"The silver skies clear cast today." I swallow hard as I hold my mocha, grinning ironically at the waitress. The ceiling plate, miles above me, blocked out all sunlight. The cobblestone road, a slate grey, was a dented and cracked pavement under an ever-present darkness. Yet light still crackled from ether lamps, faint and green, casting strange, almost magical lights across that same floor, reflecting as it met the glint of a man’s lighter by a café shop. Smells of cinnamon clashed with deep hazelnut-infused coffee and the scent of a homeless man urinating in a nearby alley. The aroma of motor oil mixed with a passerby's aftershave, masking his desperation. My eyes were drawn to the endless advertisements hanging from the walls. Real estate posters read, "Invest in our country's tomorrow, today." The posters had an almost pop art style, and the metal sheets that formed houses and skyscrapers within Darkspire stretched up to increasingly high ceilings. The man's grin seemed harmless, but I know everything here is tainted, just like me. That same man was shaking nervously as he passed the woman next to him, trying to hide his shame at being rejected yesterday and his overwhelming desires.
(Monologue) No matter where I go in this place, I feel confined. The ground serves only as a reminder that we’re all rats in a cage—matriarchy, Dragosian, Atarliss—all of us. I suppose I should start from the beginning to explain why I’m here. It’s not about God or any mumbo jumbo regarding a higher power or destiny; it’s about this very moment, in the depths of Low Town, in the Darkspires slum. See, three weeks ago, the builders of the café shop caused an accident, and that guy over there… hooh ooh, well, he likes women; he likes them an ‘a lot,’ enough to lure them back to his place and oddly never see them again if you catch my drift. So today is homework and a client's scorn to reassure her mind. My story begins here, enjoying my coffee. (monologue end) My black jacket obscured much of my features, and my eyes sunken beneath my pallid, gaunt face. I felt tired, and it showed; my eyes were reddened from staying awake far too long, searching for the next place to lay low after a job. Every sleepless night felt more regrettable than the last, I thought, as I reached for my mocha—“Capullo Cocoa. You’d be choco loco not to love it.” Like everything else, it was just another catchy slogan with a gimmick.
I folded this week's Darkspire Daily to read the sports section while keeping one eye on the advertisement featuring Lover Boy. The red lace ad was a welcome distraction. I also noticed that the Crimson Colts had beaten the Haleyon Reavers 2-1 in gravi-ball. It would have been unusual if the Colts weren’t also pushing Colt’s cider ads. The Reavers clearly took a dive, allowing the city to rake in cash and ensuring that the right palms could get greased. The city administration was in full swing, and the man with the crew cut resembled your average Joe. However, there were signs of military training, which was not unusual in this city, as war was always present. In Dragosia, we were just cogs in a large, ever-turning machine. He wore a green suede jacket, a white shirt, a blue tie, and freshly ironed black trousers—all meant to impress as he handed her the ring. I couldn't help but snicker, thinking, "That’s wife number two, then."
The woman, adorned in a sequined dress, moved gracefully, her body swaying rhythmically to the societal dance of hidden debauchery. Her brown skin was bronzed to perfection, and I could almost picture the sweat pooling on her skin as the two of them strolled down the street. Would the gamble be his loss or gain? The only outcome for relationships out here, I glanced at my watch, careful not to follow too soon, and checked the time on the cheaply bought accessory. As I sat in the white, oversized plastic chair, savouring the last sip of my drink, I knew it was almost time to move. I reflected on how life had turned out this way. Supposedly, there was something called the Collapse, during which the old castym governments engaged in a war that never truly ended—people never learned anything, and those like me continue to profit from their ignorance.
Anyway, the survivors have banded together in small communities, building from the leftover scrap. At least in our history, we created Darkspire perfectly, making it the four-tiered city it is today. In truth, it took He years—centuries, even. The original construction workers were neither builders nor engineers, but they did find lessons and tutorials to guide them. The real founders of the city came later, adding layers of scrap metal and old-world remnants to create the eyesore we now call home. But for now, we’ll leave it at that. I stand up and walk slowly, but not suspiciously slow. I remember what his first wife said: "Married for a single day, and then he left again, as he always does." She had investigated his background herself, using private investigators. All she could find was that he was a bad husband and an even worse man. His sacrifice was made for the sake of his uniform, a symbol of duty and allegiance. The women he encountered were both his shield and his indulgence—a tempting vice that came as a perk of his demanding job. With each new assignment, he found himself constantly on the move, navigating through the shadows of desire and deceit.
After engaging in very public displays of affection, which were carefully staged to secure his entry into exclusive venues, he was able to infiltrate places that should have remained off-limits. It was a risky game, one that required him to do things he knew were unethical, all in service of a Dragosian empire that he did not truly love.....funny isn't it? Women are treated as disposable, and men wearing many faces representing this reality. As we turned the corner from the cafe's road into Gravecrest Priory, a path that had once seen more traffic due to its religious significance, As I reminisced, a quiet joy swelled within me at the thought of how the Chapel of Sin'vella had gradually fallen into disrepair. Once a revered sanctuary and the birthplace of our kind, it now stood in solitude, its glory overshadowed by the relentless march of time. In a world that appeared to be spiralling into despair, the number of visitors dwindled to almost nothing. The echoing silence of the chapel's hallowed halls highlighted the neglect, as dust settled on the ancient stone altars and vines crept over the once-immaculate carvings. It was a poignant reminder of a past that felt increasingly distant, as fewer souls ventured to pay their respects to the very origin of our species. I watched the two hold hands, her head resting on his shoulder as they crossed the road, seemingly in love. However, I knew it was only a temporary bliss. I am not considering harming this man due to my ethically antiquated indoctrinated beliefs, nor do I subscribe to an outdated notion of equality. True equality feels as unattainable as a rat being struck from one side or the other. Equality for one often leads to disparity for another, as those in power tend to favour one gender over the other, perpetuating conflict in the world. I am doing this because I have evolved and I have embarked on this path because I have undergone a remarkable transformation; I stand as a representation of the next stage of human evolution. In a world where money is more valuable than life, the only option is to become the predator rather than the prey. They reared us, made us, and corrupted the weak to shape us into the strong, who will steal what they created. We are the pinnacle of kleptoparasitism. As we strolled along, I observed a striking transformation beneath our feet; the rugged flooring gradually shifted to a flawless, pristine white marble that gleamed under the ethereal glow of the ether lamps. Their soft light danced delicately upon the surface, enhancing the purity of the stone. The surrounding greenery seemed to thrive in this luminous ambience, bursting with vibrant hues that caught the eye. We wandered past meticulously arranged rows of potted plants, their leaves glistening with freshness, and entered a well-tended garden. Rather than traditional roses, a magnificent array of picturesque tulips adorned the space, showcasing a kaleidoscope of colours that painted the landscape with their cheerful presence. Each bloom swayed gently in the breeze, inviting us to pause and appreciate the beauty of nature in this serene oasis. As I drifted deeper into my thoughts, the world around me began to fade, and I found myself completely oblivious to the passing seconds and my own pace. The rhythmic sound of my footsteps faded into the background as I focused on the swirl of ideas in my mind. Just ahead, we neared a grand fountain, its waters sparkling in the sunlight.
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I noticed a woman walking her golden retriever approach from behind, and graciously allowed her to pass. Her dog, with its wagging tail and playful demeanour, added a joyful energy to the scene that momentarily pulled me from my reverie.
Turning my gaze, I caught sight of my reflection in the smooth, polished surface of the marble fountain. The fountain was adorned with a statue of Saint Asyrin, rendered in exquisite detail. Its triangular shape gave the soldier i was following time to see me in its reflection, and for a brief moment, it felt as if he was looking back at me, the stone gaze of Asyrin piercing me full of unspoken judgement.
I smiled glumly, like a down-on-his-luck gentleman, and tossed a coin into the fountain. "May your light bring me luck," I prayed out loud, like just another sycophant and follower of the devout, before I turned on my heels to review the findings of today’s tale.
8 am Raidewell alley darkspire slum
Monologue
? Ми зат?нили вас хмарами, ? Ми з?слали вам манну та перепел?в: “?жте хороше, що Ми вам забезпечили Вони не кривдили Нас, але кривдили власн? душ?.
As the temple decayed, the garden remained immaculate, reflecting a society that valued beauty over spirituality. The statue of Saint Asyrin was also in need of repair. After all, who could truly love the saint and not merely the water he provided? He was an ex-slave, a foreign man who died for the empire, yet he has been forgotten in favour of the men he saved, who, in turn, have forgotten what he stood for. They have decayed much like his god's temple. If you believe our version, at any rate, Sin'vella was a god who created the multiverse, and Asyrin was a saint. The sin of splitting the multiversal tree and creating us and demonkind was not his, but hers. My apartment—what can I say? I existed here, but I didn't truly 'live' here. It was unfurnished, save for an old dial phone, which was a rarity in the Darklands. Any communication was closely regulated, except for those who could afford it. Well, after seven lives, I could. It's the next day and the only other thing in the place was a sleeping bag, and no one, if anyone even noticed, could tell I lived there. (monologue end) I fidgeted relentlessly within my cocoon of comfort. From deep inside that fortress of wool, I felt warm; outside was another story. I liked keeping a low profile, and that meant I visited local shops to secure my heating ration via the home gas register less often, it was an older process of procuring for personal living quarters that became horrendously modernized. They made you queue for what seemed like hours in shops at different intervals. My day was meant to be Wednesday, but since I was busy at home, I tell you, while laughing ironically, since it was so freezing. The floor beneath me groaned with age, each creak resonating in the stillness of the night as I shifted my weight and rolled onto my side. A cool draft seeped through the narrow opening of my sleeping bag, making me shiver slightly as I reached out into the darkness. My fingers brushed against the hard floor of my apartment, searching for the elusive shape of my phone, which was ringing insistently. The sound sliced through the quiet—a sharp reminder of the outside world—and my pulse quickened with urgency. I strained to grab the phone, hoping it held news that would chase away the lingering shadows of sleep. The old dial-up phone, while antique, was more modern compared to the Linus 300, which had less of the contemporary complexities that I believed made it bulkier and more like a tank than a phone. As I answered, the cogs visibly shifted, unlike the Linus the Wosnac 10, which lacked any body coating or anything fancy in terms of design. I replied, "Hello," letting my voice sound like a bored shopkeeper's, deliberately disinterested. I waited for a response, secretly eager and not at all puzzled it was a working day after all. The client’s voice trembled slightly as she spoke, a mix of anticipation and fear evident in her tone. She had loved him once, and that history weighed heavily on her words.“Is it done? What have you found? Are we any closer? "I need it finished before..." Her voice trailed off, cracking as she spoke as if she were carefully choosing the right words to throw me off track. There was a palpable tension in the air, and I could sense her urgency—not just to succeed, but to remain secretive. I had the power in this conversation now, and I didn't care. She hesitated, her breath hitching in her throat, before catching herself and falling silent. The unspoken words hung between us like a fragile thread. My curiosity was piqued, but I knew better than to pry too deeply; my priority was the job, not risking it for the sake of the client's emotions or by being nosy. I forced a strained smile as I pressed the phone against my ear, doing my best to sound like a genuinely concerned friend. Beneath the surface, a sickly thrill of excitement spun within me. If I wanted to, I could charge more or gain other advantages. I smirked playfully and nearly drew pictures of us in my mind. With a steady voice that masked my true intentions, I reassured her in a soft tone, “Calm down, Elise. We're meticulously piecing together his profile. After all, he was a truly dreadful man—it's easy to see why anyone would feel this way about him.”
I gently shifted in my sleeping bag, thinking that years of acting in Darkspire's Skalia improv theatre had paid off. The soft fabric slipped away from my chest, exposing my skin to the biting chill that permeated the unheated apartment. The cold air wrapped around me like a thin veil, serving as a reminder of the winter night outside, but I continued to feign comfort. “So, please don’t worry, my dear; everything is well under control. First, I need to observe his habits, understand his routines inside and out, and then I’ll know exactly how to make my move.”
The Myth of Sisyphus after Copilot pointed out parallels to my work. It’s because, way back in 2021, as I was finishing my first poetry novel (which ended up in Waterstones and did terribly, like most things I do), I knew that, in some small way, I wanted to keep pushing forward.
The Rebel was meant to solve the problem of murder, and while it failed in one sense, I’m sure it succeeded in another—just as Sisyphus wrestled with suicide. And maybe, if I’m lucky, my book will do the same with war.
