Simon

  On the night Dahlia was born, the city of Firen was unseasonably cold for October. A crowd of robed men gathered near a small home on the outer edge of the city. They hardly acknowledged me on the dark street as I hurried up to the faded front door. As I stepped into the dim light on the wooden porch, I heard their whispers shift to worried comments about my presence.

  But as I looked back at them, they scattered at the sight of me as though I was some sort of monster.

  They were right to fear me.

  As I entered the home, the porchlight flooded the entryway and gave me my first look at the front room. Candles flickered near the window, providing just enough light to take in my surroundings. The room was brightly decorated in the style preferred by the people of Firen—with violet-colored wooden chairs at a small yellow table, and a floral, multicolored rug pushed up against an unlit hearth. I paid little attention to the décor along the walls but noted the same bright colors in an eclectic array around the room.

  The dark entryway itself was quiet, but I heard muffled voices from deep inside the house. As I approached an unpainted wooden door near the back of the home, I heard urgent, feminine whispers from beyond, interrupted only by the clack of my boots on the wooden floor.

  I paused at the door—preparing myself for what I’d see within. I took in a deep breath, settled into my practiced, emotionless expression, and pushed open the door with a soft creak. As the door swung open, the coppery scent of blood filled the air, the heaviness of the scent filling my nostrils and making my stomach churn.

  There were several women within the room, all in gray robes and scattered around the room’s edges, but it was the grim scene in the middle of the room that caught my attention first. A small figure lay on a bloodstained bed. Someone had covered the body with a dark sheet, but the figure was unmistakable to me. My breath caught.

  Gemma. My poor friend. Gone so young.

  One of the women, this one middle-aged with a long scar down the left side of her face, spoke to me through dry lips as she approached with cautious steps. “Simon. You made it.”

  Her voice was tight as if she was disappointed that I’d come. That didn’t surprise me, given what I knew of the wicked woman—what Gemma had said of her.

  Despite feeling pain at the sight of Gemma’s lifeless form on the bed, I schooled my expression into a pleasant smile, “How could I miss this momentous occasion, Hastings?”

  She gritted her teeth against whatever response she’d considered uttering to me and swallowed hard before barking out, “Bring the girl!”

  I heard someone leave on soft footsteps, and I looked around the room at the other women. There were nearly a dozen of them here to watch the birth of the half-human, half-Mirnen child they’d been waiting for—the Halfling their people had predicted long ago and well before my own time here in the Red. These were likely the only people in all the worlds who knew of this baby’s fate. It was a well-guarded secret they would take to their graves.

  I only knew the most basic details of the girl’s future despite centuries of inquiry and even attempts to torture the information out of these Predictors—something I wasn’t proud of. It happened long ago, when I was at a particularly low point in my long, cumbersome life.

  Even Gemma refused to speak to me about her daughter’s future, besides giving me the occasional advice about how to face my own fate. Gemma had only recently returned home after many years spent in the Circle—my own people’s home world. Humans from this world were forbidden from procreating with my people—a proclamation from nearly two millennia ago resulted in the genocide of hundreds of Halflings. As soon as Gemma discovered her pregnancy, she fled to protect the child from that ancient law that still called for the death of any Halfling born here.

  She was a stranger to me when she approached me one evening after the Winter Celebration at the King’s castle, speaking to me of my own fate in a way that left me riveted. Gemma had a way of describing her visions as though she were reading from a captivating book, her voice rising and falling with the story’s passion. She was unlike any other Predictor I’d encountered in my long lifetime—passionate, joyful, and so incredibly stubborn.

  Just like that, Gemma became imprinted on my brain—a brain that had forgotten so many people over the years. I’d never forget how this one human woman made me feel—even if it was inevitable that I forgot her face.

  I never expected to see her again after that first meeting, so when she met me in the dead of night to ask for my help in her escape home to the Red, I was hesitant. But I changed my mind when she uttered a simple prediction to me—one I could not seem to ignore.

  You, Simon Calo, will help the child in my womb tear down the structures of this world that you find so loathsome. She needs you to be the most devoted of her guardians—starting tonight. Please help us.

  It was mere curiosity that drove me to provide passage to the Red for her that same night—that and recklessness.

  The sound of murmured prayer forced my attention back to the figures around me. The women prayed over Gemma’s form with impassive eyes—making me wonder if they had ever cared for her in the years they spent with her, or if it had simply been an act. The confirmation that her life meant little to them—that she was merely a tool meant to fulfill the fate foretold in their visions—made me shift uncomfortably. Gemma had warned me of the methods the Predictors used to destroy their humanity, but seeing it firsthand was unsettling. They were more machine than human.

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  It wasn’t often I encountered humans with so little regard for life—usually it was my people—the Mirnen—who cared little for others. We were often little more than beasts—slaves to our baser impulses. In choosing me to care for her daughter over the Predictors, it was clear she didn’t trust them—she was willing to trust me instead. What monsters must these Predictors be?

  I forced my eyes back to Hastings as she tensed beside me, her eyes instantly growing dark and distant as she fell into a vision and murmured, “So much war. So much blood. But maybe Gemma was right. The end doesn’t have to be so terrible—not with the right people to guide the girl.”

  This was what I wanted to know. Who would rise to the occasion to guide Gemma’s daughter through the hell that awaited her? The outcome of her future was unclear—the worlds would either fall into ruin or finally achieve peace as the girl became a woman and eventually chose which path to follow.

  The Predictors of this world—Predictors like Gemma and Hastings and the others in this room—all knew this child was important. Some higher being had granted these people the power to see into the future, but none of their visions could see beyond a hazy wall in time tied to this one Halfling girl.

  I had seen this moment depicted once in a painting—a brightly-lit woman surrounded entirely by darkness, four hands reaching out as if to tempt her to pick a path. At her back, four more hands seemed to push her forward as if forcing her to choose. And below her, four hands gripped her legs as if holding her up.

  I saw myself as one of those hands on her back.

  A guiding force—not a force of temptation.

  I didn’t care much about the future. I would support the girl regardless of the path she took. I would be her shadow—a protector. She would be a woman chosen by fate to guide us towards our new future. I knew my role in the upcoming conflict—to follow and protect this Halfling as though she were our salvation. In truth, should she lead us all to ruin, I would happily join her in the flames of my people’s destruction. I would become a tool of destruction for her if she needed it.

  The Mirnen deserved destruction.

  A shadowy image of a long-dead woman floated into my mind.

  I couldn’t picture her as anything more than that shadow anymore—nor could I hear her voice or imagine her touch. She had been gone for far too long for me to picture her fully. But I remembered how she made me feel. I remembered the feeling of warmth in my chest when I set my gaze on her long ago. The memory of my love for her had been enough to fuel me over the long, lonely millennia—that and the endless rage that simmered under my skin at the memory of her downfall.

  The fire of my love for her and hate for my people kept me going each day, even as the flow of time carried me through millennia.

  But maybe things would be different now.

  I turned my attention back to Gemma, covered by the dark sheet. She’d known this would be her fate long before today.

  In her eyes, she existed only to bring her daughter into existence, and she knew this well—the Crimson Council that governed this world raised her to understand her role in the fate of the worlds. This baby was far more important to Gemma than her own life.

  A baby’s cries filled the room, and I turned my eyes to the result of the woman’s sacrifice.

  I watched with rapt fascination as Hastings took a small bundle of cloth from one of the other women and announced, “Gemma decided—her name will be Dahlia.”

  Dahlia.

  The flower was not native to these lands, but when my people introduced it to the northern regions of this world, it took root in the soil like a weed, immediately forging a place in this world despite such foreign origins.

  It was a fitting name.

  Dahlia would forge her own place in the worlds.

  “Her father will approve,” I chuckled softly as I thought of Dahlia’s half-sisters—sisters she would not know for many more years but who were also named after beautiful flowers.

  Hastings narrowed her eyes at me but nodded in agreement, “That’s what Gemma said.”

  I approached to take the baby from her, and Hastings flinched. For a moment, I wondered if she would refuse to give up the child, but then she shifted forward to hand over the baby, gently transferring her into my hands before retreating a few steps to observe us.

  As I took the delicate, warm bundle into my arms and pulled it close to my chest, I looked down at the baby’s peaceful face. She appeared quite normal—all things considered. She was as small as every other human newborn I had seen—though admittedly I had only held a handful in my long life. Her eyes remained closed as she rested from the exhausting task of entering the world of the living. Her long, dark eyelashes fanned out on her plump, pink cheeks. Her mouth opened as she sought her mother’s milk.

  Hastings cleared her throat, the sound echoing through the silent room, “I still believe we would be better off killing the baby and leaving fate to decide our future.”

  My gaze shot up to the scarred woman. Gemma had warned me about her—seen the woman’s malevolence in her Predictions. I reminded her, “Your Council doesn’t agree with you.”

  Luckily for her, most Predictors disagreed with her views. I’d rip her head off in an instant if I thought she posed a risk to Dahlia. But Gemma had reassured me that by the time she became dangerous, Dahlia would be grown and could handle the woman herself.

  Ignoring the women around me as they looked on with stares of disapproval, I walked out of the room without looking back—without lingering near Gemma’s deathbed. She had been my friend for several months, but my only priority now was the bundle in my arms. I could mourn later.

  For now, we had a plan for Dahlia—a plan to keep her hidden in plain sight and out of Predictor hands until her father came for her. And if Gemma’s predictions were right, he would come for her in just a few years—he would see just how well she blended in with the humans here. She could live a normal life in the Red, as normal as life could be for an orphan.

  I could hardly bring myself to feel sadness in this moment—something I knew was the product of watching humans live and die so easily for generations. This was how things were in the human worlds. Humans were so fragile.

  But they were also stronger than most of my people realized.

  Gemma was proof of this. To carry a child to term while knowing it would result in her death? That took a true strength that few others could muster.

  As I left the small home behind and walked onto the quiet street, I pulled up my hood, smiled down at the sleeping baby in my arms, and whispered, “You will be more extraordinary than even your mother, Dahlia of the Red, but we have much to prepare for.”