OFEER

She walked through the city of Aelar—a city of fear, a city about to fall—heading toward the Acropolis. Toward the home she had briefly shared with Seneca. Toward Tirus Valerius, the new emperor, the man who had tried to rape her, the man who could now save her life and the life of her child.

The boulevard spread before her, the road Seneca had once led her on, riding in his chariot while she walked behind him, a slave for the markets. She had been pregnant with his child then but hadn't known it. Now she carried their son, little Ariel, against her chest.

"You should not be here," Ofeer whispered to her baby, tears stinging her eyes. "Not here, in the city streets, going to see a man who might kill us. You need to be in a house of healing. You need a lumer's light. You're still so frail."

She caressed his head. His skin was still so wrinkled, so red. He was still so small. She carried him around as if he were a full-grown babe while he should still be in her belly. Yet what else could Ofeer do? Noa the lumer was leading Zoharites to the city gates, prepared to confront the guards. To open the gates. To let the Gaelians in. To see the barbarians sack this city, killing, raping, taking slaves, burning, destroying. Noa would gladly die in the inferno to see Aelar fall. But not Ofeer. Not with this baby she had vowed to protect, that she would always fight for.

"And so I come to see you, Tirus," she whispered. "To tell you of Noa's betrayal. To warn you. To make sure our city gates stay closed. And I pray that your cock has healed, and that you don't rip my child from my breast and slay him in vengeance."

Ariel's eyes remained closed. His breathing was labored. Since his birth, she had not heard him cry, only the odd whimper. He was still too weak to even wail. Still he had not suckled from her breast, and she fed him drop by drop, each drop a struggle. Every dawn of him still living was a miracle.

"You are my miracle, Ariel," she whispered. "And I vow: I will make this a good world for you. I will give you a good life like I had. A good family. A good home."

She walked onward until she saw the Acropolis ahead. A wall surrounded the hill, and beyond she saw the symbols of Aelar's power: the palace, the Amphitheatrum, the temples, and the barracks where Caelius had imprisoned her. She walked toward the gates, prepared to plead with the guards to enter, to see the new emperor.

She was a few steps away when a voice rose behind her.

"Ofeer. Wait."

Ofeer turned around and saw Noa there. The lumer stood alone, a cloak wrapped around her. Her black hair blew in the winter wind.

"What do you want?" Ofeer said. "Why are you here? Why aren't you with your sheep, opening the gates to let in the horde? I thought that's your only purpose: death and destruction."

Noa lowered her head, and it seemed almost as if shame filled her. She walked off the road and sat on a marble bench beneath a pine tree. She looked up at Ofeer, eyes somber, and patted the bench beside her.

Rage still filled Ofeer—rage that Noa had sent her to die, would sentence everyone in this city to die. Ofeer wanted to leave, to keep her son away from the lumer. But this lumer had also healed her son—twice. Holding her tongue, Ofeer sat on the bench.

"You're too young to remember the war twenty years ago," Noa said. "I was only a child myself."

"I was made in that war," Ofeer said, surprised to find so little emotion in her. "When Marcus Octavius captured Cadom from us, he took my brothers captive. He would release them on one condition: If my mother, princess of Zohar, spent a night in his bed. She did. He released my brothers. And he placed me in my mother's womb. I did not see that war, but I've fought it all my life."

"As have I," said Noa. "For in that war, as part of its surrender, Zohar vowed to send seven lumers a year to Aelar in tribute. I was taken to Aelar as a youth, bound in chains. Scared. So scared. I hoped to serve a kind dominus or domina, but they sent me to Porcia. To a madwoman. She hurt me so much." Noa stared at her lap. "Have you heard the tale of Ayala, the lumer of Ma'oz?"

Ofeer nodded. "They say she was among Zohar's greatest lumers, second in power only to Avinasi. My sister Maya often spoke of her."

"Ayala of Ma'oz was wise and powerful," Noa said. "I met her once. I studied from her. After what happened in Cadom . . ." Noa clasped her robes. "The legionaries shipped Ayala across the Encircled Sea, sending her to serve a praetor in Rasinia, an Aelarian city of ten thousand souls. It lies only three days west from here—or used to. Three days after Ayala arrived, people spoke of seeing wisps of lights rising from the city. Ghosts, some thought them. That night, the mountain above Rasinia shattered. Great fire and ash and molten rock spewed forth, burying the city, killing ten thousand Aelarians. Ayala was never seen again. Perhaps she died in the inferno."

Ofeer's eyes widened. "She set off the mountain? With Luminosity? She destroyed an entire city?"

Noa nodded. "So the legends say. When I was younger, when Porcia would beat me and cage me, I used to think that someday I could be as powerful as Ayala. That someday I too could send a mountain tumbling onto a city. That I could kill all my tormentors. But I was never as strong, not as strong as Ayala, not as strong as the imperial lumer, not as strong as Avinasi, not as strong as Maya. I'm not a powerful lumer, Ofeer. I'm average as far as they go; your sister is far more blessed with magic. But I'm cunning, and I'm wrathful, and I'm hurt. And I thought that if I opened the gates, that I could unleash my own river of fire and molten rock. That I too could destroy a city in vengeance—not just a city of ten thousand but of a million Aelarians. That here would be the greatest vengeance of Zohar, the wrath of our nation, destroying the very empire that crushes us."

"But you didn't open the gates," Ofeer whispered. She held her baby close, comforted by his presence.

Noa heaved a sigh. "I made it to the gates. Two hundred Zoharites followed me. With my magic, we could have overwhelmed the guards. But I left the gates closed. I turned back. Do you know why, Ofeer?" She placed a hand on Ofeer's knee. "Because of you. Because of what you told me. Because of the goodness I saw in you. You who were brutalized by Aelar would not see it destroyed, and perhaps you are purer and closer to Eloh than I am." She stroked Ariel's head, and her fingers shone with luminescence. "And because of him. Because of the hope he brings you. Because of the hope he brings me and the world." The light flowed into Ariel, soothing his breath, healing and warming. "Because we must make this a good world for him, a world he can heal. You were right, Ofeer. I was wrong. I was wicked. And you taught me wisdom."

Ofeer leaned against her. They sat together on the bench, watching the people walk by along the boulevard. So many lives here. So many stories. Native Aelarians in togas and stolas—some wealthy, riding in palanquins, surrounded by slaves, others humble masons and smiths and tanners and other workers who kept the city running. Some soldiers. Some people from distant lands—slaves, captured in war, freed by kind masters after years of service, or immigrants come to seek their fortune in the largest city the world had ever known. People with golden, red, or orange hair and pale skin, with eyes that glittered like sapphires, clad in furs and checkered cloaks. People with obsidian skin and braided hair, adorned with jewels, travelers from the distant lands of Nur and its southern neighbors. Hirsute men in loincloths, skin crinkly and brown, travelers from distant lands of endless jungles. People from countless lands, some lands devastated by Aelar, others beyond the Empire's reach. So many lives. So many stories. A million people—each a world, each with their own dreams, sadness, little wars. And all of them afraid now. All of those lights threatening to fall into darkness.

I'm just one more story, Ofeer thought. All we are is stories.

She thought back to tragedies she had lived through. To a girl on the beach, drunk, afraid, fatherless. To the day she had run from her mother's home, parting from her family with tears and wrath. To the day she had seen her family again, seen Seneca nail Jerael onto the cross and drag Koren and Atalia off in chains. To that night in the alleyway, attacked, bleeding, nearly dying, and finding light, finding Noa and her compassion. In Eloh's light, Ofeer had heard a voice. Had felt concern and love for her. Often since that night, Ofeer had wondered at those words. If Eloh had spoken to her then, if he truly loved her, truly sought to save her and her child, why had he allowed the attack in the alleyway? Why had he set her on this path of darkness, only to redeem her at the end?

Sometimes Ofeer thought that Eloh was not all powerful, that a second force—life, the world, humanity, perhaps an adversary to Eloh—plunged souls into darkness, that Eloh could not always fight the evil in the world, could not save all his children. Yet now, gazing at the people walking along the boulevard, Ofeer wondered if all the world was but millions of stories woven together. Perhaps Eloh was like a storyteller, weaving despair, want, fear, and death into his sprawling epic, yet sometimes—just sometimes like on that horrible night—he felt too much love, too much compassion, to let a child fall into the shadows his story demanded.

And perhaps nations too were but a part in this tale. Perhaps the endless wars in Zohar, the destruction of Gefen, the assault on Beth Eloh—all stories hurtling toward an end Ofeer could not foresee.

She did not know. Perhaps she had never heard Eloh at all, had merely hallucinated the voice. And perhaps she would never know the answers, no matter how many times she read the Book of Eloh. All she had now was her son. All she knew was that she would forever fight for him, love him, guide him down a path of light.

Noa was looking at her, eyes kind, and again placed a glowing hand on Ariel, giving him a gift of Luminosity.

And I have Noa, Ofeer thought. I have the light of my homeland. I still have hope.

"Noa," Ofeer finally said, twisting her fingers. "There's something I've wanted to ask you. For a long time."

"I know what you would ask of me," Noa said. "And I refuse."

"Why?" Ofeer grabbed her hand.

The lumer smiled sadly. "Ofeer, there are four pillars to Luminosity. Healing. Muse. Foresight. And Sight. Many claim that this last pillar is the most dangerous, most treacherous."

"But I would still ask you to use it," said Ofeer. "To bring me news of home. Of Zohar. Of my family."

Noa sighed. "Ofeer, Sight is not like looking through a keyhole, peering into a room beyond. Sight is like . . . dreams. Difficult to interpret. Easy to misunderstand. I could gaze into the Sight and see your siblings bloodied on crosses, and I would tell you they are dead, only to later learn the cross simply symbolized burdens they bear."

"Then tell me what visions you see," Ofeer said. "And I will interpret them myself."

The lumer rose to her feet. "No." She squared her shoulders. "A lumer can only gather lume on visits to Zohar, and I haven't visited in nearly a year. I will not squander my last reserves on dreams. Sight is to be used for generals, emperors, the mightiest men who lead nations. Not you." Her voice softened, and she stroked Ofeer's hair. "I'm sorry."

With that, Noa pulled her hood over her head, turned, and left Ofeer on the bench. Ofeer remained there for a long time, holding her son, waiting for the fire.