Young Writers Society

The girl sat in the same corner Azrael had comforted Missy in before the mutiny began. Dimly lit by the few lamps they’d left on for her, she seemed calm — far calmer than she should’ve been by any stretch of logic — and her lips widened into a grin as she noticed Azrael approach. Azrael crouched in front of her carefully, hand loosely resting on the gun on her hip.

“Vane kept her tied,” her brother reminded her, “Don’t you think he had a reason?”

“We need to talk,” she said, her lips suddenly feeling oddly disconnected from the rest of her face . The practitioner’s smile died a little.

“Azrie…”

Azrael frowned. “Why are you calling me that? Who told you that name?”

The girl’s already round eyes rounded a bit more. They were a curious shade of blue, Azrael noticed: light, but not piercingly clear like Reiner’s, much more resembling the leaves of valveris flower or the low skies on a sunny day.

“You did.”

“Listen—“ Azrael paused. The blood and the rain; Vane; Rein’s voice in her head; Ranye… had she spoken to the practitioner? Back at the Lighthouse, when they’d first brought her— but no, the girl’s mouth was covered then. Rein had just reminded her of that a few moments ago.

She frowned again. “You called me ‘Captain Azrie Rose’, before I was any of those things.”

The practitioner pouted. “That’s quite untrue. You will have tell me it was just that others had not yet known it.”

Azrael’s mouth opened and closed.

“You’re losing your mind, little sister, and she’s only making it harder to find again.”

“What?”

“You tell me, once…” The girl spoke slowly now, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap as if to keep her herself focused. The chaffing marks on her wrists were still visible, even in the shadows under the deck. Her attention snapped back to the girl’s face as the practitioner continued: “You will tell me, that it’s just that the others didn’t know you as Azrie Rose yet, but that you were always Azrie Rose.” She looked up, seeming a bit pleased with herself. “Since before the Academy.”

Azrael was on her feet in the space of a heartbeat, gun pointed at the practitioner before her brain even caught up with her body. This girl knew more than anyone else onboard the ship. About her past. About her future.

“You’re not a practitioner,” she breathed. “You’re a Storyteller.”

The girl nodded. “I am. And you are not going to shoot me.”

Azrael watched as she stood up, her hands folding in front of her again. Her own grip of the gun tightened. “I’m not? How come?”

The girl hesitated. “Because you already didn’t. Except, it didn’t happen for you yet, but if you shoot me now, we can’t talk in your later, and that would mean I can’t have memories of it.”

Azrael’s thoughts raced to find the logic the other girl was clearly seeing. Tentatively, she reached into the back of her mind, where the knowledge of the Storytellers lay stored, so close to methods applied when dealing with heretics.

They will tell a man’s story by stealing his soul, the lessons said, the words clear despite how young she was when she first heard them.

The couch in the gallery, her favourite one by the bookshelf, so warm yet so close to the window; the Palace outside, snow-covered; the clean, sharp cuts of the Academy’s architecture visible further below.

“They can tell your future, but never let them touch you, or your memories will be taken from you.” Her brother’s voice; Mother sharply nodding from the armchair. And she wishes to say something, but she knows she wasn’t asked; and even though she’s too little to be listened to, it would be her brother’s fault—

“Azrie…”

The Storyteller’s hand was reaching for her. She stepped back and aimed the gun again, forcing herself to meet the other’s eyes.

“Kill her.” The nails of her other hand dug into her thigh. “She’s a heretic. Kill her.”

“Is it the voice?” The Storyteller’s tone was gentle, but nonetheless sent ice through Azrie’s veins, the sudden shiver forcing her to clench her jaw.

“How can you possibly—“

“You told me.”

“I would never tell you that.”

The girl smiled, playing with her hands again.

“But you do,” she said, “because you trust me, Azrie Rose, just like I trust you.”

She swallowed. She’d seen heretics before: practitioners so far gone that their eyes turned dead and their skin cracked with runes that stole pieces of their bodies along with their sanity. But this, this… Storytellers were barely more than a myth; a story told to the children of Councilmen like the stories of the Council were told to those far enough from ever meeting them in person. Meant to intimidate, frighten, solidify the faith — monsters who stole souls, not young girls with calm voices and round eyes who pronounced Azrael’s name in a gentler tone than anyone ever had before.

“Shoot her.”

Azrael closed her eyes, only to open them again in a moment. The Storyteller didn’t move, light eyes calmly resting on Azrael’s face rendering the gun about as interesting as the air between them.

“The Dancer will leave you at the Lighthouse,” Azrael said finally. “You’re free to go wherever you want from there… I suggest any ship heading away from the Palace.”

The Storyteller’s gaze fell, and for the first time she seemed unsure. In one insane, ridiculous moment, Azrael nearly stepped closer to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She lowered the gun and took another step back, finding her way backwards up the stairs to the deck. The Storyteller’s eyes followed her.

“They call me Sada,” the girl said quietly, “where I grew up.” She licked her lips again and turned her gaze back up at Azrael. “Please, let me stay aboard The Dancer. I’ve missed you, even though you don’t even remember me yet.”

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