Prologue
Mischief
Broadly, magic.
OR
A genetic predisposition or a capability bestowed upon an individual that can manifest as several supernatural abilities and skills; practitioners are either mischief-born (mischief passed down by blood) or mischief-bred (mischief given by bite, curse, or contract).
OR
A shortened form of Mischief-Bound, the realm generally considered as earth, as in “We live in the Mischief-Bound, though I would love to visit the Fae-Lands one day.”
AD 332
They called him many things. You. Small one. Bastard. Dagvulf. That last one was his favorite, though. Day Wolf.
They began calling him Dagvulf because he wasn’t afraid to bite the hand that fed him. His hair and skin were sun-bruised but he acted like he was made of the night, of the darkest depths of a velvet sky. He was a wild slip of a boy, teeth sharpened on the fists of his elders. He was used to slightly raw meat, the scraps of a meal hastily prepared. Eating with his hands, quickly, the coppery tang of blood mixing with the dirt under his fingernails. There was never any time to sit and enjoy the taste. Never any time to sit and feel the sun sink into his skin. Often, he was shuffled between hands, forced into small spaces, huddled together with others who looked like him.
Until, one day, the hands didn’t hold metal and reproof—but fabric soaked in water, fragrant oils stinging his nose. It hurt his face, his hands, his feet. They dressed him in linen and gave him wooden shoes that were a little too big.
He was more clothed than he had ever been in his entire life.
He hated it.
But when the dark-skinned, bright-eyed boy poked his head around his mother’s robes, little hand clutching the white fabric like a lifeline, Dagvulf knew what his purpose was to be.
Soon, Dagvulf held another name in his hands: Quintus Domitius Julianus Gothulus. Little Goth. He added it to the ongoing list, though Dagvulf remained his favorite.
AD 362
The sand hurts. It feels as if it is permanently slid between his teeth and wedged under his eyelids. Centuries later, it’s a feeling Dagvulf will be happy to forget, but for now, as he trudges across the sea of endless dunes, it’s all he can think of. Quintus Domitius Julianus is beside him. Once his owner, now his friend—his brother, he amends—for whom he was named. Quintus hates his name. Dagvulf always felt it was a luxury to hate something given to you at birth—names like that are gods-given. If only he had been so lucky. His name came from the tongue of a man and it flows from his own tongue as such.
So, Dagvulf has always called him Domitius. The tamed. They are a pair, he always felt. The wild beast and the tamed serpent. Except it’s the other way around these days. Domitius, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Dagvulf, willing to sit and bide his time—or worse, follow along behind Domitius wherever he goes. Not that Dagvulf minds. He would go to the ends of the earth for his brother, and he knows the sentiment is reciprocated.
It’s why they are here, though, far away from the relative safety of camp, wandering in the desert in search of some half-spoken treasure. Dagvulf isn’t very forgiving at the moment. Domitius doesn’t need the treasure. He has plenty of familial wealth at his back. But the man seems to live off praise and compliments alone. Glory, even.
He’s gone mad, he thinks, watching Domitius stumble forward. There’s nothing here but sand and death.
Dagvulf stops. “Dom,” he says, but his voice is snatched away by the sand. He tries again. “Brother, stop.” But the sound is even weaker the second time, and he shakes his head, taking another shuffling step forward.
They are surrounded by rich blue dunes, but they are rich only in number and not gold or jewels. He’s forgotten the difference between earth and sky. They are the same—one golden mass surrounding them, and he and his brother are specks of dust, bandied about by some nameless god smirking down on them. Thin shadows stretch in front of them like dark mocking creatures. The sun is a third brother.
The sound of Domitius falling hits his ears like thunder. His lips are dry, cracked. His voice is the same. He joins Domitius, falling heavily on his knees as he presses a hand against his brother’s chest. Still breathing. Still alive. We can do this, he thinks. He grips Domitius’s arms, pulls him up and over his shoulders, taking on the weight with a grimace. Muscles clenched, teeth gnashing against each other, he takes one unsteady step. He pauses, then takes another. The third step is stronger. Steadier.
His spine straightens and he continues on, feet sliding through the sand. When he comes across the gaping maw of a dark cave, he takes a few stumbling steps inside heedless of what new dangers it may hold inside. The cave could lead down to Tartarus, and he’d be happy for the change in scenery.
Then, all he knows is darkness.
He awakes with a start. Domitius is still beside him, sleeping peacefully, though his breath is too shallow, too weak.
The air in the cave is still and heavy. They are no longer alone. He reaches for his knife but finds it missing.
The woman sits in front of him, her legs tucked underneath her. She smiles knowingly and holds up her hand. The glint of his blade is recognizable even from a distance. Moonlight arcs off of the steel as she tilts it lovingly.
“You are dying,” she says. Her voice washes over him like cool water. She looks past him, at the prone figure of Domitius. “But he is even closer to death than you, boy.”
He almost laughs at being called boy by a woman who is clearly ten years his junior, but his chest feels heavy with something odd—maybe it’s the hand of death, pressing against his sternum—and no sound escapes his lips. He coughs and tries again. “Please. Help.”
“I can help you,” she says, “and maybe him, if you’d like. But I’ll need a promise.”
“Anything.” The word seems to echo around them, a shadow climbing the walls of the cave.
“Tell me your name.”
“Julianus—”
“No. Your true name.”
“Dagvulf.” He swallows, grit scratching against the back of his throat. “And yours?”
She laughs and the sound reaches his ears like the trickle of a river. “I am the Undying.” She shifts closer to him, leaning forward so that her curtain of dark hair surrounds him, cuts him off from anything beyond her eyes. He can see his reflection in the crimson pools that surround her pupils. Her breath is against his lips and it tastes sweet, like wine he yearns to drink. “Before I help you, you must say it. Say you will worship the Undying Atossa, who kneels before you.”
The words leave his mouth, though his muscles move with an outside force. It isn’t until she smiles that he realizes what he’s done, when her pale lips spread apart like raven’s wings and the glint of her teeth matches the one on his blade, that he truly understands what her salvation brings.
The mineral tang of blood fills the air, and it reminds him of the ocean.
The sharp gasp of Domitius reminds him of his promise to his adopted family.
And the sharp fangs against his neck reminds him that death is the only thing he truly fears.
