Kateryna Vitkovska – Made by Meghan

Waterfell Castle from the Mirth duology. Scenery illustration by Kateryna Vitkovska.

The early morning is dark, cloud shrouded, though a half moon intermittently shimmers through thinner patches of that cloud. Tiny flakes of snow filter down from the otherwise starless sky. Not even a hint of the pending sunrise tinges the horizon as I slip out a side door. I immediately dart across the short yard to half-jog down the narrow stone stairway that twists down from the cliff on which the towering edifice of Waterfell Castle is perched. Kilometers away, deep in a valley nestled between neighboring peaks, I glimpse the faint, sporadic lights that emanate from the nearest town, before the path at the bottom of the stairway abruptly changes direction.

The few castle guards, both mages and shifters, patrolling the various ramparts and posted in the towers above ignore me. Not that I look back.

My breath comes out in chilled puffs.

Tiny mage lights trigger as I descend, situated at ankle height so as not to compromise my sight. If I were a null without the ability to actively wield essence, I’d be stumbling around in the dark.

Despite my light sensitivity, I’ve never been much of a fan of the dark. Though curling up on a winter’s eve next to a fire with a book, sipping a hot chocolate, and reading by candlelight is a hazy memory …

Or possibly an unrequited dream.

Before that stupid kiss. Before he shoved me away with pure pain etched across his face, as if I … as if my touch was … is …

I resolve to shred that stupid list of names the moment I get back to my rooms. I wasn’t thinking … in fact, I’m still not certain I moved the pen of my own volition. I never would have rationally chosen to put his name down.

He belongs to Armin more than me, anyway.

Belonged.

Past tense.

I can’t remember the last time I managed to maintain any level of rationality, not even for a full day. Was it the day before I felt my chest crack open and my soul sunder? While I attended some fucking charity event, commenting on the pretty fucking flowers and smiling at children, even as I wondered why my chest was hurting and my texts were going unanswered. Assuming the entire time that Armin had gone on a bender or was romancing someone new for the weekend instead of checking in with me. A rare but occasional occurrence when he needed … when he needed to run …

Just as I now practically ran, tripping down the path, through the snowy early morning.

Had I still been rational as I raced to the mountain township to identify my brother? Before I found him so … empty, and still. So silent.

Armin. Armin was even more trapped than I am.

Or rather, more trapped than I used to be. But never as trapped as I am now.

Because my father never would have forced Armin to choose bond mates only six months after my death. Armin would have been granted more time.

– Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One [excerpt from Chapter Two]