ATALIA

Mother is dead.

Atalia's eyes stung with tears.

Maya is dead.

She trembled.

Zohar is destroyed.

Atalia clenched her trembling fists. She couldn't see. She couldn't breathe.

The footsteps pounded outside the temple. Feet kicked in the door. Bricks shattered the windows. Soldiers burst into Ohel Adom, raising swords and torches.

"Desert scum!" shouted one soldier.

"Kill the rats!" shouted another.

"For our dead brothers!"

Atalia raised her sword. It seemed like the dead guards at the arena had been discovered.

"Is there a back door to this place?" Atalia said.

"There's a window at the back!" said Ofeer.

"Then go!" Atalia shouted, holding her sword before her. "Take the others. Get out of here!"

Behind her, Ofeer and the others ran into an adjacent room. Atalia remained in the main hall as the soldiers burst in. She snarled and brandished her sword.

"Zohar might have fallen," she said as they advanced toward her. "But there is one Zoharite soldier who still stands."

The Aelarians charged, blades swinging, and Atalia fought them. She roared as she fought. She wept as she fought. They cut her but she stayed standing. Her blood flowed but still she killed them. Her mother was dead. Her sister was dead. A million souls in Zohar were dead. But Atalia still lived, and she killed, and she was back on the walls of Gefen with her father, and she was back in the galley, chained to the oars, and she was riding with her husband again, and she was roaring in the arena, and she would have her vengeance. Her blade tore through a man's neck. Another man's leg. She sliced off a third man's fingers. She ignored the sting of their blades. She feared no more death, no more pain. All that remained was her grief and her fury.

Zohar is fallen. The world has gone dark.

As corpses of guards lay around her, as she panted and bled, more Aelarians kept streaming in from the streets. Two men tossed down torches and oil, and Ohel Adom began to blaze. Flames rose from the pews, crawled up the walls, and consumed the scroll at the pulpit. Smoke stung Atalia's eyes and filled her lungs. She cut down another man, then turned and ran, heading toward the back room.

She found Ofeer there, helping a bearded priest out the window. She still held her baby. The smoke flowed into the chamber, and fire had gripped the rug.

"Out, faster!" Atalia said, helping Ofeer climb outside. Atalia quickly followed. They stood in an alleyway, the flaming temple banishing its shadows. More soldiers came racing into the alleyway, firing crossbows. One bolt slammed into the priest, and the bearded man fell. Another crossbow tore down a woman.

Atalia grabbed the fallen priest; he was still alive.

"Run!" she shouted.

They ran, leaving the woman's body behind. A handful of other Zoharites, dwellers of Ohel Adom, ran with them. Crossbows tore into another man. He fell, and Atalia could not pause to help. They raced through the streets, the soldiers following.

Ofeer led them. After nearly a year in Aelar, she knew these twisting alleyways and dark passageways. Finally they lost pursuit, vanishing into the labyrinth. The group of Zoharites made their way to a small park, not much larger than the burnt temple, where they huddled between cypress trees. In the distance still rose the voices of the guards, moving in the wrong direction, finally vanishing. A dog barked. A child cried a block or two away. Then silence fell once more upon the city.

Only eight Zoharites had made it to this park. The others had either died or fled to different shadows. As Noa tended to the wounded, her hands glowing, Atalia and Ofeer sat together, holding each other. The pain clawed at Atalia's throat, and she felt as if she were back in the dark sea, her ship sunken, drowning in blackness. She clung to Ofeer as if clinging to a raft, and Ofeer held her tightly, and the two wept together.

Maya is gone. Their tears mingled. Mother is gone. Zohar is gone, and we are all that's left.

"I can't believe they're dead," Atalia whispered, thinking of them. Shiloh's kind brown eyes, her warm embrace, her wisdom, her love. Maya's innocence, her sweetness, her joy. Gone. It seemed impossible. It could not be. It seemed a dream, a terror she could not accept. She clung to Ofeer, perhaps the last family she had, and the waves of grief pulsed through her.

For a long time, the sisters sat in the darkness, holding each other, shivering, mourning. Finally Noa moved toward them. Those she had tended to rested against the trees, their wounds closed. Shaveet the priest was breathing heavily, eyes shut, scars on his chest. Luminescence still lit Noa's hands, but the glow seemed faded, mere wisps.

"There's not much left," Noa said to the sisters. "But let me give you what I have."

Both Atalia and Ofeer had suffered wounds in the arena, and the lumer's hands eased their pain, closed their wounds. As Noa tended to the cut on Atalia's leg, her glowing hands dimmed. The luminescence rose in last wisps, then went dark.

"That's all I had left," Noa whispered. "All the lume still in me. My magic is gone." She lowered her head. "With Zohar fallen, perhaps I will never visit home again, never draw more lume from the mountain." She inhaled deeply and raised her chin. "Then so be it. I don't need Luminosity to fight. Tomorrow we'll make new plans, new schemes, and plot our revenge. Tonight we'll focus on finding shelter. I know many in this city, Zoharites with small homes. They'll shelter us, and in the morning's light, we'll devise our plans."

"I have a place for tonight," Ofeer said softly. "Atalia and I will head there now. And as for plans . . ." A cold fire filled her eyes. "If mine succeeds, Tirus will soon fall, and I will be there to spit on his corpse. Come with me, Atalia." Ofeer took her hand. "We go there now. We will be avenged."