The days passed slowly, each bringing further deterioration to her father's condition. By the final week of the month, he was bedridden and incapable of moving about. Dasha hated to see him in such a way. He'd always been so strong, but now he could hardly eat.

She looked down at the tray of food in her hand. On it was an array of broths and biscuits, fresh from the kitchens. She'd picked it up only a moment before and carried it now into the room where her parents rested.

She and her mother had been advised to distance themselves from the king so as not to catch the illness themselves, and Dasha tried her best to do so, but her mother dismissed the notion. Gods be damned if they kept her from her husband. Not even Dasha could stop her from visiting him. Even now, she sat in a chair beside him, holding his hand in her slumber.

Looking at their interlocking hands, Dasha noticed something off. Her heart skipped a beat, and cruel realization settled in. His fingers were stiff and seemed almost transparent. The discoloration had been common in recent days due to the illness' tendency to slowly kill the pigmentation in one's skin, but something was different now. An unsettling aura radiated off him, and he lay eerily still.

"Mother..." Dasha said, worry cracking her voice. His face was ghostly white, and his features looked as if they'd been chiseled from stone. "Mother!" she screamed. The Medic ran into the room at the sound of her shout, a Necromancer trailing behind.

Her mother's eyes flew open, startled into waking. The look of confusion on her face suddenly morphed into a deep horror when she looked towards her husband. She leapt to her feet, eyes wide and mouth agape, tearing her hand from his hold. "No," she whispered. It was a silent cry, a mournful kind that came with crippling pain, one that echoed in Dasha's own soul. "No," she repeated, as if it would make his death untrue. "Wake up. Please, wake up." Tears streamed from her eyes, leaving lines like rivers down the terrain of her skin.

Dasha dropped to her knees, wanting to wipe away her mother's tears and comfort her, but despair and shock held her frozen in place. The tray she once held lay on the floor with its contents strewn around her, steaming soup spilling into the wooden boards.

Through waterlogged eyes, she watched the Medic cross the room to her father, trying numerous things to revive him, but the attempts were in vain. With one last apologetic glance to Dasha and her mother, the Medic stepped aside so the Necromancer could prepare the king's soul for the journey to the underworld.

The door slowly pressed open, and a guard stepped inside to inquire over the commotion. Dasha hardly paid him any mind, lost to her own thoughts of grieving, but his presence comforted her. She knew he'd bring others to the scene, and when they came, she wouldn't feel quite so alone. Her mother had the Medic's aid, but Dasha had been left with only her sorrows.

Several minutes passed before the other guards arrived, and she was summoned back to the harsh truth of reality by the clanging of the metal tray she'd dropped a moment before. One of the guards had taken to collecting the contents of it from the floor. He set the stack of bowls and cups aside and waved down another guard that'd entered with fresh food and drink.

"Are you okay?" asked a voice from behind her. Dasha turned her head, eyes locking with those of the squire boy, Prince. She couldn't find an answer in her grief, but the tears that welled in her eyes told plenty.

Warm cloth touched her skin. He'd wrapped something around her shoulders. Familiarity of the action drew recognition to her mind. Draped around her body was the same cloak he'd given her the month before when she'd left the castle to study in the city.

"Something's coming," he whispered, handing her a cup of water from the tray the guard had carried in. "Trust nothing."

Dasha looked cautiously down at the liquid in her cup, wondering if Prince had meant for her not to drink it. She held the cup tightly in her hand, finding comfort in the simplicity of holding something. Her eyes danced around the room, trying to foresee what was coming.

In the corner, her mother sat with a similar cup, lifting it to her lips to drink. Dasha opened her mouth to protest, but her mother had already taken a sip before she could. Nothing seemed to come of it, so Dasha figured she'd mistaken Prince's warning. The moment she dared to think it safe, however, her mother began to choke. The queen's face turned purple, and tears of blood ran from her eyes.

White foam sputtered from her lips, and she slumped against the wall, life expelled from her being. Dasha cried out but was hushed by the squire beside her. She watched, horrified, as the Necromancer reached down, adding her mother's name to his prayers, sending both of her parents to Odemus.

When he'd finished, his eyes opened, and he locked his gaze with Dasha. "Go," he mouthed, but Dasha didn't think he was talking only to her.

A tight grip clamped around her arm and dragged her to her feet, and the Necromancer stood to join the Medic's side. It all happened so fast. The two guards whom she'd thought meant safety pulled objects from their side that Dasha had never seen before, though she knew it was nothing good.

The last thing she saw before Prince pulled her from the room was the interlocking hands of the servants to life and death. They faced the mutinous guards together with an unyielding defiance.

Two thunderous cracks echoed from the room. Dasha wondered if it had been the gods punishing the traitors, but the panic in the eyes of her companion said otherwise. She stumbled, tripping over herself in attempt to keep up with Prince as he ran.

The two guards burst suddenly from the room, each holding the thunder-producing objects. Dasha and Prince dove around the corner to avoid the small projectiles the weapons flung, and a deafening crack echoed through the halls every time they let one loose.

Prince pulled one of the weapons from a leather pouch that hung at his side. He pointed it at one of the pursuers and pressed on a small lever. Crack! One of the guards fell with a small hole in his chest, his chain mail turning crimson at the impact point.

The other guard fired back, and seconds after the shots, a burning rod sliced through Dasha's flesh. No flames were present, but Dasha could feel the searing heat raging across her arm. Two more cracks, and the guard was killed, but the fire was spreading. This time the flames licked at her thigh.

Prince picked one of the weapons up from the floor and handed it to Dasha after reloading it. "Keep this. There will be more guards at the gate," he said, then he tore off two strips of cloth from his shirt and handed one to her. "Tie that around your leg to stop the bleeding. I'll tie up your arm. Make sure it's tight. Once we get out of here we'll need to split up. Kaburem will be looking for the pair of us if word gets out that you're alive. It'll be harder for them to find you if we're separated," he said.

"Kaburem?" Dasha asked, seeking recollection of the name.

"I'll explain once we're safe," he said, securing the cloth tie around her arm.

Once satisfied with her bindings, Prince continued towards one of the lesser known exits. It was one mostly used for water collection. Dasha followed, limping close at his heels. He propped the door to the path slightly open, peaking around the corner for more guards.

"There's two men at the gate. They don't know I've turned on them yet, so I'll distract them while you hide." He placed the handle of the weapon he'd given her into the palm of her hand, pressing her index finger to the lever. "Point the barrel," he said, gesturing towards the hole at the end, "at the guard on the left. When I whistle, pull the trigger." He demonstrated with his weapon, not fully pulling the lever so as not to set it off.

"What will you be doing in that time?" Dasha asked.

"Praying that you hit your target," he said.

In any other situation, it'd have been a humorous response, but at present, Dasha felt nothing but dread. "What if I don't?" she asked.

"Then, we both die." With that decided, he walked out.

Dasha stayed behind the door and waited for her chance to leave. The two guardsmen met him in the center, and he continued walking. The guards turned their backs to the doorway she was in, gazes following Prince's path. She slipped out from behind the door, desperately searching for some-thing closer to hide behind.

A small ditch followed the side of the path, so she dove into it, dead leaves and twigs snapping under her weight. One of the guards spun and drew his sword at the sound, but Dasha was well concealed. she propped up the weapon and aimed it at the approaching guard.

"Who's there?" the guard asked, and Prince shifted to stand in front of the other man, then he gave a piercing whistle.

Dasha pressed down on the lever, and thunder ripped through the air, leaving her ears ringing. The ball shot from the weapon and struck the left-hand guard in the stomach. He fell to his knees, clutching the wound, shock in his eyes.

Prince was now behind the other guard. He had a small blade pressed against the guard's throat. Blood trickled down his neck at the pressure of the blade, flowing more when it dragged across his skin. Within moments both guards were lifeless.

Dasha stood up and returned to Prince's side, hands trembling. He took her arm and pulled her through the gates. "Hide your weapon," he said, sliding his own back into the leather pouch attached to his side. Dasha did as he asked and attempted to conceal the weapon beneath her cloak. "We need a place with no eyes or ears," he said when they'd reached the bottom of the hill where the city began. "Know anywhere like that?"

She pointed up to the rooftops where she'd once sat to watch the citizens; where she'd once met Patch. She hoped he was alive.

They scaled a ladder and found a seat above a Merchant selling beads and jewelry. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, and questions flooded Dasha's mind, buried under the heavy weight of grief.

The boy held a finger to his lips, silencing her before she could say anything. "A lot just happened, and I promise it will all be explained. Just please, let me tell it from the start," he said quietly. "I was on my way to the kitchens last week to get your father some food. Two men grabbed me and pulled me into a vacant room. I didn't recognize them, but I recognized those around me. All of them were guards or other staff I'd seen about the castle, including the three that lay dead on the floor. The two men held these things in their hands." He lifted his weapon from its pouch. "They called them guns. They're vile things, and very lethal, as you've witnessed.

"The men were citizens of a country called Kaburem. It was discovered by one of our Naval ships. The ship was overrun by the inhabitants of this strange land and sailed back to Alyria.

"According to the survivors of the ship, Kaburem has power much greater than this," Prince looked down at his gun. "They brought these guns with them and slipped into the castle during the night, demanding that we yield to them. Those who opposed were killed. They overpowered us. We were forced to submit."

"You joined them?" she asked, disgusted at the prospect of him being on their side.

"I had no choice," he said, eyes begging forgiveness.

"You could have gone down fighting."

"Then we'd both be dead, and where would that get us? No, I had to join them. That was the only way I could get you out. I planned to save all of you, but when your father died, plans were uprooted. They seized the opportunity of it, attacked too early.

"One day, we'll have our chance to stand up against these foreigners, but now isn't that time. Now is the time to hang low, gather our strength, and wait for the right moment. When that day comes, I'll always be loyal to you and your family. Your father took me in when I had nothing left. Until that day though, we should part ways."

He took his dagger to her hair, and chopped a few inches off the ends. "Your name is Tempest now. You're an orphan girl trying to find a home. If you can find a place out of the city to hide, that would be best. Dasha was killed in the castle alongside her parents," he said. He seemed to have thought this through, so she listened, soaking in the life that she knew would now be hers.

"What will you do?" she asked. "How will you hide after the guards know you turned on them?"

"Anyone who saw didn't live long enough to tell the tale," he said. "I have two identities now. One, a member of Kaburem." He held up his hand to show a bloodstone ring resting on his finger where the metal band that had marked him as a child once sat. "And I can be a commoner when I want to be," he said, pulling out the ring of a child. You, however, must make a new identity for yourself. Learn what the common folk learn, join a guild, make your own family. When it's time for your return, I'll be waiting."

"How will I know it's time?" Her voice rose in pitch, heart suddenly afraid. "What if it's never time?" She frowned. Her father had believed in her, but he was no longer here.

"You'll know, and when the opportunity comes, you must take it. If you miss your chance, it will never come again." He held out a pouch of powder packets and lead balls, then with careful instruction, he taught her how to load and prime the gun. When he finished, he descended from the roof and disappeared into the streets.

Tempest stayed perched atop the building and watched the people pass below. The city was slowly beginning to wake. Children ran about, playing in the crisp morning air. The markets were setting up shop, and customers flowed through the streets, going about whatever business they had. No one knew what world they'd woken into, no one but Dasha and the person she was to become.

She sat down on the edge of the building and tucked her knees to her chest. Cold air numbed her senses, and she retreated into herself. The pain of loss settled in her chest like a stone. Her thoughts were soon interrupted, though, when another boy sat beside her. Patch.

"What brings you back to the rooftops so soon, princess?" he asked, but Tempest pulled up her hood and gave no response. "You may have cut your hair, but a girl sitting on the roof in a dark cloak with a face as striking as yours, it's impossible to mistake, Dasha,"

She would have smiled if she could and thanked him for the kind words, but she couldn't bring herself to do so.

"Who's Dasha?" she asked with a quavering voice.

"As far as I know, you are... unless you've forgotten your name again." His lip twitched upward, humored by the thought. She wished she could join in on his amusement. She wished this was all a game.

"Dasha is dead," she said more confidently. "My name is Tempest now."

"Ah, I must admit, that's unfortunate to hear. I quite liked Dasha. What warranted the change? Why call yourself Tempest?"

She thought for a second on his question, thenreplied, pulling her hood back down. "Because a storm is coming."