The cemetery is old, belonging to the time of our holy ancestors. It is a macabre city of sculptures and tombstones. Only those who were somebody or died for something get the privilege to rot here. Alldora's watery abyss for most of us.

  A rge and eborate mausoleum towers in the distance; its sculptures high, their paint bright. It is owned by the Alcmaeonidae. Senatorial family. Wealthy. Potent. Some say the family has distant blood ties with the Prophet, the man who led our ancestors toward Lodestar. Rumors no doubt propagated for centuries by the members of this very family.

  The smell of spent incense shrouds the Necropolis.

  Regardless of this pce being the opposite of Lodestar—you know, death and life—it still has its myriad of colors. Although most have faded away; especially on some of the grandest and oldest of tombs. Statues of winged familiars erupt from stone. Almost all the sculptures here represent people in the prime of their lives.

  It is an art collection of polished stone; with mostly human figures cd in chest armor, chiton, and himation. The garments are often painted in green, blue, and red; and every hairsbreadth of skin is painted beige, peach, brown, tan, russet, olive, bck, pale pink, and every tone between.

  Strangely the thing that impresses me most is not the detailed, determined, and slightly smug faces of painted marble, but how garments and mantles...I don't know...the fabric itself just looks so real, with every tiny fold, nook, and sway petrified for eternity. I could capture this on papyrus quite well, but not on stone.

  Due to some tombs being rumored to have treasure troves of carved crystals and many shiny decorations embedded richly by them, the Necropolis is always guarded by almost a full centuria of Lodestar's Cobalt Guard. Needless to say, anyone caught trying to steal from the chosen ones is very publicly executed by Throwing.

  Lodestar's cemetery is located away from the city itself, with tall bck-leafed trees growing around it. There are some artificial ones too, with their violet leaves lush, and crooked trunks. Scantly dotting the interior of the rge graveyard are dark red and bck leaves fallen from natural pnt life. Bck-leafed ginkgo trees stand eternal watch over the dead.

  Hundreds of people are around me. Students, grandmasters...loved ones of the fallen.

  Fitful bsts of air mow at my hair. Oddly, these winds—gushing from west to east—feel sickly and unnatural somehow. I assume that because we are gathered in a pce of death, the mind pys tricks.

  I rub the tender, reddish-purple patch of skin. Amaranthine color stains the side of my knee. That bitch tried to maim me.

  I look at the ground.

  Libation of wine and some rice are poured by the priestesses from Allmother's temple. It is hoped this may shorten the fallen ones' stay in the Void. All the while a chantress sings for their souls.

  A young priest named Jayson Janus speaks at the gathering, offering words of comfort that mean nothing to anyone. He dribbles about duty and sacrifice. Talking's all the clergy are good for. Well...most of them.

  ''May their eternal souls reach the undying halls of Empyrean,'' the green-eyed priest concludes.

  Brother Jayson looks familiar. Most priests look the same, I guess.

  He pces three fingers upon the brow and then the heart, outstretches his arms, bows his head piously, his three fingers of both hands pointing upwards.

  Following his lead, all of us gathered repeat the same sacred gesture.

  Cenotaph is a monument erected in honor of a person or group of people whose remains are elsewhere. For example, if a substantial number of soldiers or Bck Breakers die, and the bodies are not retrieved, the Academy or the city may pay a substantial sum for a cenotaph in the memory of those fallen heroes. But this is rare. The arable soil is too precious.

  I've read the report. A disaster. More than fifty soldiers sughtered and, what I'm sure hurts the Chairwoman far more, six Bck Breakers are lost, and two will never walk again. Luckily, the nearest outpost to the massacre remained untouched.

  We lost many crystalborn too, some had to be destroyed after going feral.

  Shit...this...

  This all could have been avoided if Bck Breakers were allowed to have more than three battle familiars. If the Senate wasn't filled with fearful old men and women. Not one senator is here today. No elections nearby I'd assume.

  Ground forces took the bulk of the losses.

  During Harvesting, mounted ncers charge straight toward the Wraith. Each of these brave riders wields a long and deadly nce whose top pointy part breaks upon impact, requiring the riders to retreat and take another. The speartips are often coated with the poison mercybane. Very quick and lethal for a human, barely dazes a Wraith.

  Defending is pointless, a soldier's pte armor does not help much, if at all.

  Even the famed nanilu—iron-strong bck cloth light as silk, worn by Bck Breakers—is of course useless if a Wraith sms you directly.

  Everything is.

  I've read that sometimes they can be surprisingly intelligent. Throwing rocks and debris or hurling themselves directly toward a Bck Breaker.

  A shiver goes through my lower back because I know. Because I've seen plenty of illustrations depicting them with notations about potential weak points. Usually neck and joints. Each Wraith is different and none are pretty.

  Wearing their ceremonial, bck linothorax armor, soldiers of Lodestar line up in front of the cenotaph. Their blue cloaks rippling in the wind, bronze helmets gleaming.

  ''One with the city,'' the soldiers begin chanting, thrusting their spears at the sky. ''One with the canyon,'' their spear butts sm at the ground.

  Gabriel stands next to me. We are just two ants lost in the crowd. His hand csps mine as we both keep looking forward, pretending not to notice each other. His thumb tickles my wrist. I look him in the eye and realize he must have known one or a few of those now gone. He never said anything. Later I'll rip his face off for not speaking to me about this. Usually we tell each other everything.

  Except...

  No matter how much I wanted I could never bring myself to tell him about my—I never know how to call it—my...enhanced abilities. I don't think he would be intimidated by me being far stronger and faster than anyone. He is not easily intimidated—let's put it like that. But what if he sees a monster, a freak. The warmth given by his eyes each time he looks at me is Sol's own: bzing at me deliciously. Were that warmth ever to become ice or anything else I would break apart.

  After the graveyard ceremony is over and people begin slowly dispersing, I take his hand comfortingly.

  At the graveyard's center is the Void's Eye. An open-air circur peristyle of white-veined bck marble. A row of bck columns forms a covered walkway that surrounds a circur open space.

  I guide him to the ''pupil''. The red ssh of my long hair cuts through the bck of the pce.

  I give him the portrait I've made. ''A small gift.'' I smile.

  A few weeks ago, Father sent me some high-quality papyrus. The portrait is of Gabriel looking into the distance. Just bck ink on white papyrus.

  ''I had no idea...'' Gabriel looks at me, thoughtful.

  I'm decent at drawing, able to put anyone's likeness onto parchment. Same goes for buildings or ndscapes; I can draw anything with good fidelity. It's a gift I mostly neglected, to the ments of my father, who believes I should pursue and develop my drawing skills.

  ''Do you like it?'' I ask him.

  He is quiet. Says nothing for eternity or two. ''Ann...'' He looks at me. He wants to kiss me, I can tell. ''It is a mirror. You should draw more often.''

  ''Can't kill a Wraith with a drawing. Well, maybe one of my initial sketches absolutely could.''

  He smiles, looks at my lips.

  Our short kiss is life in a pce of death.