“You seen your man’s matches lately?” Vulcan asked Xala as the latter sat on the balcony of Halifax’s mansion. The balcony oversaw the whole of Fae Port. Ships bobbed up and down in murky salt water. The canals of Fae Town bled into this port. Sailors and merchants bustled about, submersed in a sea of other laborers and customers. They shouted and bickered with one another at the same time they haggled with their customers and would-be victims of all kinds of schemes. Among those shouts were insults and violent threats toward the changed ones, the Cursed, whose numbers grew every day. Although, amidst those threats and insults, preachers were scattered. Several thralls who welcomed those folk into their stalls and demanded their neighboring merchants do the same. It had a domino effect among the living who had bleeding hearts and open minds, until many parts of the port were deeply protective of the Cursed, whose numbers included anyone and everyone. That was the point.

  It had been a week since he spoke to Tesgald. In that time, his network of thralls had expanded. He fed less. His discussion with Tesgald had stimulated him in a way he did not expect. It prodded at his self who stared into the mirrored waters of his memories and thoughts. Golden skulls still surrounded him, but he saw through his own eyes, in the physical world, more than he had in a while. After Tesgald, after he exposed the bird whose clipped wings made him think he could still fly, that savage, hungry part of himself was also attacked. It confused him greatly. That night was the first time he realized how full he felt. How absolutely stuffed and gluttonous he had been. He had never felt so uncomfortable within his own flesh, even when he wanted to remove his flesh and transcend.

  The meals he had since were all procured by Vulcan. No more rogue midnight snacks. Vulcan’s offerings, his sacrifices, were savory and bitter — full of nutritious thoughts, but also ugly deeds. Each of Vulcan’s prey were beasts among civil folk and usually ones he had a personal vendetta against. Thus, it allowed Xala to see Vulcan through other’s eyes. Vulcan, in his own memories, had been a wolf among sheep. He saw himself as this great beast who could terrorize anyone into obedience. Alas, through the eyes of others, he was a thoughtless animal. A beast, sure, but one of burden who was easy to sway with the right words of encouragement. He was a servant who thought himself a master, the whole of his life.

  What was Vulcan now? What was he with the grace undeath afforded him? To imagine undeath having grace was already an affront to all life, a crime of utterance, a declaration that could strip of a man of the modern age of his free speech, but Vulcan, as far as Xala had observed through his periphery, inhabited his body with more maturity than ever. His movements were less reckless, his thoughts more coherent, his will more solidified. He enjoyed the work Xala gave him, but he did not have the bloodlust of his previous form. He enjoyed killing, that much Xala would never take from anyone, but he was more aware of its impacts. No more did he see some random person on the street and think about strangling them.

  Similar effects had infected the minds and bodies of his other thralls. The savages in sheep’s clothing of a distant time, when sheep were wolves themselves, were adjusting to the modern world in their own ways according to Xala’s physiological changes. They simply had no opportunity to see themselves as hegemons of their own lives, because they were now like anyone else. Sure, Xala sent them to acquire the right jobs, the right relationships, and the right levers of power, but they were given no special treatment by the mortals of today. They were not being waited on and prayed to. This change of treatment brewed resentment in some, but in others Xala detected something akin to empathy. He stared into their minds regularly, fascinated by the way their thoughts were influenced. The most intelligent ones, like Yurgin, the Artificer turned into a dwarf, realized the way they were changing and attempted to conduct their thoughts in vain. Xala watched and was sufficiently entertained.

  The work itself, the mission of revolution, was spreading. Every one of Xala’s cattle were reanimated and sent back out into the world. Vulcan also brought Xala the corpses found in the sewers, in the streets, in apartments, those who had been killed, killed themselves, and were forgotten. Xala had no issue reanimating them, but he heard the thoughts in Vulcan’s head. Vulcan believed that it was good and righteous to recycle them for a new purpose. The previous owners were gone and replaced by those enigmatic unconscious soul energies Xala told him about. Those thralls opened their eyes without recognition of the world around them. It was only when Xala placed commands into their being that they moved and embarked on their journeys.

  The intelligent thralls had acquired their positions, each one more industrious than the last. They reclaimed their lives and worked diligently to improve them. Their families gathered around dinner tables and spoke to them worriedly about their absence, but were appeased when they learned of the new jobs, the illustrious dreams, and were taken aback by the fervor with which they argued for change, for liberation. They worked in buildings all over Fae Town, Geraldine among the few who managed to secure a place on the surface. She was a bodyguard for a woman of the Noble Class. Otherwise, his thralls were integrating into public life, spreading and growing through a grass roots approach.

  Through them, while he laid lethargically in his loungechair, he witnessed the rise in chaos among the streets. At first, the streets were in total chaos as Rogue Mages wielding new, dark magic utilized their powers to settle mage duels for anyone to see. Mage duels became bloodier affairs, full of transmogrifications into Cursed folk, and a source of terror rather than enjoyment. However, dear Master Solon kept his word. His people were in those same streets and came to the aid of those who fought these dark sorcerers, using their knowledge of defense and abjuration to protect the crowd. When the Feathers came to clean up, the Grave Snatchers disappeared. The past week saw even more improvement. The Grave Snatchers sent envoys into the rest of Fae Town under the guise of private tutors and public lecturers who preached directly to the public. All of them wore jade necklaces, but did not name themselves. They were named Jaded Ones by the people, a joke as well as a literal term based on their mostly bitter attitudes—due to their stationing outside of the Istahkarn Cynosure—and hardy, bulwark defenses against the Dark Arts. People flocked to them enmasse, even the nulls had things to learn from them. However, the Jaded Ones also provided lectures on how to safely and properly utilize the spells being distributed from unknown sources. Thus, armed in both black magic and defense against it, mages of a different breed were being born. They learned how to use the magic without the tarnishing of their bodies and minds, through extensive enchantments and charms on their persons that allowed them to harness the negative effects they might have accrued and redirect that harm back into the spell against their opponent. Power ran rampant.

  Death ran rampant. Corpses found their way to the sewers if the mycelium did not get them first. From there, Vulcan and other thralls brought the bodies to the mansion. Xala raised them with a flick of his fingers, sent them on their way, and returned to his chair.

  Xala’s elven face watched the blue sky beyond the alcove’s opening of Fae Port, stared into the endless blue, and imagined the night sky hidden by that cursed sun.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Xala shifted in his chair, tilted his head to the side, but did not look in Vulcan’s direction, and said, “I am aware of his matches.”

  “You gonna watch the one tonight? It’s the end of the past week’s tournament.”

  “No.”

  “Y’should. He’s been going apeshit in the ring. Haven’t seen anyone fight like that in a while. It’s giving a lot of people inspiration. You oughta see why.”

  “A famous person giving hope through meaningless entertainment in a time of great social unrest. How original.”

  Vulcan snorted, spit over the edge of the balcony onto the streets below, and said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “I’m a beggar?”

  “You better think of yourself as one, or else this ship’s going down before you know it.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Fine, you want to sit here and rot, be my guest. As long as you aren’t on a rampage like before. But, I’m going out today. When I get back, I’m coming out here and watching the match. Feel free to get up, or close your ears when I do.” Without another word, Vulcan went through the double doors into the house and disappeared. His footsteps faded and Xala was alone again.

  Alone and above the people below. He rolled his head onto his shoulder to peer through the balcony’s parapet gaps down to the port.

  Colhern. Butterflies made their way into his pool chamber. They fluttered around the golden skulls aimlessly. Some landed on those skulls, but did not flutter away. They froze in place. As the butterflies fluttered until their wings got tired, more landed on more skulls, and they all froze. Within Xala’s previously crafted chamber, within this place he always retreated to in the depths of his imagination, they were invaders. A foreign species. Just like the skulls.

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  Silence.

  The door to Xala’s chamber sealed shut. That voice who whispered from the other side was blocked off. Xala’s mind became a labyrinth. He conjured a walled city around his mind to make himself elusive and unseen. There, in the ever-changing centre, he remained in his solitary confinement.

  When he opened his eyes, night was upon him, the port was quieter, unlike the rest of the city, but he saw the merchants in their stalls. They had gathered around personal Lecterns that projected the live feed of the Arenas.

  Vulcan sat on the chair beside Xala, his own Lectern’s hologram bright and three-dimensional with perfect color. There, on the screen, was Herne. His antlers were brazen, alongside the skull that formed his helm, as he wielded his spear like lightning death. Vulcan was wholly engaged, on the edge of his seat, as he watched the ease of Colhern’s body as it danced through blood and vomit and dust and sand and metal. His opponent was a spellsword whose projectiles and bouts of flame lit up the arena wherever Colhern was but a second before. Herne’s spear jabbed, his shield blocked, and his body moved without equal.

  Xala watched, unable to look away from such raw talent.

  The match ended swiftly. Shocked gasps and cheers erupted from the people in the port. Nulls, mages, and Cursed alike all gathered around the Lecterns they had to watch. This confused Xala.

  Until Xala saw the pin attached to Herne’s skull when he turned around to face the crowd and raised his bloody spear. It was the Mark of the Cursed—a black hand with broken fingers.

  Xala sat up in his chair.

  “Yeah. That’s what I figured,” Vulcan smirked at Xala, scooted the projection in between them, pulled his chair closer, and the two watched as the fanfare went wild.

  “He’s not cursed.”

  “Nope. In all of his matches, he’s been fighting like a goddamn Visitor, but preaching all kinds of pro-Cursed talking points. He’s become a rallying banner for them.”

  “The face of a revolution.”

  “I’m betting you did that.”

  Those frozen butterflies began to melt over the golden skulls. A shiny array of colors dripped down theircraniums.

  Vulcan smirked, “The other guy just finished his match, too. Time for the finale.”

  Xala's heart fluttered as he watched the crowd cheering in the distance of the hologram and through its speakers. He smiled as he watched Herne spin his spear in the air, jab the sky, and cued a bout of fire to erupt from the rim of the ring. As he did, the hologram sat on him for a long while as the commentator spoke through, “Folks, Herne has taken it again! Can anyone stop this champion of champions?! We’ll find out in the next and final round when he goes up against Perun!” The hologram went into commentators talking about the match.

  Xala’s lips twitched. A rematch. Perhaps Colhern would take what Xala said about their tie seriously. He had to pull zero punches. That vermin enforcer needed to be dragged down a few pegs. “He’s perfect.”

  When the commentators were finished, a few fans were put on the big screens, and a few advertisements were mentioned for only seconds, the Arena returned. On one side, Herne wielded his shield and spear. On the other side, Perun wielded his anti-magic blade and a suit of tough, modern, sleek armor. They both raised their weapons toward each other, waited for the announcer to commence the duel, and, when a thunderous “FIGHT!” erupted over the arena, they charged.

  The battle was brutal. Colhern held nothing back, nor did Perun, but that older man had no chance matching Colhern’s absolutely honed, focused agility and lethality. The battle lasted many moments longer than Colhern’s previous one, and he had many cuts and bruises of his own, but by the end, Colhern sent Perun to the ground, unconscious. Colhern took deep breaths, held his spear tightly, and pounded it into the air.

  “HERNE IS THE WINNER!”

  The crowd of people below, in the port, erupted into cheers and whoops. Colhern’s fans were widespread and many, encompassing all the different peoples of Fae Town. Xala’s lips pulled into a smile. He could not remember the last time he did so genuinely, or, in the past week, at all.

  Then, through the speakers, Colhern’s voice flowed. Someone had given him a microphone alongside a brand new trophy to add to his collection.

  “For too long, we have hidden our neighbors. We have feared them, we have forgotten them, and we have pushed them as far away as possible. But I am here to tell you: they are us. Their struggle is our struggle. Their dignity is our dignity. I will spend every day fighting for them to receive the basic respect and decency that is every person’s right. To the Cursed: you are not forgotten. You are seen. You are loved! And this victory is yours!”

  Xala’s wet eyes could no longer hold back the deluge.

  Colhern pounded his fist into the air, gave away the microphone to Rasid—the guy who helped Xala get to his seat when he first saw Colhern fight—, and walked off with his trophy.

  Below, in the port, all kinds of cheers filled the gaps where silent shock and disgust lingered. Xala smiled as he watched a little boy with four arms get hugged by his father, seemingly for the first time in a while. Two women kissed, despite the other’s body being wooden and rough with bark. Undecided and hesitant merchants called over a pair of Cursed to check out his wares. A party formed throughout the markets, full of people celebrating a star’s success and his political message.

  Vulcan sighed, glanced over at Xala, and said, “Your methods, Cursing people, I hated it at first. I still do. But, I get it. People need to have stuff happen to them before they care.”

  Xala sighed, mauled over his words, and said quietly, “I wish it wasn’t so.”

  “And I wish I owned a unicorn.”

  Xala chuckled, “So be it. We’ll get you one.”

  “Hah! Shit, that’s right, I guess that isn’t impossible.”

  Xala and Vulcan sat there for a while. They flipped through the different Rooms in the Lyceum that had current affairs, events, popular culture, anything that had something to say about Colhern’s victory and speech. It was then, while watching all these programs, that Xala realized just how isolated Feltkan’s media was. Without coverage from the outside world, anything big that happened right here at home was all people talked about. It was everywhere, with a majority of reporters from the surface and their media outlets focused on spinning the story negatively. They called Colhern names that made Xala’s blood boil, and even worse things for the Cursed. “Jinxed”, “Cretin”, “Deformed”, “Freaks”, “Invalid”, “Unclean”, and they called Colhern a “Jinx-Lover” who was normalizing abominations. Fae Town’s reporters were less quick to spew their hatred. They were among the people being affected most, and likely had family members who had recently been Cursed. Their reporting was more hesitant, objective, or sympathetic. And then, there were those who celebrated, raved, and cheered right alongside the Cursed down in the port and all those who had been on the sidelines waiting for the right button to be pressed to push them into action.

  Xala could not describe how good he felt, but he knew that the foundations of his movement were set. Now, he needed to guide them to the surface.

  Then, below them, in the street, Xala saw a familiar face.

  Lilith.

  He sat up in his chair, slid himself out of it, and walked over to the railing so he could get a better look.

  She caught his eye, and hers were worried sick.

  Xala met her at the front door, let her in, Vulcan standing tall and protective behind him, but she did not mind as she wrapped her arms around him, hugged him tightly, and said, “Someone took him!”

  Colhern was gone.

  Vulcan gulped.

  Those butterflies metastasized. Their melted bodies corrupted those golden skulls. They developed caccoons to burrow both within. As Xala lifted upward, into the air, above his pool of reflections, those caccoons began to break.

  From them, death’s golden butterflies writhed free. Their patterns were black and gold, with skulls patterned against the back of their heads. Their antenna had become curved and thorny, their carapaces tipped with pitch black stingers, and wings that conducted light like stained glass.

  Those butterflies found their master and enshrouded his naked body like armor.

  Head to toe in terror.