Tick.
Tock.

Tick.
Tock.

Each second that passed on the clock above the bar's entrance made Maeve want to scream. The ticking sent shivers down her spine all the way to her toes. It was an aggravating noise. One that scratched at her very soul.

Mainly because the clock was off.

Two minutes fast. She'd been tracking it since the day she stepped into The Nost Wind to apply. Every clock in the building was the same. Once, she'd fixed them all during a slow shift. By the next day, they were off again. It was as if some evil little gnome was resetting them just to torment her.

Unfortunately, her boss, Lara Whit, never believed her when she brought it up. Nor did she believe the clocks were fast in the first place. And Lara was very serious about punctuality. Which meant Maeve had to show up to work two minutes early every single day.

The only upside? She got to leave two minutes early every night.

Tonight, she especially couldn't wait to leave.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy the noise of the bar, or her patrons—grimy as they sometimes came. The echoes of laughter bouncing off the walls seemed to flavor the drinks she carried in the best way. Everyone said The Nost Wind was the best place to drink in the city because of the memories people made inside.

Most nights, the energy felt electric. It bristled across her skin and raised goosebumps on her arms.

Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

There was a heaviness in the air, like the calm before a lightning strike. Conversations hummed, but laughter felt forced, strained, like everyone was waiting for something to happen. It had been that way all week.

She looked toward the bar, dropping off a mug of mead at the table of men donned in sun-blazoned cuirasses and robes stitched with golden scripture. The Order of the Radiant Flame.

They always made her uneasy. It wasn't just the armor, though the shine of polished steel and the blood-red sashes at their waists certainly made them stand out in the dim glow of the bar. It was the way they watched everything—and everyone—with the same intensity one might reserve for reading sacred texts or preparing for war.

They sat in rigid silence, barely touching their drinks, like men pretending to be at ease. One of them, a tall priest with sharp features and eyes that looked like polished obsidian, flicked his gaze toward her as she placed the mug down.

Matthew.

He was one of her regulars and one of the only zealots she actually liked. He was never as serious as the rest of them. Or at least, he never seemed to be. He smiled more. It also helped his case that his sister was Maeve's best friend: Liora Ponds.

Liora worked at the bar with her most nights. She was known for her golden curls always being tied up with a bright red ribbon, and for carrying a smile that you could feel in your bones. Her brother had one quite like it, too.

"May the Radiant One bring you good fortune," he said, nodding in thanks.

"May her light shine upon you," she said, quieter than she meant to. She still remembered saying it with real hope, once. But, that had long since faded.

It was a common phrase, an everyday blessing exchanged across the city. Wishing the gods' favor on others. But the words carried more weight this time of the year.

It was the final week of the Dark Season. And tomorrow—Godswake—would mark the year's end.

For most, it was a joyous time filled with celebration. New shrines to the Four Gods of Glory had already been erected across the city. Though, in truth, most only ever prayed to the Radiant One.

Back home, Maeve was certain her sister, Aeris, was already draping herself in the traditional gold jewelry their parents had given them as children. The thin chains, sun-shaped pendants, rings etched with the names of the gods were said to ward off being Marked if worn through the night. Aeris had always struggled to braid the hair trinkets in by herself. Maeve could almost picture her now, frowning at her reflection in their shared mirror, fingers tangled in her curls, muttering curses under her breath as she tried to twist the strands just right.

She never accepted any help from Maeve. Always so determined to do it on her own.

This year, like last, Maeve was sure she wasn't struggling alone. Dorian would be there.

Of course he would.

Aeris had met him a few years ago—just after their parents got sick. Their mother had caught the fever first, then their father not long after. Maeve remembered the way Aeris stayed up with them, night after night, trying to cool their burning skin with damp cloth. Maeve remembered, too, how quiet the house had become once the coughs stopped. Dorian had shown up near the end, sent by his employer, Rupert, the local apothecary. Too late to help. Too polite to say it.

Maeve hadn't met him then. She had decided to stay with their aunt when she saw them decline. She couldn't bring herself to tears, and it felt crueler to have herself there than to not. When Maeve eventually returned, for the funerals, Aeris had already begun to cling to Dorian like a lifeline.

And soon, the two became inseparable. They were a pair of whispered laughs and shared glances, of secrets traded in the shade of market stalls, of stolen sunbread eaten beneath the temple arches at the Virethorn festival.

When Aeris introduced Dorian to Maeve, she had hoped to be let in on their little duo. Perhaps for a selfish reprieve to her newfound loneliness. But, of course, the two of them stayed two peas in a pod—not three.

Maeve had made do with it. Her older sister was always better at making friends than she was. It wasn't the first time Aeris had found bonds Maeve couldn't.

She tried to be happy for Aeris. Dorian seemed nice enough.She convinced herself she could be content when he was around.

That is, until Dorian kept introducing himself.

Again. And again. And again.

It took ten times before he finally remembered her name. And to make matters worse, she was certain she had served him at the bar before he ever met Aeris. Back when he used to sit alone in the corner.

Back before Rubert died and Dorian stopped coming to the bar altogether.

Before the last Godswake.

Maeve had seen it, Rupert's death.

It happened right after closing. Right after she had locked the door. She had watched as he ran for the bar, his silver hair bouncing with each step. The way his hands painstakingly pulled the handles. The way he begged as a sword stabbed through his back.

She hadn't screamed when it happened. Everyone else had. But Maeve had been frozen, hands still gripping the latch of the door she hadn't been fast enough to open. Rubert's eyes had met hers in that moment. She had never seen something so wide, wild, and pleading. Yet, it was odly familiar.

They continued to watch her as the knights dragged his bleeding body away.

She only watched as they dragged his bleeding body away.

Sometimes, she still could feel the bile that had expelled itself that night when she had arrived home. It was as though it never fully left her. As if it lived there now, clinging behind her vocal cords, waiting.

She could only hope he found peace in the Whatcomesnext.

Maeve bit her cheek as she scrubbed one of the rundown tables with an old rag. She could feel every crevice of the wood through the fabric.

The bar was still buzzing with the same tense energy. Too many eyes glancing at the door. Too many hands wrapped tight around their drinks. The laughter was too loud now, like it was trying to drown out the ticking.

Tick.
Tock.

Tick.
Tock.

Luckily, this Godswake, Lara had decided to let Maeve go early. Before the skies really got dark. Before midnight when new marks might brand anyone's skin across the city. The brands never faded, even if you made it past the Godswake.

Those branded by the Fallen would stay hunted for the rest of their lives.

It was the price of the magic he gave them, of the corruption they let into their souls. The price of the gods for their betrayal.

Only an hour left in her shift.

Well, 58 minutes, really.

Maeve tightened her apron around her waist and made her way back to the bar to grab another round from the bartender.

She could make it through 58 minutes.

Her feet moved light, her movements fluid as the liquid served. With a breath, the noises around her faded, just a whisper beneath her thoughts. A table here, a table there—each stop handled with practiced ease. Time blurred until the final minute of her shift.

She was halfway to the door when she heard it—armor shifting behind her. A soft scrape of polished metal, too deliberate to be a mistake. She didn't have to turn to know who it was.

Matthew.

She exhaled.

"Let me walk you home?" his voice called, a bit more gruff then what was typical for him.

Maeve paused, one hand still clutching the strap of her apron, the other half-reaching for the door.

"Walk me home?" She repeated the last part of his question. He had never asked before.

Matthew stopped a few paces behind her, close enough that she could hear the faint clink of chainmail beneath his robes as he shifted his weight. "Since the Order issued curfew to the western wards. They're patrolling earlier than usual. Tensions are high. I just... I thought it might be safer."

Maeve turned and studied him for a moment. His honey colored hair was peeking out from his helmet and his hands were flexed by his side. He wasn't lying, she could tell. But he wasn't saying everything either.

"Feel free." She waved him to follow as she stepped outside the door.

The night outside was heavy with snow and the distant scent of smoke and jasmine. The lanterns lining the cobblestone streets flickered with golden flame, their glass casings painted with the sigils of the Four Gods.

Her eyes locked to a lantern hung nearby. The open eye sigil stared at her intensely as the burning sun painted behind it. It's glare was the only thing providing her any heat against the sharp wind.

Maeve wrapped her arms around herself as she walked into the cold. Matthew fell into step beside her, his boots quieter than she expected on the stone. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"Strange night," he finally said, voice low.

Maeve let out a short breath. "You could say that every night this week and still be right."

He nodded, glancing toward a passing group of cloaked figures hurrying down the street with their heads low. "But tonight is worse."

Maeve didn't respond. She didn't need to. She knew how he felt. She could feel the anticipation for what could come in her veins, in her heart... in her soul.

They walked in silence for a few blocks, passing shuttered homes and flickering temple altars. On one corner, a group of children danced around a paper lantern, unaware of the fear wrapped around the city like a noose.

Then, as they turned onto her street, Matthew spoke again.

"You know," he said, carefully, "there are whispers about The Nost Wind."

Maeve raised an eyebrow. "What kind of whispers?"

"That Lara harbors and helps witches. That some of the Marked have slipped through those doors and weren't seen again. Never brought to justice."

Justice was a choice word for the deaths they were to be given if found.

"Because of Rubert?" She asked tentatively.

He nodded in response.

"Utter bull," she scoffed. "Lara would sell them out in an instant. She's devout."

Maeve had seen it herself, Lara praying every day, lighting incense, and whispering the old verses. She'd even sat beside her once at the altar of the Hollow Queen. The goddess of silence and shadows wasn't a popular one, but she was still one of the Four of Glory. That should've been enough.

But if Lara had worshipped the Radiant One instead? The Order would never question her. No one questions a follower of the goddess of light and law.

Maeve rubbed her temples, looking up at Matthew, waiting for him to disagree.

He, however, never did. Rather, he simply looked ahead, lips pressed together thin, as if he knew better than to argue but worse than to confirm.

By the time they reached her bright blue door, snow clung to sleeves and both of their noses were bright red.

Maeve's home sat between an old cobbler's shop and a stone bakery that hadn't smelled of bread in years. It was one of many that sat at the edge of the second ward that could use some updates. Its timber frame bowed ever so slightly as if someone had at one point squished it ever so slightly between their hands. Faint ivy, brittle from frost, curled around the iron railing that framed the stoop. The windows were small and paned with warped glass.

A single wind chime, rusted and missing two of its pieces, clinked softly from the eaves above the door as she placed her key into the lock.

"Thanks for walking me."

"Would've been wrong not to," he said. "Stay safe tomorrow."

Maeve offered a crooked smile. "I'll see you at the Checking?"

"Aeris actually asked me to do a house call" He said, his eyes locking on hers.

Maeve blinked, caught off guard. That was strange. Aeris loved the walk to the Checking. Most people did. Everyone wore their finest. Even the poorest found a way to shimmer, if only with borrowed jewels. It was the time of gold, the last holiday of the year. A time to be joyous that you haven't been Marked.

Well, unless you had. Then, it became the last celebration of your life. The Order always let you party for a moment if you surrendered yourself instead of running.

Despite the horror the Godswake brought, it also brought beauty. Ritual. Rebirth.

People who asked for house calls were usually elders or the infirm—too frail to walk the cobbled streets or stand in the long, humming lines before the altars. Occasionally, someone requested one for convenience, but Aeris?

"Oh..." Maeve murmured, turning back toward her door.

"May the Radiant One guard your dreams," he said softly, stepping back into the snow.

"May her light burn bright," she replied, more from habit than faith.

She waited until he disappeared down the street before slipping inside, closing the door behind her with a soft thud.

Throwing her keys down onto the plate they kept by the door, she headed into the foyer trying to shake the feeling of fear pushing its way through her core. Matthew's eyes had been more watchful than usual, suspicion hidden beneath their warmth. It didn't bode well.

"Aeris?" Maeve called up the house's mahogany stairs, voice echoing slightly in the quiet. The picture frames on the walls seemed to shift just slightly from the noise.

No answer.

She waited a beat, then tried again.

"Aeris?"

A muffled sound came in reply.

Maeve frowned.

"AERIS," she called louder, annoyance bleeding into her tone.

Then, the bathroom door to her right creaked open. And out stepped Dorian—hair wet, skin damp, wearing fresh clothes.

"She's doing her hair." He said quietly, amber eyes looking her over.

She let out a shaky breath, feeling a subtle heat creep through her body. Echinacea and Lemon balm. He smelt like her soap. A complaint she could place at another time.

"Still?" she asked, eyeing the tips of his hair, black tendrils still dripping with water.

"Still." He nodded before shaking his head like a dog, scattering water across the room and all over her.

Maeve pursed her lips and, sarcastically, said, "Thanks," before heading up to the second floor. The old wood groaned beneath her feet, worn smooth by years of use. At the far end of the hall, a single candle flickered on a narrow table, casting shadows along the walls.

She stopped in front of the bathroom door, knocking lightly, her knuckles tapping a rhythm that was both familiar and a little impatient. "Aeris?" she called out, her voice carrying the usual mix of concern and annoyance.

"Come in!" came the sing-song response of her sister, bright and unbothered.

Maeve pushed the door open, the creaking of the hinges ringing in her ears. Aeris's bathroom was small with everything crammed about. The only space clear was the sink, where Aeris stood hunched looking intensely into the mirror as she threaded a bead into a twist of her copper colored hair.

Maeve leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.

"You're still at this?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not taking any risks." Aeris's piercing blue eyes met hers in the mirror.

"You're so superstitious. The scripture says only those who perform magic get marked, remember? And last I checked, neither you nor me can do any of that. All the gold is just... performative."

"Well, maybe I just like looking pretty, then," Aeris huffed, lips curling as she tucked another bead into place, her hands trembling just so.

Maeve tilted her head. "Just for bed? Where all your tossings and turnings gonna wreck it anyway?"

In moments like this, Maeve sometimes couldn't believe she was the younger of the two. Aeris had this childlike innocence about her that didn't quite fit a woman of twenty. She got away with it, though. Her beauty, her kindness, and her charm made it all too easy.

Maeve, on the other hand, had none of those qualities naturally. Her looks were standard at best. Her auburn hair always looked dull compared to Aeris's fiery copper. Her green eyes seemed so plain, almost forgettable. And while she could fake charm and kindness while working, in her day to day she was known to be awkward and not exceptionally sweet.

Maeve was average in all the ways Aeris was not.

Aeris was the only one who really knew her, in any way that matters that is.
She was the one who read her to sleep each night, who took care of her when she was sick. Aeris always ran her fingers through Maeve's hair when she was sad or scared, listening to her fears, her hopes, her dreams. She never made Maeve feel silly for the emotions she felt, even when those feelings were laced with jealousy.

"I like to do it anyways," Aeris sighed, finished threading the last bead, "It reminds me of mom."

Maeve bit her cheek hard. Of course it reminded her of Mom. She was the one who had taught them how to do it in the first place. Maeve's mind briefly flashed to their mother's gentle touch, the softness of her hands as she worked through each lock of hair, and the quiet hum of her voice that had once filled the room. Even though their mother's soul had passed, Maeve believed that some part of her, some piece of her, would always linger with Aeris, in the way she lived.

Death was an absolute of life after all. It wasn't a terribly far jump to assume life was an absolute of death as well.

"Will you do mine?" She said quietly, glancing at herself in the mirror. She hadn't planned on following any of the home traditions this year, but Aeris was right.

A little superstition couldn't hurt.

Aeris grinned. "Go bathe. I'll have everything ready when you come out."