A Look Into my New Short Story

Here’s a glimpse into my new short story set in the world of my in progress book series, The Shadow in the Sunlight. Check out the full story at patreon.com/PeacefulOni.

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The lightborn coughs in the dark empty room, knowing his vision would remain unclear even in the bright hours of Hikari’s watch. For his eyes are bleary from the aching pain in his chest and endless coughs in his throat. His head drummed by this curse of a plague that has stricken his village and killed all but him. He waits for someone to come but knows no one will, for his home is far to the north of the Sol Navis, capital of light, and too far to the east for aid from the other villages, lying just inside the border of the accursed Devil’s Hideout. But they wouldn’t help if they knew of the sickness in any case. The only people to come here are the forsaken children in times when food is scarce or abominable creatures that come from lightborn and another paired. Few survive for long as the foxes with too many eyes are ever watching for the vulnerable.  

The sick man is unlike them and was sent here for his own deeds. He was one of the lead shapetakers in the traveling theater, taking form from his many masks and layered robes he has been crafting since his youth. His skill with their crafting is only threatened by his acting, but even then the crafting is what truly made him known. He could be lightborn, or cyclops, or demon, or bear, any man or beast was in his grasp, and his voice could match the range of gravel to bird all the same. Whether he took the form of a guardian sent by Hikari or the most vile shade, he earned the hearts of all who watched, even those performing aside him. But he kissed too many girls in too many villages, and earned the ire of too many fathers and mothers aside them. The villages learned to hate his coming though they loved his performing, an internal conflict that led to his sorry state. The united villages accused him of using the techniques of the blasphemous shaman, and burned his masks to the last and his robes with them. The hidden jealousy of his counterparts he spent too little time with, only condemned him further. They wanted to send him to the deadlands to be feasted on by the wretched fowls and prowling exiles, but the chiefs had another purpose in mind. 

The people of the hunting village too distant to be named is a hated but important spot. It is the only place with consistent food to be gathered all year, and many villages rely upon it. However few to none desire to dwell with the ghosts of demons. Nor do they desire to be so close to the hordes of shades that lie on the other side. So, all who were sent there are those so hated or unwanted they have no other choice. Those like the sick man.

So he came, and learned to hunt the creatures waiting for him to show his back. He was not a good hunter, but he fit in his spot quickly as a trapper. He has a hand meant for forming materials to his whim, so he did so. His fellows were not a friendly group, they all were hated and learned only to hate in turn, but in necessity, none were truly cruel. No one wanted to be left alone when something more than a fox appeared. Alone like the sick man. 

All the others are dead now, killed by a sickness that came from the meat of a fox. One of the many eyes were gooey and strange, depressed too far into flesh and fur. But as the foxes were always odd, and it was just the right number to fill their quota, they took them. The decision killed all but the sick man, but he feels the effects deepen. His eyes fill with more of the gooey mucus and his cough becomes a sharper blade inside his throat. He grows thin, unable to hunt or yell. His yell would do nothing but hurt him more, anyhow. None would come to save him in this wretched place, even if they cared for him at all, and in truth, he prefers they don’t. He no longer desires to feed those who condemned him to this cage. The sick man knows he spurred them with his arrogance, but their “justice” shows them to be nothing but the beasts he hunts. Now he can only wish they were the ones to eat that damn fox. 

Then a sound rings in his head, a sound so different from what he has heard so many days. A sound that breaks through his wheezing coughs and weakened moans. A sound so quiet, if he heard anything else, he would never notice. The tapping of a paw. 

He looks to the sound, but sees nothing but the bleary darkness he forgot in his surprise. The foxes must come for him, seeing he is alone and broken. Seeking revenge by consumption of he who consumed their other. He doesn’t scream at their approach, an effort too much for his aching form, but sighs. He will die at least. And he will take the awful beasts with him, if the source of the plague is any sign. He knows it will be painful, but pain is all he has known for some time. 

The paws tap against the wood again, an encroaching stalk, though they are joined by a shining gaze. Two eyes and no more of burning green, an odd color for the foxes. And only one creature seems to close in upon him. He wonders at that, and wonders more at its entrance. He left the door shut, and shut hard, with bar and chair combined to hold its place, the windows are all covered to keep himself hidden, and the floor and ceiling are old but not broken. 

His heart starts beating faster than before, he accepted his death, but now he’s unsure if death is what awaits him. Foxes are not the worst to appear in this place of fallen demons and stalking shades. It smiles at his fear, adding new gleam. Its many sharp teeth appear from the darkness, a light of their own in their whiteness. 

His heart stops a beat at its voice, a low voice caught between growl and purr. “Do not fear, poor man, I am not death but its messenger, come with an offer of life.” A hand, no paw, or what seems to be something in between, appears in the light of its eyes. It reaches out as if to offer him what it holds, but it’s empty. “Take my hand and death will delay his arrival, and you will have a chance at life again, far from here and far from those who banished you from their midst.”

The sick man moves to grab the hand, then stops. He has heard of these deals with death, and knows they are never one sided. “What… would you ask of me.. in turn?” he asks, forcing each shrapnel word out his throat. 

The smile grows, “all that is asked is for you to carry this blade.” A dagger appears from the hand where nothing was before. It seems a normal blade but for the blackened mist that breathes from the handle. 

He reaches again, and stops once more. “Where will I go?”

He hears a heaving growl he thinks to be a laugh. “To where you may be accepted. To the shades.”

His heart tightens as if by the creature's beclawed hand. To the deadlands he would go, though stricken by fear, but to them? Those who tear you into the abyss to choke on their thickened smoke forever? He may prefer to die, hidden from the light as he is. 

“Do not fear, poor man of fading light. They will do you no harm, for there is a mask left to you that will keep you safe from their grudges and fears.” As if guided by the voice the sick man feels the mask beneath his pillow, a bag of all he owns, the one he hid long ago in his retreat from the hate filled villagers. A mask of a shade. 

They will not be tricked by the mask despite the care and craft he formed it with. But they say even the shades have care for the arts and so may give him passage despite his nature. He can find a place far from the shades, but safe in their lands. It may not be a good life, with a village to care for and audience to awe, but he will live nonetheless, free to make his masks without fear.  

He takes the hand in sudden movement, catching the blade before his heart shrivels in indecision. The handle pumps in his hand with a soft rhythm, faint but there. A heart beating with the essence of death. 

It speaks once more, its eyes curling up in glee. “Good. Good. Now hear the instructions well, for the path to life is not an easy one. You must travel through this place of demons' past and face one of three on every day. One may help you, one may kill you, and one may guide you through. Use your blade to keep you safe and your wits to reach the end.” With that the burning green blinks out and fades back to the dark of night. 

His eyes close with the light