The Stars That Fall

Blood soaked the snow-covered ground.

Yugiel looked up at the dark, star-filled sky and whispered a silent prayer. This wasn’t unlike what he was used to. He’d lived through the Matoch’an, experienced the sort of pain that only death could bring, and he’d hoped that, for as long as he lived, he’d never have to experience it again.

Yet, before him, the bodies lay effortlessly still, the stench of rot and burning flesh saturating the air, scalding his throat as he navigated through piles of bones and tissue. 

Dozens of bodies surrounded him, and he trekked through them, hopelessly inspecting each body as if his inspections would suddenly spark new life within them. 

Who could’ve done this?

Certainly, no erel he knew could commit such a massacre. He exhaled as rain dripped from the bridge of his nose. There were only seven of them—seven demigods who ruled the realm of Ịtoba, each hailing from their own Kingdom. Since the Treaty, there hadn’t been a field this bloody, or deaths this gruesome. 

Vomit threatened to spill from his lips as he stepped over disembodied heads and graying limbs. Quaking inside, Yugi stepped closer to one of the bodies, his stomach churning as he stooped closer to inspect the wounds.

He knew what this was; he should’ve told Collector Ataiz the moment he’d landed in Tulip Fields, but he’d forced himself to stay here. A sight like this was enough to trigger even the most valiant gods who once ruled these Kingdoms. 

He wasn’t meant for this. 

He’d wanted nothing more than to join the Akh’aji, to become a High Reaper. That way, he’d put his mávros to good use: ushering new souls into the realms. But he was stuck doing the dirty work of the Collectors, who’d rather stay in their secret chambers counting souls that were turned in to them. 

He was not a true Reaper if licensure was considered. To the Akh’aji, he was nothing more than a Traitor, whom they only summoned whenever they needed large portions of mávros for the grittier tasks that the average Reapers were unwilling to do. If he wasn’t given a duty, he spent most of his time signing paperwork and tending to his Kingdom, Daun. 

Still, he was willing to help the Akh’aji whenever they needed him, hoping that they’d finally consider him for a post within their sect. 

Yugi shuffled snow away from the body, carefully taking her in. A young hajar’in. She was the fourteenth hajar’in death for the week, since Ataiz had sent him to inspect the fields. Her blouse was torn open, and a fresh, red wound was carved into her lower abdomen. This wasn’t a careless incision. The assailant had taken his time to cut out an insignia, one that Yugi was familiar with. He’d seen this rune on a few occasions during his earlier days training with the Second Gez’Yasad. 

There weren’t many Runists around these days. Most were killed off during the Matoch’an, and Yugi hardly believed that there were any more remaining. The Triumvirate hadn’t necessarily outlawed the study of alchemics. Still, They did have strong opinions about the practice, with the EzeNyera claiming that the creation of runes was a ‘distasteful’ part of Xhian’s history.

Ironically, the last of the Runists belonged to the Eccentric Clan, which descended from the EzeNyera’s House. Yugi had known a few Titanic Runists personally, most from Maika, but they were only skilled with death runes, as most of them were Reapers themselves. 

This rune, however, was neither a death rune nor any of the common runes that most anghi knew of. This was a reanimation rune. 

And … more frighteningly … it was the work of a Second Rank anghi—a tajel, to be more precise. 

Yugi straightened himself, running his fingers through his wild, black curls, drenched with rain. Strands of hair stuck to his face, and he moved them behind his ears before wiping water off his forearms. 

The rain had washed away most of the evidence, if there was any to begin with, but there were dozens of bodies, the blood, and a few other things Yugi could take from the fields. His first thought was that this was a campsite and that whoever was here used it to perform a ritual. But he didn’t think that was the complete story. 

At least, if someone were to come here to start a ritual, they would’ve chosen to cover their tracks more carefully. There wouldn’t have been any bodies, just the odd smell of sulfur and boiling blood. 

He needed to report this to Collector Ataiz before dawn broke, and based on the reddening sky, he didn’t have enough time. The sun’s light peeked through thick, rolling mountains in the far distance, beyond the Central Octeract’s city. If he stayed here any longer, he’d risk blowing his cover. Besides, he’d been roaming the Central Octeract without the proper warrant, despite Ataiz claiming that he’d get one to Yugi soon enough. 

Truthfully, the Collector should’ve been the one to come here, to investigate the deaths, and to inspect the area. He harnessed mávros as well; he could collect any loose souls if necessary.

“It’s nothing … important,” Ataiz had said. There was a disconcerting tone in his voice, which was strange, considering that Collector Ataiz was usually composed, with a touch of callousness in his demeanor. “Hajar’in die all the time,” he’d continued. 

Perhaps it was true; hajar’in were mortal creatures, but they lived for nearly half a millennium before succumbing to their final breaths. Every Reaper knew this. 

If a hajar were to die, it would be of old age. They never died this young. They never died like this. 

He glanced at the girl again; her skin was as white as the snow that covered her. With his eidan, Yugi pushed against her chest, feeling for a pulse or a heartbeat. 

She was warm, still vibrating with ein, meaning that some semblance of life was trapped inside her body. She wasn’t breathing. He pulled more of his eidan to the tips of his fingers before guiding it toward the young girl. He reached inside her with the tendrils of his eidan and searched—a thread of life, something for his eidan-mávros to latch itself onto—nothing. 

Mávros burned hotter, releasing black embers as he pushed further, searched deeper for a trinkling of ein, but still nothing. 

Was she dead?

His fingers ached from wielding so much eidan. He thought all these bodies were lifeless, but something wasn’t right. 

A dead body shouldn’t vibrate with energy, but then again, no Reaper had come to collect any soul, and the ones who’d been sent out hadn’t returned to the Akh’aji.

He’d thought that when he came here, he’d see loose souls at least, or perhaps, the souls were still trapped within their hosts, unable to come out.

Ataiz did tell him that the Akh’aji were investigating the missing Reapers as well, so there was still the slight chance that the Reapers who were sent had already harvested the souls. 

With immense focus, Yugi reached into the young girl again, this time, threading more mávros through his veins. Small incisions were cut within her organs, as if someone had performed a delicate surgery inside her body with their eidan. The bruises had healed, leaving no trace of the assault. These incisions were microscopic and terrifying. 

The only ones skilled enough to wield eidan this way were the Ancient Gods, and most had been sedated during the wars. The ones who weren’t sedated were killed. 

Aching from the pain of his sore arms, Yugi reeled his mávros back, dulling the eidan to preserve his remaining energy. 

Death was a pain no creature made by the Asayli should endure, and yet, there were Reapers, all assigned the horrid task of taking away that last breath. How did this little girl lose hers? How did any of them lose their final breaths? 

With each passing day, he was reminded of how cruel death was. His stomach slumped in a heaping pile of disarray as he watched the young girl lie still in her trance. 

Someone too powerful, too skilled, had done this.

Yugi scooped the little girl up, taking care not to damage her further. He couldn’t take her to Collector Ataiz. It would be better if he brought her to his clinic. The Medics there would know how to handle this. 

Eons ago, when the wars raged, threatening to tear the realms apart, a young Yugi, new to Reaping, was forced into the fields to harvest his first soul. He’d trained extensively with the Second Gez’Yasad, but he was careful to only allow Yugi to harvest animals, sensing that Yugi’s spirit was too tender to handle a crueler death. The Second Gez’Yasad had been right for the most part. 

When the Opposition discovered Yugi among the refugees from Daun, they realized he naturally harnessed mávros and placed him on the front line of battle. He hadn’t awakened yet, was still a Fourth Rank seraph with very little skill, only knowing the theory of the craft as the Second Gez’Yasad had taught him. 

On the front line, his first harvest was a young girl much like the one he was currently holding. She wasn’t a hajar; she was an anghi from the Titanic Clan. Her wings, despite being recently developed, had been destroyed by the gods, and he didn’t want to think of what the gods had done to her after they destroyed her wings. 

The wars had been her ruin as rogue gods plagued the Kingdoms, taking with them anyone they could. 

She was their victim—their prize—his nightmare. She’d screamed, writhing in pain with each breath she took. She’d fought for her life as Yugi held her. But when she died, he couldn’t Reap her soul. All he could do was cry. He’d broken; mountains of energy moved inside of him, and a rush of eidan swelled his veins, giving way to a sinkhole of sorrow breaking free from its constraints.

 
He’d evolved to an anik that day, awakening with a new and painful surge of eidan that set him on the path of godhood. 

This girl reminded him of that day. But as much eidan as he had harnessed, he could do nothing to save her. 

With a breath, he unfurled his wings, a brilliant red against the bluing night sky. Yugi steadied his mind, pulling large reserves of his eidan toward his wings. As he prepared to launch, something red and glowing caught his attention. 

Still clinging to the girl, he slowly turned, scanning the snow. It was a small trickle, hidden by layers of white, but the glow was distinct enough for him to recognize its familiar essence. 

Iyùn Honey. 

A flicker of enigmatic gold sparkled from its translucent viscosity, and he froze, stilling his mávros to a calming halt. 

The dead bodies were one thing, perhaps too much of a thing for Yugi to be tied up with anything else. But … Iyùn Honey? 

The Wells were locked, weren’t they? The Triumvirate had forbidden anyone from mining the Honey eight years ago. 

Yugi had known—and so had the other erelim—about the runoff in the underbelly of the Central Octeract’s only forest, and while the EzeNyera had voiced His disdain with the erelim collecting from the runoffs, He hadn’t officially ordered the Ariwanian Council to stop them. 

Besides, any Honey collected from the runoff was only enough to sustain a region for a few days, if necessary. The runoff only produced a few drops a year, mostly during the summer months, when the Honey was less viscous.

 
But this was not a few drops. 

His heart raced, vibrating with adrenaline. 

The Wells were locked with special runes that only the Savant Ka’dush could operate. This was odd. 

Moving some snow out of the way, he observed the heavy iron disk riddled with rune marks across its flat surface. He ran his fingers across the top of the cover and inspected the rust that had collected on the tips of his fingers. 

There was a small hairline fracture running diagonally across the disk, but even if eidan could be squeezed through the fracture, only a skilled god could do so. Someone was using the Well. 

He looked at the girl in his arms. Someone was around. 

If someone could forge a dagger and cut this grotesque rune into the hajar’s abdomen, then someone could break the rune on the Well’s cover. 

He pulled a vial from his coat pocket and scooped some of the Honey into it. It heated the glass until his fingers were red, but he managed the intense heat, pushing it into his pocket while balancing the girl. 

He couldn’t bring the girl to the Collector, and he didn’t want to inform him about the Honey either. But perhaps there was someone in the Council he could speak with. Perhaps Kireh. The demigod wasn’t approachable by any means, but he was an Ọba, and Yugi had reason to believe that Kireh’s political alliance wasn’t completely aligned with the Council, despite being a Councilor himself. 

Yugi angled his wings and launched upward, wings beating, leaving a torrent of wind behind him. He needed to get this girl to a Medic. He’d worry about the Well later.