Worlds That
Bite Back

Zane Zareth was ten years old when the Foundry branded him a weapon. They didn't ask. They never asked. The iron was hot enough to split skin and the brand they pressed into his forearm wasn't a letter or a symbol — it was a sound. A single syllable that hummed under his skin like a tuning fork that never stopped vibrating. The pain was bad. The worse part was what happened after: the voice in his blood that answered back. Most Talkers go mad within the first year. The voice doesn't stop. It speaks Commands — words that reality can't ignore — and the only way to keep it quiet is to use it. Zane learned fast that using it cost something every time. Blood if he was lucky. Brain damage if he wasn't. He's been running for six years now. The Court has had eighteen thousand years to get good at finding people who run. They're getting closer.

Nyala Sefu had been doing the Reaper's work for ninety-three years under a name that wasn't hers, in a body that had stopped aging somewhere around thirty, carrying a weapon that was technically a war crime. The Aerie's guild registry had a file note on her: Do not corner. Do not delay with questions. Below that, in pencil and in someone else's handwriting: She doesn't like being thanked. The scythe hummed against her shoulder blade as she walked the perimeter. That was Ophidia. Three thousand years old, bound inside the blade since before the current age, and perpetually annoyed about it. 'Someone's watching,' Ophidia said. Her voice was dry leaves across stone. Nyala didn't break stride. 'Someone's always watching.' 'Not like this.' Ophidia's tone shifted — rare enough that Nyala stopped walking. 'Someone who knows what you are.'