By Sara Aziz

Shafarat Alhayaa

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The Almuealijun- The magic-wielders who can grow plants, now usually used as royal gardeners.

The Suntshisir – The sunchasers. These magic wielders can manipulate light.

The Shadubirinjir – The shadow bringers. Can manipulate the shadows and darkness.

Rasul Alwafyat – Deaths Messenger. Only one exists every generation, as it travels in bloodlines and only one can inherit the ability. The Maksur have been trying to track the bloodline desperately, but two hundred years ago, the last female of the bloodline mysteriously vanished. No one could figure out what had become of her blood because they had already killed and hunted the Alrueb Alqirmuziu.

Almaealij – The healers, can spur your skin to heal faster and close wounds.

Mutaradat Alriyah – The wind chasers. They can manipulate the wind.

Albahithin – The time chasers. They can manipulate time. Died out three thousand years ago in the Tathir Eazim.

Almutalaeibun – Manipulators. The Illusionists. They can Change your perception of the world and can manipulate the senses into seeing what they want you to see, and feeling what they want you to feel. Were hunted down in the Tathir Eazim three thousand years ago.

Alrueb Alqirmuziu – Scarlet terrors. They are blood manipulators and can tell you who sired you, and what magic runs in your veins, by your blood. Most unnatural type of magic, they were the first to be hunted in the Tathir Eazim.

Lahab – Flame manipulators. They can summon and control fire.

Raqisi Almiah – Water dancers. They can control all water, including the water in the air we breathe. They can draw out all the water from the air we breathe and can suffocate you while they breathe comfortably and watch you die. Most modern Raqisi Almiah are assassins.

Alnufus – The soul seekers. They can see how rotten or pure your soul is. Most were used as slaves for royalty and aristocrats who wanted a pretty party trick.

Kritari – the messengers. They can send anything, anywhere, to any corner of the planet. 

Aleanasir – The name that refers to all elemental magic. [Elementals]

Magical Hierarchies [Pre-Tathir Eazim] –

Common-

• Aleanasir
• Almuealijun

Respected –

• Alrueb Alqirmuziu
• Almaealij
• Suntshisir

Coveted–

• Rasul Alwafyat
• Shadubirinjir
• Albahithin
• Almutalaeibun
• Alnufus

Magical Hierarchies [Post-Tathir Eazim] –

Common-

• Aleanasir
• Almuealijun

Respected –

• Alrueb Alqirmuziu
• Almaealij
• Suntshisir

Coveted–

• Rasul Alwafyat
• Shadubirinjir
• Albahithin
• Almutalaeibun
• Alnufus

Names– Most magic-wielders are called Sahira [Female] or Aljinu [male] meaning witch or jinn.

Change- Change is what all magic-wielders abilities are referred to as in broader terms, what they can do. They can Change the natural order.

Slavery- most magic-wielders became slaves after the Tathir Eazim, the ones who did manage to escape such a fate either became merchants in the Midnight Bazaar or joined the Devil’s Own.

Tathir Eazim – The Great Purging. Three thousand years ago, the Maksur [The Broken] rose up against the Shafarat Alhayaa [Lifes Blades/Magic Wielders] and hunted down the most “unnatural” of them. The Albahithin, the Almutalaeibun, and the Alrueb alqirmuziu all “died out.” There are theories that some still survive, but no one knows for sure.

Maksur – The Broken. The Maksur are the normal ones, the people with no real powers. Ordinary humans.

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The most famous Shafarat Alhayaa in the world as of today [the fourteenth day of the twenty-first month, 1860] goes by the name of Ironheart. True name?

Unknown.

A Song of Crows

One for sorrow,

Two for mirth;

Three for a wedding,

Four for birth;

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Not to be told;

Eight for a wish,

Nine for a kiss,

Ten a surprise not to miss,

Eleven for health,

Twelve for wealth,

Thirteen beware it’s the devil himself.

Prologue

Sticks and stones won’t break my bones, but metal destroys us all…

I blinked as I slowly regained consciousness, the throbbing pain behind my eyes only intensifying as a strange light shone down upon me.

“Subject Four is now awake,” a brisk voice said from behind me.

Subject Four?

I started to sit up, but a foreign pressure on my chest stopped me. Looking down, I saw silver bands twining around me like ivy, pinning me to a strange metal surface.

“Who are you?” I croaked, my voice hoarse from disuse.

“Subject Four is now capable of speech,” The same voice said.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice getting stronger.

My eyes darted around the room before locking on a tall man standing in the shadows. His dark eyes arrested mine, cold and inscrutable. His black hair was streaked with silver, born from the moon and darkness. His face was made of sharp angles and hard lines as he watched me, a single eyebrow raised in question. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hello, khione,” he murmured, the warmth in his eyes belying the emptiness of his voice. My eyes stayed on him, my lips trembling. My beloved. He’d called me his beloved. What was going on? Panic was starting to set in, and my breaths shortened.

“Why am I here?”

“Subject Four-”

“Will you shut the hell up with your Subject Four?” I shrieked, thrashing against the silver, feeling it bend and begin to break along with my skin. Feeling my bones begin to strain and bow as strong hands began grabbing me, trying to shove me down. My skin was tearing, blood staining the silver crimson when I felt something stab against my neck. Pure pain erupted, and I screamed as my whole body went numb and still. My breathing slowed, and then it was as though I was hovering above my body, staring down at the quiet, empty form. My throat couldn’t seem to swallow, and living became a difficulty.

“Six liters of pure iron,” the voice said. “A deterrent against your kind.”

His voice wasn’t malicious or cruel. Simply cold and practical, a doctor with a patient or a scientist with an experiment.

“Don’t worry, Subject Four. This will only hurt a bit.”

I looked up with blurry eyes towards a mask being pulled down towards my face. When it connected, it was fire against my skin. Everything erupted as the skin of my face tore and strained towards this foul creation from hell.

I screamed as the iron of the mask began breaking off, burrowing into my skin, sealing itself to my face. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, it was just agony.

“Help me,” I begged the man in the corner as the iron began burrowing into my lips. “HELP ME!”

But he just stood and stared as the iron dug in again and again and again.

When they pulled the mask away, I gasped a single cool breath of air as tears ran down my face, mixing with the copper of blood. My back bowed off the metal, straining towards a reprieve that did not exist.

“Subject Four has survived part one,” the voice noted.

Survived.

Then a second mask was pulled towards my face, and I thrashed, turning my face away, doing anything to stop the oncoming torture. But nothing helped, and no one heard or cared as I screamed

and screamed

and screamed.

Part One

Scene Two

The Laws of the Hypocrites

Never keep a promise

Trust is something best played your way

Win at all costs.

Chapter One- The Stars Do Not Forget

A glint of iron was the only light that shone in the darkness as night descended, creeping upon its visitors with the cruelty and grace of a queen. I blew out a slow breath as a woman began to step out of the Aracne Tavern. Lady Starkov, his lover. Her steps were hurried, furtive. All could see the guilt hanging upon her frame, the way her shoulders curved, eyes down-turned. I was silent as I drew up from my crouch upon the roof of the opposite building, stretching the tightness of my muscles as I pressed a hand against my twin knives in support. 

Eris and Bacchus protect me, I thought, before running down the curved side and leaping to the opposite building. My steps were light, always balancing my weight once my steps had firmed. My hair- loose- fell about my face. I should have done it up in a braid or bun of some sort, but it was the holy night. Even assassins prayed to something, be it greed or guilt or gods. Still, it was a damned annoyance nonetheless. I swallowed as I leaped to the next building, Lady Starkov clear within the crowds, her black cloak clean where others were stained with age and filth. A lady playing amongst thugs and thieves. She stopped near a corner, an unmarked carriage waiting. While it said nothing of her house, the subtle lavishness spoke for itself. It was a wonder she’d survived her week of slumming it with her protector. Once she’s climbed in, I slid down from the roofs, the footman-turned driver climbing down to close the door, turning a mere moment after I slipped in. Starkov was staring out the window, unaware of her passenger as the footman closed the door, then spurring the horses to a start. 

“We need to talk,” I said quietly. Jolting, Starkov swung her head to me, but I already held my dagger, Bacchus, to her throat. “Try to scream, you lose your value. Lose your value, and I slit this pretty throat.”

Her eyes were wide, the light blue igniting a strange revulsion in me at the fear. Hypocrite. “I’d like you to take a guess at what I might be talking about, Yelena.” Yelena Starkov, third, spoilt daughter to a lord, borne and raised to think she was invincible. Married to a rich, yet aging merchant at the age of eighteen, she’d decided she still had years before she was truly required to become a mother. That was not the problem. The king had little concern for infidelity. What they cared for was who she chose. A foreign lord with dying pockets and excessive patriotism. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she whispered, vapid eyes blinking rapidly, straining to find a way out of this situation. I’d left her none. I slid Bacchus along her throat, reveling in the quick intake of breath at the thin slice it left, a deep red line that branched out in trails of blood. 

“Your husband is a rich man, Yelena, dear. A man with secrets he’s often foolish enough to speak of in front of his shallow, pretty little wife. Secrets you seem happy to whisper when only the bedsheets and your lover are privy.” She swallowed and Ieaned back. “His name’s Henrik Byrod. I have two of my Serpents tailing him as we speak. He’ll be dead by the end of this night-” I stopped at her small cry, before continuing as though I’d heard nothing. “Yet since I’m feeling merciful, I’ll give you a choice. Come with me to your trial, and you will have a chance of escaping if Daddy comes to your rescue, as I doubt your husband will care after the details are told. However, if you refuse, I’d be glad to slit your throat as we speak.”

Her eyes darted to Bacchus again, and I almost didn’t see it coming- the quick lunge for Eris. Grabbing her hand, I twisted, claiming a gloved hand over her scream. I always wore gloves, to hide the shade that made my skin so much different. Ironheart here was a legend, a woman borne of the mists and ghosts hue. Her skin was not the color of burnt caramel in sunlight, coffee in the moon’s glare. Yanking down her arm, I kicked into her stomach, slamming her against the wall. The loud thump echoed through the carriage, and the driver yelled for the horses to stop as we slowed. 

“Fine,” I growled, flipping Bacchus to aim at her throat as she cried, “Wait, please! I’ll do the trial!”

I almost felt pity. “No one threatens Ironheart, Yelena Starkov, and makes it out alive. Be sure to ask around in hell.” 

By the time the footman opened the door, I was gone, and all he saw was the slumped-over figure of Lady Starkov, her throat slit in a painless death.

Another kill for Ironheart.