh.

The door slams behind her, echoing in the room, lingering in my head even after the sound has died out. It's a rhythmic drumbeat, a song of fear and sinister possibility of what could be lurking in the shadows, what could be right next to me without me even knowing.

I close my eyes as if it will somehow help. It never does.

My breaths come in short pants through my nose as I bite the insides of my lips to keep from screaming even though terror clenches my throat so tightly, nothing would come out but a desperate croak. I imagine the chalky body of a nightstalker, standing in the corner of the room, its jaw unhinging as it inhales the scent of me. Black ooze trails down its long, pointed chin, disappearing into the dark as it drips to the floor. It slinks toward me, its lanky disproportional arms swiping through the shadows, curved claws begging to rip me apart.

It's not real. It's not real.

I keep my eyes closed tightly, knowing that I'm right, yet paranoid at the idea. Even though I know that I won't see anything, my eyelids feel as a sort of shield to the nightmare. I suddenly wish Zuma would return with her lightstick, even if it meant to cut off my ears. But my wish is answered by something entirely different.