Introduction

In a used bookshop named for Hawthorne, a man reaches for a novel and catches a pair of familiar brown eyes watching him through the shelves.

Twenty years since a series of misunderstandings, each one built on the last, sent them to opposite ends of the country carrying very different versions of the same story.

Twice Told is a story about the damage we carry, the stories we tell ourselves to survive it, and what happens when someone who knew you before the breaking finds you again.

This story explores the lasting effects of childhood trauma on relationships, intimacy, and self-worth. Nothing graphic is depicted, but the emotional territory is real. If these themes resonate with your own experience, please be gentle with yourself.

Chapters

• Part 1: Novels & Strawberries (9 minutes)

• Part 2: Clover & Blackberries (6 minutes)

• Part 3: Perrier & Kisses (9 minutes)

• Part 4: Carrots & Sugar Plums (5 minutes)

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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I had never been so aroused in all of my life. But I don’t mean that in the physical sense (although there was certainly some of that). I mean it in the deepest level of my soul, the dark place where things try to hide. It was like he had held that part of me with gentle hands and loved the dark part of me in a way that no one ever had.

The whole thing confused me.

At first, I was frustrated that he didn’t come inside and join me. At other times I saw the great wisdom of his restraint. At still other times, I wondered if it was because he just no longer desired me. I mean I was forty now. I wasn’t a spring chicken anymore.

Rationally, I knew he’d never seen those parts of me at seventeen that weren’t as pert at forty as they had been then. Women know they aren’t as beautiful as they once were. We have to face that.

Not that I ever had thought of myself as beautiful. Mostly, I had thought of myself as a vessel to be used.

That’s a screwed up thing to say, and I shouldn’t dwell on that. It leads to nothing good, so I pushed it from my mind and spent the next day and most of the afternoon touching my lips. Remembering the single kiss and then trying like mad to remember the hundred kisses we had shared on the beach, but try as I might, those feelings and memories were lost somewhere in that hidden place in my soul.

So much shame for so long. Logically, I knew none of it was my fault, but that doesn’t change what your heart feels. You can try to dictate with your head, but your heart thinks it knows the truth.

For years, I found physical arousal grotesque because it happens to your body even if you don’t want it to happen. Even if you fight it. Your body still betrays you. It’s what makes you filthy. That’s why, no matter how hot the shower or how much soap you use, your never get the inside clean again.

But last night, there had been a moment when, my heart was beating so fast, I had felt like a young woman again, being kissed for the first time, and feeling things that felt both exciting and right. I honestly could not remember ever feeling that in my whole life.

I was forty years old, but had never been aroused without feeling shame. Ever.

I yearned to remember those beach kisses. Maybe I had felt it then. I hoped I had felt it then, but I could not remember.

I know you cannot recapture your youth, but Ethan had been there in the before time and he knew the before me and, if he ever loved me, it was the before version of me that he had loved.

But—”Oh, damn,” I said out loud.

Ethan had taken me to the prom, and loved me on the beach, and touched me in the shack—but he never knew it was the after me. He didn’t even know there was an after me.

He never knew. He was never trying to treat me like a vessel.

Ethan had loved me.

And I did not really understand that until today.

When Ethan’s car pulled into my driveway, I felt the rush again.

I met him at the door, threw my arms around him, and kissed him.

He did not resist me. He picked me up and spun me around. I felt the wind in my hair and reveled in the moment.

How did I not know he was so strong? And more to the point, why did his strength not scare me?

“I was going to invite you to breakfast, but that kiss was a whole meal!” he said.

“You goof!” I said. Then I smiled shyly. “I can feed you all day if that’s how you feel.”

“That sounds delightful,” he said. “But we don’t have time for that right now. I’m going to need you to get changed into your worst clothes.”

“My worst clothes? Whatever are you up to, Mister?”

“We’re going back to the house.”

“Need to do some painting or deconstruction or something?”

“Something,” he said, giving me no hints.

Now, I did not put on my worst clothes, let’s be real. I put on something that made me feel good, look good, and I wouldn’t mind getting some dirt on.

Ethan held my hand all the way to the house. He opened the car door for me, offered his hand, and helped me out.

I was surprised to see four different work trucks there. Electrical, plumbing, construction, roofing.

“Ooh, do we get to climb on the roof?” I asked.

“Nothing so grand,” he said.

He took me by the hand, walked me behind the house, and down the hill where two large bowls sat along the edge of unruly blackberry bushes absolutely laden with ripe fruit.

And he didn’t even notice me wipe a tear from my eye.

Later, after our hands and faces and tongues were stained purple, we walked down to the garden. It was too early for most of the vegetables, but I knew exactly what we were doing as soon as I spotted them.

The carrots needed thinning. So, we plucked baby carrots and munched on them, just as we had done when we were six and seven years old, in the same garden with the same boy, feeling much the same as we had when we were kids.

But I drew the line at climbing the old rickety apple trees to forage for crab apples.

“You’re on your own for that,” I said.

He laughed at me. A hearty laugh, and walked me along the edge of the road, where we found sugar plums by the handful, and then he plucked a single wild pink rose with the yellow center and placed it above my left ear.

“What are you doing, Mister? Are you trying to make me look pretty despite my stained mouth?”

“Nope. I’m trying to make the flower look more beautiful.”

And I felt it again. A little tiny muscle, unused for so long, spasmed without notice.

And I felt joy from it for the first time in my life.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Alcohol has a way of revealing the truth, which is why I was drinking a bottle of Perrier at Geddy’s. I saw at least two dozen people I had not seen in over two decades, all of them revealing more truth than I was willing to say.

I reminisced with David and Joshua about the time we stole a political sign of a man running for county commissioner, painted it over and changed it to him running for President of the United States. It was his fault for running for county commissioner during a presidential election year.

We were sixteen at the time. How could you blame us? The politician had placed the sign in a field belonging to David’s father without permission. We had listened to his father gripe about it. So we had taken care of it.

But I admitted to nothing.

Annie found me there, which made me happy. She and Kathy were dancing in the way girls do not matter what age.

It brought back memories. I’d always found the way Annie moved—well—moving.

After a few songs, she made her way to my table, little droplets of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes flashing. She sat down beside me and looked at my drink.

“Perrier?” she questioned me.

“Yep.”

“Me too,” she said, holding up her green bottle. “You don’t drink?”

“Oh, I do, but just didn’t feel like it tonight. You?”

“I quit. Many years ago. I had a pretty big problem in high school and college and even after. I kinda lost myself.”

I watched her, still moving to the music while sitting in her chair. It reminded me of prom—a harsh memory.

“You okay,” she asked, somehow sensing discomfort.

“Too loud,” I said. “It’s bothering my ears. Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes!” she said.

Outside, we could hear the thumping music from inside and it was almost the right volume. Annie still moved because that’s who she was. She smiled up at me as I moved a little, and she took it as permission to just dance. So she did. I moved with her, but mostly just watched her.

When one song ended and another began, she finished a spin, nearly breathless, her face flushed and tilted up toward mine.

“Wanna walk?” she asked.

“How about a drive?” I offered. “We’re both safe to drive.”

She followed me across the gravel parking lot, and I heard her stop a few steps behind me.

“What the heck kind of car is this?”

“Aston Martin V8 Vantage,” I said.

“Holy shit, Ethan.” She stood there looking at it, then at me, then back at the car, as if she were trying to reconcile the two. I knew the feeling. Some days I couldn’t reconcile them either.

She climbed in gingerly, as if the leather might bruise, and looked up at me as I closed the door for her.

When I got into the car, I was happy to see that she had removed her shoes. That was just so Annie.

“Where are we going?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Where would you like to go?”

“Don’t care,” she said. She fumbled around and found the window switch, letting the evening air glorify itself in her hair.

It took no more than five minutes to get there.

“We’re going to your old house? Where you grew up.”

“Yep.”

“There’s a daycare there or something now in the side apartment.”

“Used to be,” I said. “Now it’s going to be my office.

“Yours?”

“I bought the house yesterday after I signed the contract.”

I pulled into the driveway, parking under the big old ash tree my father and I planted in 1980.

I got out of the car and looked back at her. “Come,” I said.

“Let me get my shoes on.”

“Where we’re going you won’t need shoes.”

“Where?”

“You know where.”

She hesitated, waiting by the car. But I didn’t wait.

I crossed the lawn and went to the hill in the back of the house.

I heard her bare feet running behind me moments later.

I found her hand just as readily as I had thirty years before, in the same spot, and we lay under the moonlit sky watching the clouds move above us.

The night blanketed us in unusual warmth as if it had been expecting this all along.

“The last time we were here,” she said, “We had—”

I passed her a clover flower, plucked from nearby.

“You remember,” she said. She wasn’t awed by it. She had expected it.

We lay there for a long time, our hands entwined. There was no caressing of the thumb, or playing with the fingertips, or any of that. It was just comfort. Like it belonged that way.

“I need to tell you,” she said at last. “What happened.”

“You don’t need to tell me anything,” I whispered.

“No, I do,” she said. “About what happened to us. When you asked me to junior prom, I almost said no.”

“I know,” I replied. “We hadn’t talked much since sixth grade really.”

“But when you showed up at my parent’s house that Sunday and asked me, I want you to know that my heart leapt out of my chest.”

“It did?”

“You must remember me crying.”

“I found it confusing.”

“I was just so happy that you came to me.”

She turned her body sideways toward me. I turned my head to look at her.

“I saw you kissing Mark,” I said. It was less an accusation and more of an observation—at least in my mind.

“Wait, what?”

“At the prom.”

“That’s why you just left me there?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t talk to me for the rest of the school year?”

“Why did you do it?” I asked. “I mean, you didn’t owe me anything, I guess. We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. But you don’t do that when you are on a date with someone else.”

“I wish I had had this conversation with you all those years ago. I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.”

“But you didn’t stop it.”

“Well—,” she began, frustration evident in her voice. “I’m asking you to try to understand, Ethan. I was messed up for a very long time because of what was stolen from me. I felt disgusting, unlovable. And when it happened I froze. I didn’t know how to react. It was like it was happening again.”

“So you didn’t want to kiss him?”

“Heck no! I wanted you to kiss me. But you just left.”

“Why would I stay?”

“So you could have seen me sock him in the gut afterwards!”

“You punched him? I thought you were just throwing me away.”

“God, no, Ethan. I never would have done that. It’s just that you were gone by the time I came to my senses. And then you didn’t talk to me for three months. You didn’t answer the phone. You didn’t open the door when I came to your house.”

“What did you expect?”

“Well it makes sense now. But I thought you knew. You went to the beach party with me, after all.”

“Hold on a second,” I said. “I didn’t go to the beach party with you. I went because Randy mentioned there was a party. I didn’t even know you were going to be there.”

“But I explained it all in the note, and asked you to come.”

“Note?”

“The one I gave your sister. I mean that’s why you came, right?”

“Actually,” I said. “I told her to throw it away.”

“Shit,” Annie said, growing silent.

We lay there for a few minutes, watching the moon.

“So,” she said, her voice a little shaky, “You didn’t read the explanation, and you have thought all this time that I just kissed some other guy? All these years you’ve thought that?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“So then why did you sneak into the lifeguard shack with me at the beach?”

“Because you were happy to be with me. You were happy to be kissing me until—wait a second—”

“Ethan—” she said.

“That’s why you pushed me away! Finally, we were kissing. Like real adult kissing, in the lifeguard shack. The best moment of my life. And then when you pushed me away. You started crying, and you ran.”

“When you touched me—there,” she said.

I didn’t say anything for a long time. I remembered the exact moment. My hand moving from her waist, and the way her whole body had gone rigid beneath my fingers. I had expected nervousness. I had been nervous too. But what I saw in her eyes wasn’t the ordinary fear of a first time. It was something primal, something that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with me at the same time. She hadn’t just pulled away. She had fled.

And because I didn’t know — because I didn’t know what had been taken from her — I spent twenty years believing that what she was running from was me.

“I got scared,” she said.

“You ran away because someone else had hurt you,” I said. It wasn’t a question. It was the sound of twenty years rearranging themselves.

“Yeah,” she said.

“All this time I thought you didn’t want me. All this time, I thought it was because I was poor.”

She made a soft sound—almost a whimper and then spoke softly. “The worst thing was, I did want you. I really and truly did. I wanted to make love to you. It was something I had wanted to do for a long time. It’s just my head was so broken. I ruined what should have been the best night of our lives. I know that’s why you left town. Why you went as far away as you could. It was because of me.”

I didn’t answer her. I’m not sure I needed to.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

The silence enveloped us as a cloud passed over the moon, leaving us in the dark as the breeze momentarily chilled.

At last, I said, “Me too, Annie.”

We lay there for a half hour, not talking. We just held hands.

Finally, I stood and offered my hand. “Let’s get you home,” I said.

We rode in silence back to her house, a lovely little cape overlooking the river.

I walked her to her front door.

She stopped and turned to me.

“Would you like to come in?”

I looked out at the river watching the water crash at the foot of the falls.

“I’d like nothing better than to come in with you, but I think it’s probably better if I don’t.”

She looked at me, her eyes almost pleading, but then her face softened and she smiled.

“Would you kiss me?”

“Yes,” I said. “I will do that.”

It had been a long, long time since I had kissed a woman in that way. My wife had been a passionate kisser. She loved kissing me. I loved kissing her.

But kissing Annie was different in a way that I cannot adequately describe. Trying to explain it would be an injustice. So I won’t try. I’ll just say that It was everything to me.

When we broke apart, we were both breathless.

And I knew she wanted me to come in. And I really wanted to.

But I turned on my heel and left.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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I hadn’t seen Ethan in over two decades, not since June 1995.

We had been best friends since childhood. He’d always been smarter than me, but he was a little bit lazy, so I knew I could beat him. I had never thought about it until we ate that strawberry pie. My desire to be the best, might have robbed him of a full boat. It made me feel selfish. I hadn’t needed it. I had wanted it. Ethan had needed it, and that gave me an ache in my stomach.

He’d had his reasons for leaving, but I knew that ninety percent of those reasons were me. The other ten percent was the job, forced on him, because he needed room and board. And only because I needed to be better than everyone else.

See, the thing he didn’t realize is that while he might have been dirty on the outside because his parents didn’t even have a shower in the house Ethan was pure on the inside.

Me? I might have smelled like lilac and vanilla, but I knew I was filthy on the inside.

He was the good guy. I always knew that. I knew it from when we had lain on the grass on the hill behind his house, our faces stained with blackberries, as we sucked on clover flowers to steal the nectar from the bumblebees.

It was the first time he held my hand, and I loved it as we watched fluffy clouds roll by overhead.

The fact that he’d taken my hand at lunch, with no other expectation, no pronouncement of anger, no feeling sorry for me, but just caring about me like he’d done when he was ten, had been overwhelming.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed him.

All those years gone by.

His wife, his four children, his grandchildren. I’d never had that kind of thing. It never happened for me.

And the worst part of it was that it could have happened.

It could have happened with Ethan.

But I had ruined it.

Out of fear.

He hadn’t said it. But I knew he left after high school to get away from—me.

I couldn’t blame him. I never blamed him.

But that didn’t make me any less envious over the years.

The FaceBook posts. The beautiful family. The wife, prettier than me. He’d been happy.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him happy. I sure did.

I just wish it could have been me. But it wasn’t.

It had been so devastating for me when he posted the picture from his wedding on their anniversary. It made me remember too much, and I had unfriended him on social media. I couldn’t watch it anymore.

I was so happy to see him, and I can’t pretend that there weren’t a few moments when I had fantasies through the day that now that he was free he could possibly be mine.

But I knew it was just a pipe dream. If we had been meant to be together, it would have happened. But it didn’t. That was lost long ago.

He was still his perfect self and I was just the same broken me I’d always been.

I went with Kathy to the book signing session, where he read a portion of a chapter in his novel. His voice was more mature now as he spoke. We had both aged, now forty. Somehow he looked better than he ever had. I just felt haggard.

He seemed comfortable in his own skin. Still shy, and underneath I still saw the things I knew about him that no one else knew.

He was no longer the poor, dirty boy, with the good heart. He’d gotten thick somehow, broad in the shoulders in a way that the skinny boy I knew never could have managed. A few dark, curling hairs crept above his collar and his jaw carried a shadow that hadn’t been there at lunch. He was a man now, but I hoped that the heart of the boy was still there.

Life throws shit at you and it changes you. But underneath, you’re still you. I wondered how much of the guy I knew was left in the widower.

“Thank you for listening to me drone on and on,” he said in his natural unassuming way. “I’ll take some questions.”

There were already a dozen people standing in line for the microphone.

“First,” a young woman said, “You broke my heart. I thought I was in for a nice simple thriller. But then you had to go change everything. My question is, did you plan for this to be a love story all along?”

He smiled at her. “I’m glad the story moved you,” he said. “No. I didn’t expect it to be a love story. In fact, at the time I wrote it, I was going through a pretty devastating period in my life. A love story was the last thing on my mind.”

“But it ends so hopeful,” she said.

“Maybe it was cathartic for me. Thanks for your question. Next?”

“Yes, Mr. Anthony. I loved the book. But who is the story really about?”

He laughed a big hearty laugh, and it did my soul good. “I’m going to have to tell my daughter this,” he said. “See, she and I have this ongoing debate. Whose story is it? Ray, Kaylie, or Estia? She thinks it’s Estia’s story. What do you think?”

“I think it’s Kaylie’s story.”

Ethan nodded. “Thank you for your vote.”

“But whose is it?” the man asked. “Whose story?”

“That’s the cool part about the book. It’s each of their stories intertwined. It’s a tale for each of them.”

The next person, a young man, asked, “Will you be writing more in the setting? The book really needs a sequel.”

Ethan looked at his agent, seated to his left. “Can I?” he asked.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” the agent said.

“It just so happens that I signed an agreement yesterday to publish books two and three in the series.”

The crowd murmured.

“What are they going to be about?”

“You’ll just have to wait until you read them,” Ethan said with a grin. “But they are already written. Both of them. Book 2 will be out in the spring and Book 3 around Christmas time.”

The crowd erupted with cheers and applause.

Ethan was going to be a three-time published author. A whole trilogy! Why was I not surprised?

Kathy and I waited until the end of the signing to go up with our books, but it seemed half of the people from our graduating class were doing the same thing.

Mark Williams, who stood nearby, remarked on it. “Anyone want to go to Geddy’s for an impromptu class reunion?”

And we did just that.

In my copy of the novel, he wrote:

Annie, Thank you for being my first and best friend. Love, Ethan.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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The sign above the door read Twice Told, a nod to Hawthorne’s collection of short stories originally published in 1837, approximately 140 years before my birth.

Coincidentally, the Hawthorne work was published exactly one century before Tolkien published his work about a diminutive fellow named Bilbo who was not at all unlike the barefoot proprietor of the shop.

I was momentarily transported to two different times and places, nearly at once. The first was to a time around 1980 sitting around the family dining table playing the card game “Authors”, which was essentially go fish but with each card depicting an author and their four most famous works. The second was 1993 when I had first read all about Middle-earth.

I was back in the shop momentarily, thinking about both The Lord of the Rings and The Last of the Mohicans and wondering what a novel that combined both ideas might look like. That’s the way it is with authors. You imagine the strangest things and very rarely do they make any sense at all.

While I very much enjoy my kindle and am constantly thrilled at the volume of books I can easily carry with me through airports to places like Aruba, I always bring along at least one real, honest-to-goodness hardcover novel.

In any case, I was hoping to find a girl to fall in love with within the pages of some great work, heretofore unknown to me. I wanted to find Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo for the first time again, but I’d read it once at eighteen at my father’s insistence and a second time a month after he died. Within ten minutes, I had Possession by A. S. Byatt in my hands, hoping it might be the one.

As I read the jacket, I was distracted by motion on the other side of the aisle. Peering between the top of the books and the bottom of the bookshelf above them, I caught a swish of dark brown hair as large, keen brown eyes turned my way, gazing back at me. I looked away first, slightly embarrassed to have been caught looking.

I moved further down the book aisle, feeling, rather than seeing, her shadow move with me. I glanced at her again and met her eyes. Had she been looking at me first? But then her eyes narrowed and I looked away.

I stared down at the book jacket, pretending to read it. Then I lifted the book and my eyes with it, so that there might be a perfectly good excuse for my eyes appearing to be looking beyond the books. But she had moved on, her shadow now ahead of me.

I stopped at the end of the aisle, trying to imagine how I might hold the book so as not to appear obviously enthralled with those almost familiar eyes.

I met her at the end of the aisle. My first thought was that she was exquisite. My second was that her eyes carried a challenge. But then they softened and widened.

“Annie!” I whispered, hoarsely.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Ethan!”

“How are you?” I asked stupidly.

“I’m good. I’m good,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

I held up the book, as if it should explain everything.

She smiled crookedly, the way she always had, holding up her own book. It was The Count of Monte Cristo.

My mouth was working, but nothing came out.

And then she grabbed me in a big hug and I was not at all disappointed, despite feeling awkward about where my arms and hands ought to go, let alone my face. But Annie had never been awkward about these things. Hugging me was her thing. It had been that way since we were five years old.

She looked at my book for the first time. “Possession,” she said. “Oh, you’re going to love that!”

“Honestly never heard of it.”

“You’ll like it, trust me,” she said.

And I did. I did trust her.

“So what are you doing in town?” she asked.

“Book signing,” I shrugged.

“Really? Whose book? I might want to go.”

“It’s my novel,” I said.

“You’re published?” she said, her eyes going wide and then she smiled. “Of course you’re published.”

“Just a science fiction thriller,” I said.

“Cool,” she said. “When’s the signing? Tonight? Where? I definitely want to go!”

“At the University, from seven till nine.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, smiling.

We stood there looking at each other, saying nothing. It felt more awkward as the moments passed. I didn’t know what to say to her.

“Oh, hey, you got time for lunch? My treat,” she said. “You remember Dottie’s, right? Of course you do. Fancy some strawberry pie?”

“It’s almost like you know me,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve got time if you do. Want to walk?”

“Not in these shoes!” she said smiling. “But I’ll drive us.”

I noticed her legs when we got in the car. Heck, I noticed them long before that if I’m being honest.

I climbed out of the car and stood there looking at the restaurant from my youth. There were other restaurants in town, but this was the place it had always been. Except now it was owned by one of my best friends from high school. I felt a little shame that I had not been here in the decade that he had owned it.

“When’s the last time you were here?”

“The day after high school graduation,” I said. I looked at her, sheepishly.

“We’re going to have to talk about that,” she said.

I nodded my head. “Yep. We are.”

She stopped me just outside the door, placing her hand inside my elbow and pulling just slightly—just enough to give me pause.

“I’m—I”m sorry about Rachel,” she said.

And there it was. The pain. I clenched my jaw, feeling the ache return. I’d clenched it for years.

I shrugged and took a step.

But she pulled me back again, turning me.

“I’m sorry about Rachel,” she said. And she hugged me for a long time.

I’m pretty sure my eyes were damp when she released me.

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Fair enough,” Annie said. She paused only a moment, and then her demeanor changed. Now she tugged me by the elbow. “I’m going to have a BLT and pie!”

I ordered a club sandwich, sans cheese.

“You still don’t like cheese? I never understood that. Thought you would have grown out of that by now.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever grow out of disliking something that smells and tastes like dirty feet.”

She laughed out loud. “You’re a goof,” she said. “I’m glad to see that’s still true.”

“I guess I could have taken the cheese and given it to you.”

“Well, you used to be smarter,” she said, grinning at me.

She was as lovely as the first time I’d seen her, sitting on that piano stool, my mom teaching her the location of Middle C. I had liked Annie immediately. And I had never stopped liking her.

We were interrupted by a loud voice. “Well if it isn’t the famous author!”

David, the owner. I had known him since seventh grade. He slid into the booth next to me and across from Annie. I slid over to make room for him as he clapped me on the back.

“Hi, David,” I said. “How’s business?”

“Can’t complain.”

“How’s your wife?” I asked.

“She’s good. Has the grandbabies at the lake today.”

“How old are they?”

“Three and five,” he said. “She’ll be at your book signing tonight. I can’t make it, but she’s going to get two.”

“Looking forward to seeing her,” I said.

“Food okay?” he asked.

“As good as it ever was,” I said.

“I saved you two some pie when I saw you come in,” David said.

He stood, thumped me shoulder and then turned to go. But he stopped and turned back to us. “Makes me happy to see you two sitting here. Together.”

We sat in silence, drinking coffee. The remnants of our meals vanished and were replaced with two delectable pieces of the world famous Dottie’s strawberry pie.

Annie and I smiled at each other as we ate strawberry pie again, for the first time in ages. There had been a time when I would have reached across to wipe that whipped cream from her upper lip. I really wanted to, but I didn’t.

“So, where did you go?” she asked. “After high school.”

“As far away as I could stand it,” I said. “I went to Florida.”

“You left for Florida the day after high school graduation?”

“I did.”

“I was expecting to see you that summer. Hoping—” she cleared her throat. “I thought I would see you.”

“I mean we really hadn’t seen each other much after sixth grade,” I offered.

She looked down at her pie, playing with the strawberries as if her appetite were gone. “Sixth grade was a bad year,” she said.

I nodded, but said nothing. After a minute she prompted me again.

“I knew you were going to Florida for college, but I didn’t think you would go until the fall.”

“I had a job offer at the university. I had a scholarship for being salutatorian, but it didn’t pay for room and board, only tuition.”

“Thanks to me,” she smiled.

Here endearing, crooked smile. The one that always got me to do whatever crazy idea she had in mind.

“Less than half a point,” I said.

“It’s because I distracted you.”

“Yes. Yes you did.”

“Did you like it there?”

“Not especially,” I said. “I mean it’s nice if you like rain every day and half it comes horizontally under your umbrella.” I paused. “You went to Brown, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was mostly good. But not all good.”

“Why?”

“Just things that — well, you know — it goes back to sixth grade.”

“I’m not sure I know, Annie.” I said. “All I know is that you were by best friend from when we weren’t much older than toddlers. I saw you every weekend, even in the summers because of piano. And then we got to sixth grade and they split the class into two rooms. We didn’t have the same recess or lunch or gym. I never saw you. Or almost never. All I know is that you stopped being the happy girl I knew.”

“You really don’t know?”

“Honestly, I thought you stopped liking me,” I said. “I mean, you know how it was for me growing up.”

“That never mattered to me, Ethan. None of it did. What mattered was what happened.”

“What happened?”

“How do you not know? Everyone in class knew!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

“Someone hurt me,” she said.

“In what way?”

“In the way that—men hurt girls,” she whispered.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I looked down at my pie. The sweetness was gone; it tasted like nothing. The sounds of the restaurant faded as the world coalesced into just the two of us. Then I glanced back up at her.

“What?” I asked.

I blinked at her.

Her lip quivered.

Fury surged in me. My cheeks became hot. But what good would that do?

I clenched my jaw and reached across the table, taking her hand—the same hand I’d held thirty years ago—but everything about it felt heavier now.

Some things you don’t get over. Not even after three decades.

[ Index | Next ]

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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She climbed up onto my bedside table and decided that was the spot to curl up and go to sleep. Fine. Cute even. But then—without warning—she ripped the nastiest fart I have ever encountered. And not just into the room. No. Right into the air intake of my CPAP machine.

I nearly died from cat ass syndrome as it was pumped directly into my lungs. It’s been ten hours. I’ve brushed my teeth. I’ve gargled twice. I can still taste it.

And yes, this really happened. I was almost asleep. Ask my wife—I started gagging and choking. I told David, “Your cat just tried to assassinate me.” This cat is already notorious for stinky farts, but this was next-level. Like she deliberately positioned herself to commit olfactory murder.

It’s not just “a cat farted near me and it smelled bad.” No. It was piped into my airway at pressure. Like being chloroformed with a butt.

There was chaos. I’m gagging and yelling, and the rest of the house is howling with laughter. I’m shouting, “Why are you laughing?! I nearly died!”

She had the entire house to go lie down and fart. She chose the one location that funnels directly into my lungs. I think it was premeditated. I told David this morning: “Your cat is guilty of attempted murder.”

I tried to report it. Called the police. There’s no option for “Press 7 if your pet tried to gas you to death.” Why isn’t there?

911 handles regular emergencies. But this needs its own line. Like… 912. The cat fart hotline.

There should be a branch of the poison control center for this. “Yes, hello, I’ve just been exposed to direct feline emissions and I’m not sure if I’m going to make it.”

And tonight—we’re having chili. I know someone is going to think it’s hilarious to give some to the cat. This isn’t over. This was just the warning shot.

I’ve washed my CPAP mask and hose three times now. White vinegar. Still smells like death. I may have to burn it. But if I do, I can’t do it near the house. The county will condemn the property. “Smells like roasted cat fart” is not a designation you want on your home appraisal.

And if David feeds her chili? That’s it. That’s how the Earth ends. The sky will darken. The paint will peel from your house. The seas will boil. There will be no survivors.

So if you don’t hear from me for a few days, and the trees near your house start wilting? You’ll know it happened.

The ApoCATlypse came.

And I… I breathed it in.

Stephen is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

Stephen also writes short stories: science fiction, fantasy, historical fiction, and retold fairy tale with a twist, available for free HERE.

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Introduction

In a crumbling kingdom where magic was sealed away two centuries ago, a fading queen entrusts her fragmented memories to a humble scribe named Moses—unknowingly setting in motion the rebirth of the ancient source of all magic. As court politics collide with prophecy, and as loyalties fracture between duty and love, the queen’s granddaughter Alyse must decide whether to bear the burden of magic herself or entrust it to the written word.

Chapters

• Part 1: The Scribe (9 minutes)

• Part 2: The Codex (11 minutes)

• Part 3: The Princess (10 minutes)

• Part 4: The Rite (9 minutes)

• Part 5: The Accusation (10 minutes)

• Part 6: The Confrontation (10 minutes)

• Part 7: The Stoneward (10 minutes)

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Kira opened her mouth to issue some kind of warning. Or a threat. Or maybe just sarcasm.

Then the cryo-wrap dissolved. The thin stabilizer mesh clinging to his body shimmered for half a second, lost cohesion, and then dropped away in the curling tendrils of steam—evaporating into the air like it had never existed.

And there he was.

All of him.

Kira spun on her heel so fast she nearly dislocated the other shoulder.

Oh.

Her brain managed just one other word:

Proportional.

She stared hard at the nearest wall panel. It wasn’t even an interesting wall. Just conduit and old insulation. But it would do.

She heard him shift behind her. She refused to supply the mental image. This would not do. She couldn’t look at him. And she couldn’t keep her back to him.

“Do you intend to kill me?” she asked, still facing the wall.

“Do you always begin conversations this way?”

“Do you have any clothes?” Her voice cracked up an octave.

“I was frozen,” he said, calm as a glacier. “Not vacationing.”

He moved again, and she tensed.

“I don’t see any luggage,” he added.

She hadn't exactly thought this through. On the other hand, she hadn't expected his clothes to literally dissolve in the steam.

"I assume you don't intend to kill me—despite holding that pistol," he said.

"Don't be too sure," she said.

He laughed. Big, hearty. Entirely amused.

“Why wake me just to kill me?” he asked. “You could’ve just cut the power and left a meat popsicle to thaw and rot.”

It was a fair point.

"We've established that my plan wasn't to kill you—unless I have to," she said, still facing the wall. "But back to my question…"

“The one about whether I plan to kill you, or the one about my wardrobe?”

"Both," she said.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"Do you always answer a question with a question?"

"Do you? Where am I anyway?" he asked.

"Okay, I can't talk like this," she said. "Let me find you something to wear."

She heard his bare footsteps padding quietly behind her.

Too quietly.

Great. Now he was stealthy. And naked.

She stopped.

He stopped with her, a few paces behind.

"Could you just, you know, stay there?" she asked.

"As you wish. I'll loiter here in all my tactical disadvantage."

“Good,” she said, not trusting herself to look back. “I’d hate for your tactical disadvantage to become my strategic problem.”

"Great," he said. "I'll just stand here shivering while you go on a scavenger hunt."

"Were you processed here?" she asked.

"I don't know where here is."

"Cryonic Detention Facility 1414-A," she said.

"Sorry, but that doesn't help me."

"In orbit around Kaeilin's Moon, Gliese-442c."

"Gliese?" he asked. "I know where that system is, but I wasn't aware we had a jump gate there yet."

Jump gate?

She turned slightly, as if to glance back, then snapped her head forward again.

He was talking about jump gates—Einstein-Rosenberg bridges. Wormholes.

Tech from a very long time ago, before the development of jump drives.

“I was processed on Andonia,” he added. “Then transported here as a popsicle.”

“So, you probably don't have any clothes here waiting for you. I'll try to find something. There are a couple of other corridors I haven’t explored. Back toward the airlock,” she said, moving back towards the bridge.

Behind her: silence. Too silent.

“You’re not still moving, are you?” she called over her shoulder.

“Hear your magboots clicking?” he asked.

She glanced down.

“Yeah?”

“It’s natural to you,” he said. “You move from the bridge out to one of these wings where there’s centrifugal gravity—station spin. I’m barefoot. The closer we get to the central spoke, the lighter I get. I’m practically floating now. You’re still clicking along.”

“I thought I asked you to stay?

"You did, but moving warms me up a little."

"I'll tell you what," she said. "You can follow me to medbay. There are at least some things to wrap up in. Thermal blankets."

"Sounds glorious," he said.

She led him back to the bridge, aware of the clicking of her boots as he glided along just behind her—naked. At the medbay door, she stopped and waved him in.

“Thermal wraps should be in that cabinet.” She gestured without looking. “Middle shelf. Just don’t take the foil blankets unless you want to crinkle like a snack bag.”

He slipped past her. “I’ll try to preserve your dignity by putting on pants. Or at least pant-adjacent fabric.”

She sighed. “Definitely do that.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Kira lingered a moment, listening. Drawers opened. A faint rustle of packaging.

She went to the bridge console. "Let's see if we can get some central gravity going," she said.

It took only a few moments to find the control and turn it on.

She heard the telltale sounds of a whirring beneath her feet as a gravitics core spun to life, slowly at first as gravity began to pull her gently to the deck. It was part of the gravitics design—a gradual increase in gravity when it is first engaged.

She turned and headed back toward the unexplored wing. But after a couple of minutes, the feeling of not knowing where he was seemed somehow worse than him being naked a few meters behind her.

Thankfully, she did find a locker with guard uniforms. She had no idea what size he wore and none of them were labeled SIZE: REANIMATED-GOD.

She grabbed several of the larger sizes and returned to find him seated on the bridge, wearing what looked like a surgical gown, torn in half, a pair of stretchy trauma sleeves repurposed as thigh wraps, and a grim sense of dignity.

"I suppose you've read this," he said, indicating his incarceration record.

"Why do you think I have the pistol?"

She handed him the clothing.

"Thank you," he said sheepishly. "I'll go try this on."

He headed back to the medbay, holding the clothing packages behind him to cover his exposed buttocks.

Kira was almost disappointed.

He came back looking like a beefy security guard—broad-shouldered, uniform zipped halfway, sleeves rolled. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel more or less comfortable.

Great. Now he looked like someone who could arrest her for trespassing on a ship she’d already stolen.

“It’ll do,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she echoed.

He dropped into one of the chairs at the bridge station, idly spinning the seat back and forth with one bare foot.

She glanced over at him, really looking for the first time.

“There were boots and socks in the locker,” she said. “I didn’t know what size.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“My attorney said it’d be ten years, max—once the political upheaval was over. I picked cryo. Figured it’d be over in an instant. Figured it was the only way to stay sane.”

“It’s been a lot longer than ten years,” she said.

He nodded faintly.

“Everything I know is gone,” he said. “Everyone.”

“What did you do?”

“You know—the typical story. Got drafted into a civil war. Followed orders because they’d shoot me if I didn’t. Then they sign a peace treaty, and the concession is that all the drafted grunts get labeled war criminals, while the politicians get rich off the spoils.”

He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.

“Classic,” he said.

Kira looked at him for a long beat.

“Well,” she said. “There’s some good news.”

He glanced at her.

“What’s that?”

“Nobody remembers you were a war criminal.”

He would've given her a crooked smile, had he been capable of it—but his face was unaccustomed to crookedness.

"That's a good point."

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Actually, pretty good,” he said. “At least physically.”

“I probably should check you over in the medbay,” she said.

“Why?”

“To make sure there are no gotchas. You know—failed organs. That kind of thing.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “But I think you’re just trying to get me naked again.”

“Look,” she said. “You’re still my prisoner, so no flirting.”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m done doing that.”

“What?”

“Being a prisoner.”

She blinked.

“What about the other?”

He gave her a slow, unapologetic smile.

“You’re the best-looking woman I’ve seen in 274 years.”

"Cut that out."

"Look," he said. "If you were a man who—for 274 years—got to see you every time he woke up, you'd understand."

"You've only woken up this one time."

"A mere technicality," he said.

"If I'd known that, I'd have worn something uglier," she said.

"Yes, that EVA suit is so hot."

"Hey!" she said. "Don't kink-shame the vacuum-sealed aesthetic."

"Fair enough," he laughed.

They sat in silence for a minute.

"Now what?" he asked.

“Now you send a distress signal and wait for someone to come.”

He looked at her.

“Someone’s already here,” he said.

He hesitated. Then, softer—

“So. Help.”

"Oh, no. No. No. No. My task was to keep you from dying, not to become your taxi."

"So, you're saying that you wouldn't respond to a distress signal? It's a virtual rule of space travel."

"Maybe in your time. In my time, it's a good way to get yourself killed."

"So, not everything is better in the future."

"That's for sure," she said.

He spun in his chair, this time letting it spin until it came to a natural stop.

"Have you got anything to eat? As you might have noticed, they don't keep food around for frozen prisoners."

"I wasn't joking about the medbay," she said. "We should do a once-over before you eat anything."

"Fine," he said. "You can be my nurse."

"Perfect," she said. "I was a field trauma nurse for six years."

She turned, already walking to the medbay. "I'm very qualified."

He followed her and lay on the diagnostic table while she worked.

When it was done, Kira stood over the diagnostic display, arms folded, jaw tight. A slow scroll of data moved down the screen, the computer pinging softly every few seconds as it catalogued vitals, anomalies, and cryo-readjustment markers.

“Well?” Kane asked from the diagnostic table, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “Am I dying?”

“Not today,” she said. “But your heart’s a little underdeveloped.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard that before.”

She snickered. “I mean the muscle. Mild atrophy. Not dangerous, but if you try sprinting or doing anything dramatic, you might pass out and make a dramatic thud."

“Dramatic thuds are my specialty.”

She ignored that. “You’ve also got some neural desync—right hemisphere’s lagging behind. That could mean delayed reflexes or minor hallucinations. Should clear up in a day or two.”

He blinked. “That explains why I feel like I’m answering questions I haven’t heard yet.”

“And your immune system’s sluggish,” she added. “Nothing critical. Just… don’t lick any moldy surfaces.”

“I’ll try to contain myself.”

She tapped the screen off. “You’re stable. But no heroics. And no weird food. Really, you need a few weeks of cardiovascular work to rebuild stamina.”

“Hopefully whoever rescues me brings me to a gym.”

She leaned against the diagnostic table, debating with herself.

Finally, she said, “I'm staying planet-side for a few weeks. I could get you that far. Check on you once in a while,”

He looked up. “Really? Changed your mind?”

“It’s the nurse thing,” she said. “Started when I found a wounded bird on my parents’ lawn when I was six. The trick is—how are we going to get you out the airlock to my ship without an EVA suit?”

"There have got to be EVA suits on this station somewhere," he said.

"Probably," she said. "I haven't been end-to-end. You wanna look for one while I grab the power module from your crypod?"

He nodded and headed off to scour the orbital.

Kira grabbed her rolling cart, wheeled it back to his cryopod on Wing A, and disconnected the SMA. She didn’t need the extra jump capacity, but you don’t leave ten grand in credits behind when it’s that easy to pick up.

She found a storage closet with mostly useless equipment— thermal paper rolls, a case of outdated holotablets, wires with century-old connectors, oxygen masks with dry-rotted seals, way too many earplugs, and crew uniforms still shrink-wrapped in plastic.

From the latter, she picked out three more sets of clothing for Kane, but dumped the rest on the deck in Wing A, freeing up five plastic totes. She wheeled these to medbay, collected the drugs and portable medical devices, and labeled each tote using a portable engraver—which she also claimed for herself.

She was just finishing when Kane arrived wearing most of an EVA suit. It was tight across the chest for him, but it would work for now.

"Ever done EVA?" Kira asked.

"Spacewalk? Yeah. About fifty times. But, to be fair, it's been nearly three hundred years. Weird, but if feels like only yesterday."

She chuckled.

"Just want to make sure you're not going to panic out there."

"I've been enclosed in a tube for about ten times longer than you've been alive. I think I'll be okay."

She nodded. "You ready?"

“I wonder if these suits will communicate,” he said, tapping the helmet.

“Oh. Good question,” she said. “Do you have a choice of frequencies on the transceiver?”

He studied the panel on his wrist. “Looks like I’ve got about sixteen channels. Most of them are ISA standard—broadband UHF.”

She nodded. “Then we’ve got overlap. My suit scans for legacy bands. If we’re lucky, it’ll handshake and suggest one automatically.”

“And if we’re unlucky?”

“We’ll shout through our visors and hope lip-reading survived the apocalypse.”

But Kira was right. Her suit did a proper legacy handshake with his, and they tested them before placing the heavy helmets on their stiff collars and locking them into place with a spin.

"Check, Check," came his voice into her ears.

"Loud and clear."

"Same," he said.

Kane wheeled the cart, laden with totes of medical equipment and drugs.

Once they were back at the airlock, Kira used the panel to close the inner door.

She pressed the egress sequence and checked her HUD, watching as the external air pressure dropped.

"Glad that's working," she said.

"What's that?" Kane asked.

"Airlock doesn't work right in reverse," she said. "It didn't repressurize for ingress."

"How'd you get in?"

"Brute force and ignorance," she said.

"Perfect. That's how I normally operate."

"Somehow that does not surprise me," she said as she opened the external door, exposing them to space.

"Nice looking freighter," he said.

"Thanks. I call it the Wren."

"Somehow that fits you," he said. "Do you want to tether these crates?"

"No. Watch this," she said.

Kira picked up the first tote held it out the airlock and pushed it, untethered, toward the Wren.

Kane watched in fascination as the ship responded by illuminating the crate. A red laser traced the outlined of the crate, and an articulating arm snatched it from the void and fed it into an open airlock on the Wren where it was automatically lashed in place by a robotic storage system inside the airlock.

"Nifty," he said.

"If you make the right investments," Kira said. "Salvage goes more smoothly."

She sent the next four crates, while Kane watched, each gathered in and secured automatically by the Wren's salvage systems.

Next, she turned toward him and clicked a tether to his belt, connecting them together. Then, she disconnected the tether between the Wren and the orbital and connect it to her belt.

"Okay," she said. "Don't try to step out. Just let yourself float. My winch will pull us in. Don't make any unnecessary motion."

He nodded and waited.

Kira touched her wrist. Kane felt a tiny tug, and the tether reeled them across the void to the Wren's airlock.

Once they were sealed inside, they removed their helmets.

"You okay?" Kane asked. "Something wrong with your arm?"

"Brute force and ignorance, remember? In any case, welcome to the Wren. This is my home."

Kane looked around, surprised by the tidiness of the ship.

Not that he’d expected chaos. But this felt intentional—everything had a place and a purpose. Tools were stowed but ready. Gear was arranged, not displayed. It wasn’t just clean. It was lived-in with discipline.

Maybe too disciplined. Like someone who didn’t trust the inside of her own mind.

Like Kira.

He wondered how long she’d been alone. And how much longer she could stand it.

[ Index | Prev | Next ]

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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"What am I doing?"

She asked it out loud, but there was no answer. Just her own voice reflecting off titanium infrastructure.

She tapped the cracked terminal, opening the secure hatch to Block A before leaving the bridge, making her way along the wing. Pods lined both sides, staggered—A-1 on the left, A-2 a few meters farther on the right.

A-19, the only active one remaining, sat on the left—upright in a cradle of scorched alloy, secured with four titanium clamps and a faded ISA designation stenciled in red:

CRYO-PENAL UNIT A-19 – SPECIAL MATERIAL CLASS

DO NOT UNSEAL WITHOUT HIGH-LEVEL OVERRIDE – ARTICLE 12-C

It wasn’t sleek or elegant. The cryopod looked built to contain, not preserve—an industrial sarcophagus sealed in frost, armored against time. The surface was pitted, crosshatched with microfractures, and braced with a glowing vent line that pulsed faintly with residual heat. A dull hum came from somewhere deep inside—low, steady, like a heartbeat caught in a machine.

A viewing panel was inset into the upper third of the pod, fogged from within. Kira wiped a gloved hand across the outside, clearing just enough to peer through.

The man inside wasn’t old. Not exactly.

He was large—broad in the shoulders, thick in the neck and chest even beneath the compression wrap of cryo-stabilizers. Muscles corded across his frame in ways that suggested manual labor—or maybe something more violent. His face was strong-jawed and still, pale from stasis, but unscarred. Too perfect, almost. Not handsome in a soft, charming way, but cleanly built—like someone engineered for intimidation.

And yet there was something boyish about him. Maybe it was the lashes, too dark for someone that pale. Maybe the slight upward tilt of his brow. Maybe it was just how young he looked—like time had paused for him while it punished the rest of the galaxy.

She was certain he was both older and younger than she was.

Kira felt a flicker of unease. He looked like someone who should’ve grown into a monster by now.

But he hadn’t.

He was waiting.

The cryo readout flickered:

CRYO INTEGRITY: 4%
CORE POWER SOURCE: MAS CELL – STATUS: ACTIVE
BIO-SUSPENSION: NOMINAL
SUBJECT ID: CLASSIFIED

She left him there and returned to the bridge.

The one working console buzzed faintly, still running in low-power mode. She tapped through the interface with her good hand, pulling up the pod’s deeper logs. No external network. No remote files. Just a simple record tagged to UNIT A-19.

SUBJECT NAME: Valentine, Kane
ID CODE: ISA-GR-77-0473 / Omega Level Security
SENTENCE TYPE: Permanent Cryo Detention (Blacksite Authority)
SENTENCING DATE: UNKNOWN
INCARCERATION LENGTH: 273.8 Years
POWER CLASS: SMA-CELL: ACTIVE

She scrolled lower. The charges section flickered once, then resolved.

PRIMARY CHARGE: Crimes against sentient life / Unauthorized orbital engagement / Population-level devastation (See: Orbitfall Protocol breach)

NOTES: ISA records conflict. Civilian Tribunal 912 identified subject as war criminal. Military Command Register 7B lists subject as decorated war hero. All formal review requests denied. Record sealed under Article 12-C.

Kira stared at the screen.

War hero. War criminal. Depends on who writes the history.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“Of course you’re complicated,” she muttered. “And Kane Valentine? That’s not a real name.”

But the chill it left in her stomach? That was real enough.

She told herself he wasn't her problem anyway, and as far as she could tell, he wouldn't be worth anything, so the safest thing to do was to just pretend all the squares on the grid had been red. They would be soon enough, anyway.

More importantly, she went in search of fuel. She wasn’t running low—three-quarters of a tank remained—but it still mattered. Especially if the source was free. She would sell the materials from the medbay to refill empty tanks a dozen times over, so burning a half tank to get from the surface to the moon and back had already been a win.

Still. It was worth looking.

She found what she was looking for on a subdeck, below and aft of the bridge. A pair of canisters, about three meters long.

She looked them over.

"Oh, you beautiful things," she said. It wasn't just the tanks. It was the auto-distribution manifold to which they were attached.

Kira found a rolling cart and wheeled the tanks back to the ship. Two tanks: one holding 41 kilograms of liquid Helium-3, the other 43 kilograms. They weren't full. Each was designed to hold 70 kilograms.

It was a godsend. The Wren's helium storage was just 80 kilograms. With these, she could hold nearly triple the fuel volume when full. She had the perfect place to mount them under the wings of her ship. And with an intact manifold system, all she needed was longer insulated hoses.

LongER burns, more independence. One day, she'd be able to afford a ram scoop to skim He-3 for free. She stored the tanks in the port cargo bay—a project for later.

But something else was powering the orbital. Batteries wouldn't last two centuries. There could still be a huge He-3 reservoir and a fusion reactor. Nothing portable, but possibly a future refueling spot.

But what about the cryogenic pods? There had to be a local power supply for each so that they could be transported with a self-contained power cell.

What was an SMA cell?

She had an inkling of hope and went back to the bridge terminal.

She scrolled back to the only active pod. The one with Kane Valentine in it.

POWER SOURCE: SMA-4 Series (Stable Matter/Antimatter)
OPERATIONAL DURATION: 329.2 Earth Years
ESTIMATED TIME REMAINING: 13.6 Earth Years
CORE MASS REMAINING: 21.1 mg
TOTAL DISCHARGE POTENTION: ~3.8 TJ
CONTAINMENT STABILITY: Green / Sealed
EXTRACTION WARNING: Manual breach will trigger failsafe destruction or cascade instability.
ACCESS TIER REQUIRED: ISA Blacksite – Omega Lock

The pod was powered with antimatter.

Of course it was.

Of course it was the very thing she needed for her jump drive.

Twenty-one milligrams of it. That was good for 21 jumps. The antimatter in his pod was worth over ten thousand credits. Enough to make her forget about the medbay salvage for a hot second.

Then, she had a thought.

There were 512 pods. Not all had run dry. Some had failed in other ways.

She scanned the manifest. Over one hundred of the pods still had working SMAs. Her breath caught.

There was forty-four grams of antimatter onboard. Enough for forty-four thousand jumps.

Worth twenty-two million credits. Enough to retire for four lifetimes.

She stared at the screen. It felt like an imaginary amount of money.

The only problem?

Owning it would make her a target. Selling it would make her a fugitive.

Using it?

That would make her unstoppable.

Or dead.

Probably dead.

But that had never stopped her before.

And if she didn’t take it?

Someone else would.

She told herself she’d just take a little. Enough for a few dozen jumps. She could come back for the rest.

But even as the thought formed, she knew it was bullshit.

A plan formed in her mind. She would find a lone asteroid. Store the material. Mark its position and orbit, and Jump to it whenever she needed to restock. Nobody would ever find it.

But, she needed to get it converted into a usable form. Back aboard The Wren, she spread the haul across the engineering bay floor. On the worktable, three modules stood like war trophies—their containment indicators glowing green.

Stable. Gloriously, stupidly stable.

The problem was simple:

The Wren wasn’t built for stolen blacksite tech.

The SMA cores were modular, sure—self-contained and replaceable. But their coupling interface hadn’t been used in over a century, and it had never been compatible with a civilian jump drive held together by hope and spare parts.

So she improvised.

Two cryo housings became raw material. A third gave up a dozen thermal converters. She yanked relay pins, cooling coils, and a high-voltage dampener.

By the time she was done, she had a Frankenstein interface no sane person would trust.

But Kira was only borderline sane.

This kind of work—the dangerous, duct-tape kind—made her tick.

It wasn’t pretty. The shielding was patchwork. The stabilization armature was lashed in place with wire. One loose ground and The Wren would light up like a beacon of poor decisions.

But when she slotted the first core and watched the power levels stabilize?

She grinned.

It was crude. But it would jump.

She sealed the coupling, ran diagnostics twice, and didn’t bother a third time.

If it blew, it blew.

At least she’d die warm.

Then she climbed into the pilot’s chair, still in her suit, shoulder aching, and stared through the forward viewport.

The orbital drifted, motionless and dark, silhouetted against the distant burn of Gliese-442c. A forgotten ring of failure and frost.

And inside it: Kane Valentine.

Still sleeping.

Still powered.

Still waiting.

She had what she came for—three cores installed, more in the hold, twenty million credits strapped to her spine.

She had everything.

So why wasn’t she moving?

She drummed her fingers on the console, glanced down at the power register, then back at the orbital.

You don’t owe him anything.

He’s a war criminal. A sealed file. A myth soaked in blood.

She told herself she was just being cautious. But when had she ever been cautious?

Maybe I should recheck the coupling. Maybe one more scan.

But it was a lie.

And she knew it.

She wasn’t hesitating because of fuel.

She was hesitating because she couldn’t leave a man to die.

Even a mass murderer.

So she lied to herself one last time:

It’s just ten jumps. That’s all his pod is worth. Someone will find him. Eventually.

Just because no one had in over two centuries didn’t mean anything.

Right?

She stared a moment longer.

And then she went back inside.

She changed her mind at least thirty times between the airlock and the terminal.

Like picking petals from a daisy.

I unfreeze the mass-murdering sociopath.

I don’t unfreeze the mass-murdering sociopath.

She stopped at the console. No more hesitation. She keyed the override and confirmed the release.

Then turned and walked toward Wing A.

She arrived just in time to see fog curling from the pod’s open door—tendrils of mist snaking into the corridor like she’d summoned something from hell.

But he still stood inside.

Black hair and beard half-shrouded in vapor. Unmoving.

A whirr. Then a click. Then the sound of an electric charge.

The man gasped.

He took one huge breath—then collapsed face-first into the mist.

Nothing moved. Not for thirty seconds.

Then, slowly, he rose.

First to his hands and knees. Frost clung to his shoulders. Steam curled off his skin.

He lifted his head.

Then rose to his full, impossible height.

It was as if she were watching Thor step out of myth.

For one surreal moment, Kira almost expected him to lift his hand and call for Mjölnir. As if it would tear through vacuum and steel and station plating just to land in his palm. Because that’s what he looked like:

A god unburied. A myth breathing again.

If Thor were a mass murderer.

And then he turned.

His eyes—ice, like a frozen lake on a clear blue-sky day—locked on hers. Melting frost dripped from his eyelashes.

He smiled.

Not wicked. Not smug.

Just… warm. Like someone waking from a nap.

“Hi!” he said brightly, like they were meeting at a docking port cafe, except with him half dressed.

Kira stood there, pistol in hand, and blinked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Stoneward was built into the spine of the eastern cliffs, a fortress-prison of cold stone and darker memories. There were no windows. Only torches lit at odd intervals, their flicker casting long shadows down the corridor walls. Everything smelled of rust and mildew and smoke—like the past, left too long unburied.

After six months in Stoneward, Leona was no longer the woman who had once stood defiant in the queen’s chamber. Her once-smooth hair, black as river stone, now hung in tangled cords past her shoulders, streaked with ash-gray and clinging to her cheeks with damp. The prison air was always wet—some foul mix of salt and smoke that never fully lifted. Her skin had gone pale and sallow from lack of sunlight, her frame thinner now, but not delicate—stripped, like bark peeled from a tree. The strength remained beneath, but it had changed. Gone was the courtly poise. What remained was survival.

She had stopped weeping months ago.

Her fingernails were uneven, broken at the edges, and one of her molars had begun to ache with a dull, persistent throb. She spoke to no one unless she had to. She kept a tally on the wall by the bunk—though not for time. She wasn’t sure what it measured anymore.

She had no mirror, but she knew what others saw. A prisoner. A traitor. A shadow of a woman who had once counseled queens and sheltered heirs. Her voice was hoarse from the damp air and her own fury. Even her thoughts had changed cadence—more clipped, more cruel. She was no longer trying to justify her choices.

Now she only replayed them.

She muttered the Codex sometimes in the dark—scraps of it, fragments of melody that once meant something sacred. The guards laughed when she did, called her mad. She no longer argued. Let them think her broken. Let them believe it was over.

She had thought the same.

But she kept waking up.

And that meant something still remained.

But that morning, the bell tolled at an odd hour.

Leona banged her tin cup against the cell grating.

“Guards! Gardus!” she shouted, her voice raw from too many nights of shouting into silence.

It took several minutes before the echo of boots approached. A man in mail stepped into view, face half-hidden beneath a dented kettle helm.

“Settle down,” he grunted, not stopping.

“What are the bells for?” she demanded. “Why are they ringing?”

He paused, glanced over his shoulder.

"The queen is dead," he said as if announcing the weather. "Long live the queen."

Leona stared past him, at the moss-veined stone of the opposite wall.

“Died?”

“Yes. This morning.”

No ceremony. No title. Just died.

Leona slumped to the floor, her back against the cold iron bars. The tin cup slipped from her hand and rolled away.

“Then we are all lost,” she said softly. “It’s over.”

She was surprised when she woke the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

The bells stopped. The torches burned low. Stoneward remained unchanged—but something inside her had shifted. She had expected collapse. A tremor. Fire from the sky. Instead, there was only the creak of chains and the shuffling of feet in cells she could not see.

She lived. The world had not ended.

Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps it had all been myth and she had, indeed, betrayed her queen.

Acceptance was the hardest.

She had done what she thought was right. But she had been wrong. And good intentions do not absolve you of crime.

But Alyse would now be queen. It did at least feel like a reprieve. She couldn't imagine her friend from so long ago would have her killed.

"Not after I took care of her son. My son!"

She wept.

On the third day after the queen’s death, Leona heard the iron door at the end of the corridor groan open.

Footsteps echoed down the stone hall—measured, uneven. She knew that limp. Karl. But he was too early to be changing out the torches.

He stopped briefly at her cell.

“You have visitors,” he said, and turned away.

She waited, breath tight in her chest.

Then:

“Mother?”

She looked up. Tears welled instantly.

“Kane?”

He stood there in the torchlight—taller than she remembered, dressed in fine wool and silver trim, the boy she’d raised transformed. Not a page now.

A prince.

She knew in that moment that the secret had been spoken.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, rising. “I’m so sorry, Kane.”

“You lied to me, Mother.”

Her mouth trembled. “We did what we thought was best for you. We were just children ourselves.”

“I know, Mother. And… I forgive you.”

She gasped softly, one hand rising to her lips.

“You do?”

“You took care of me when no one else would. You loved me. Protected me. You called me your son when you didn’t have to.”

Her voice broke. “You are my son.”

He nodded, gently.

“In some ways,” he said. “Maybe even in the most important ways. But I’m also the queen’s son.”

She lowered her head. “Yes. Yes, you are, Your Highness.”

He smiled, a flicker of the boy she remembered.

“Do you know,” he said, stepping closer, “when I was little, you used to call me the Little Pain-in-the-Arse Prince?”

She laughed, choked and wet.

“You were,” she said. “You absolutely were.”

"You're filthy," he said.

She looked herself over and nodded.

"I haven't had a hot bath in a very long time."

"I have to go now," he said.

"You'll come back to see me?" she asked, weeping.

"I'm sorry mother, but no. I won't be back in this place any time soon."

"I… I understand," she said.

No one wants a traitor for a mother.

She wiped her tears away, stood up, bravely, and reached through the bars to caress his cheek.

"I love you, son."

"I love you too, mother," he said. He turned on his heel and departed.

She heard whispers in the hall and she pressed her face to the grate, but could see nothing until a shadow loomed in front of her.

"Leona."

It was Moses.

"I guess I was wrong," she said, sheepishly.

"No," he said. "You weren't wrong. You just should have been more honest."

"I know," she said. "Can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" Moses asked. "I'm here to beg your forgiveness. I could have been more empathetic. I could have done a better job convincing you. I could have helped you. But I turned you in. I betrayed you."

"I did the same."

He nodded.

"I forgive you," she said.

"And I you," he replied.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

"I..I should have come sooner," he said. "I know this is going to sound awful. But I've been very busy."

"I'm sure you were."

"It's more than you think."

"What happened?" she asked.

"The queen performed the rites. We helped her through it."

"So Alyse became the new vessel?"

"She did," Moses said.

"She has the burden now," Leona said, sadness coming over her face.

Just then Alyse stepped up to the gate, standing close to Moses.

"Alyse!" she exclaimed and then sobbed. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Your apology is accepted," Alyse said.

"Thank you, my queen," Leona said. "May I ask, what will you do with me?"

"I have pardoned you," Leona said.

She produced a key and opened Leona's cell.

"Come," Alyse said. "We know what you did, and we know why you did it. And we forgive you."

"You…you do?"

"My dear friend," Alyse said. "After you have given me so much, I could not abandon you."

Alyse, the queen, grabbed the filthy and stinking Leona in an embrace caring not one bit for their difference.

Leona stepped back after a long embrace, and noticed that the queen—Alyse the queen!—slipped her hand into Moses' hand.

And she saw it instantly. They had become lovers.

Alyse, who had been alone since her man died at 17, nearly a dozen years later, was finally with someone.

Leona felt so much joy that she felt her heart might burst after so many months of despair.

"But," she said. "You—you now carry the burden?"

"No," Alyse said. "After I completed the rite, I then spoke the words of the codex to Moses, who write them all down. I carried it for six months. Now it is gone. My line will forever be free of this burden."

Leona, astonished, just stared at her queen.

"You chose to return the magic?"

Alyse nodded. "The very first time my grandmother held my hands and tried to perform the rite, I felt the power. Not just the burden, but the power."

"The power?"

"I was not just the vessel," Alyse said. "I have become a practitioner."

"You have become mageblood?"

Alyse nodded. "From this point forward, this monarchy will be a mageblood line."

"So, Kane?"

"Will be a mage. And you," Alyse said. "Will help me to teach him."

On his eighteenth birthday, Kane, a mage with seven years of training, stood before the elders in the House of Lords. It was to be his formal Rite of Naming where he would take a name from his house lineage as the heir apparent to the throne of Garreval.

His mother, the Queen, sat on the dais with her husband, Moses, the Queen's consort. Between them, his half-brother William, stood in formal dress, looking every bit the four year old he was, leaning with his elbow on the arm of his father's seat, and looking sleepily at the crowd of onlookers.

His mother—actually both of his mothers—beamed at him. The Queen from her throne. And Leona from the galley. He smiled briefly at both of them, but kept mostly to the formality of the occasion.

When Kane arrived at the dais, he bowed deeply to his mother, and then turned to face the audience.

Lord Hampden, High Lord of the House, approached him, holding the gilded crest in his hands.

His voice was that of an orator, rising and filling the chamber.

“Lords and ladies of the realm, honored guests, and keepers of the Codex—

"Today, before sun and star, stone and flame, we gather to bear witness to a legacy reborn. Not merely through blood, but through will. Not only through birth, but through choice.

"From the line of kings and queens who bore the burden, from the flame that once lay hidden, rises an heir—tempered by truth, forged in silence, and awakened to purpose.

"In my hand I hold the Flamebound Crest—a symbol of trust once worn by those who were called not to reign, but to prepare. This is not yet a crown. It is a vow. A visible promise. A sign that the bearer shall learn, serve, and one day lead.

"I present it now, not to a boy of hidden blood, but to a man of revealed strength.

"Kane of the House of Halveth, son of Queen Alyse, bearer of magic and memory—by right of blood and by the fire that lives within you, receive this regalia and be known to all as heir apparent to the throne of Garreval.”

Hampden handed the Flamebound Crest to him and Kane held it aloft for all to see, invoking a loud ovation from the crowd. He lowered it and held it in his hands, waiting for the crowd to quiet, and then he spoke:

"I am honored by what flows in my veins. I am chosen by fate to serve. But how I serve shall be of my own choosing. I was born more free than most in my station, and so my heart shall ever remain. I choose today to serve—but I find I would rather serve as a teacher, a mage, and a student of what's to come."

The crowd murmured as he spoke.

"The throne belongs to one who chooses it. I do not."

He turned to the queen.

“My mother has chosen a future of magic, of knowledge, of balance. I will help her build it—but not from a throne. I shall never be a wielder of the scepter. But I shall wield the flame."

He walked to the thrones, bowing just momentarily, and placed Flamebound Crest on his brother.

He turned back to the crowd.

"I give you Prince William, the heir apparent."

And with that, Kane formally abdicated. Not in shame, nor in resentment, but in peace.

For sixty-four years, he served as his brother’s guide and flamekeeper, a loyal mage and counselor to a throne he had the wisdom not to take.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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The coupler didn’t fit.

Kira swore into her helmet. She’d known it wouldn’t.

It was an ancient ISA-Registry airlock. She had never seen one in person. Airlocks this old predated the universal collar by at least eighty years—but part of her had hoped the pitted ring would click anyway, like some mechanical miracle.

It didn't.

She hung there in silence, boots magnetized to the orbital's hull, tether snaking back to the Wren, stars burning in the black around her.

Somewhere behind Kaeilin's Moon, Gliese-442c turned slowly, oblivious to a lone woman standing on the exterior surface of a dead orbital that had been spinning around the moon for at least a century.

An exterior control panel next to the airlock refused to respond. No power. Never a good sign.

She hoped she hadn't wasted a quarter of her fuel getting here when she could have been on the surface of Gliese-442c spending an unwise share of the credits she had stumbled into just days earlier.

What she needed was a fuel source. 442c had fuel, of course, but why buy it when you can steal it?

Unless, of course, there is nothing to steal, which seemed to be more likely as each moment passed.

The orbital was dead.

But, if it had been salvaged before, why was the airlock still intact? Why bother to lock it back up on your way out?

Kira found the manual override panel.

Two thumb screws held it in place. She unscrewed both, letting them float—still tethered by thin safety wire.

The panel tilted open on stiff left-side hinges. Inside was a folded crank, worn but intact.

She pulled the shaft free until it clunked into place, then unfolded the handle and began cranking counterclockwise.

It took three full rotations to draw back the airlock bolts. On the last turn, she felt the clutch disengage, letting the handle spin freely in her grip.

She imagined the sound of the bolts releasing, though she knew there was nothing to hear in vacuum. But the faint vibration through her gloves was enough—her brain translated it into a click.

She pulled the hatch open and stepped into the airlock, her magboots clicking faintly on the deck—felt, not heard.

Then she leaned back into the void, unhooked the tether from The Wren, and clipped it to the manual crank housing, anchoring her ship to the orbital.

To her surprise, the orbital came to life when she tapped the power panel. Lights flickered on—two blew out immediately, but the rest held, casting a pale glow across the airlock.

Kira pressed the airlock control. The exterior door closed and locked on its own, seals engaging with a soft vibration underfoot.

The ingress sequence, however, failed. A red indicator flashed:

ATMOSPHERE FAULT

She wasn’t surprised. There was no reason to keep a breathable environment in a derelict this old. Whether the station still had enough onboard nitrogen and oxygen to spin up an atmosphere was another question—but not one she needed answered anytime soon.

Her HUD displayed 5 hours, 42 minutes breathable. More than enough. She’d know long before then whether this fossil was worth the detour.

It was a large station, sufficient for supporting at least twenty crew, possibly double that number.

The interior pressure light remained red, pulsing slow and steady—a heartbeat for a station long abandoned. Kira stood still for a moment, listening to the hiss of her oxygen feed, the faint rasp of her own breath inside the helmet.

The interior airlock door refused to respond to her key presses, despite the lights indicating the pad was still in working order. When she touched the ingress button, the red ATMOSPHERE FAULT indicator glowed steady for a moment—then resumed its slow blink.

Kira frowned inside her helmet.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the warning wasn’t about vacuum in the station. Maybe it meant the equalization system had failed—that there was an atmosphere on the other side of the door, and the lock just couldn’t balance the pressure.

The symbols were old ISA standards—color-coded, half worn. Nothing clear.

She stepped back, and studied the frame. A second access panel sat flush with the inner bulkhead, half-concealed behind a fold-down guard.

She popped it open. Another crank assembly—this one vertical, tight against the hinge column. She extended the handle and gave it a test twist.

It didn’t want to budge.

She planted her boots, locked her hips, and tried again, harder this time.

The crank resisted—then shifted a millimeter. A vibration ran up her forearms. She could feel pressure behind it, like the weight of air pressing against steel. It wasn’t just resistance—it was stored force, waiting to release.

Kira stopped.

If there was atmosphere inside, and the airlock wasn’t counterbalancing…

She glanced at the panel. No hydraulic assist. No brace bar. And no warning sticker.

Of course not. Why label something everyone assumed worked?

She hesitated. If the pressure was real and the bolts gave, the door would blow—right into her.

She could be knocked out. Worse, she could crack a joint seal. A broken suit with 12 psi of oxygen-rich air wouldn’t explode, but it would fail fast.

She exhaled and looked around the narrow airlock.

Options?

None.

She could walk away. But she’d already burned a quarter tank getting here, and she hadn’t come this far to be stopped by a stuck door.

She planted her boots again, braced herself off the far wall, and began cranking—slowly.

Each rotation took effort. Her suit’s shoulder servos pushed back, trying to prevent strain.

One bolt released. Then another.

The crank was looser now. She could feel the door ready to go—the bulkhead bulged faintly, a ripple you could only see if you were looking for it.

She counted down aloud, though no one could hear it but her.

“Three… two…”

The third bolt came free.

She braced for it. She tethered herself to the bulkhead. Angled her body slightly above the hinge so the swing wouldn’t catch her square in the chest. She even cushioned her stance, bent her knees, unlocked the shoulder servos.

She’d been hit by airlock doors before. This wasn’t her first antique.

Kira wrapped one gloved hand around the crank, the other gripping a side handle welded to the inner frame. She gave the crank the final turn.

The last bolt released with a mechanical snap that echoed up her arms—and then the door exploded open.

It didn’t swing. It punched.

Her body caught the door's edge as it flung outward, slamming her sideways into the opposite wall with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. Her helmet cracked against the bulkhead, stars bursting in her vision. Thankfully, it didn’t fracture.

Her left arm folded awkwardly between her torso and the wall—a white spike of pain bloomed in her shoulder as something gave.

She didn’t scream. Just gritted her teeth and hissed air through them, curling in reflexively against the impact.

The door hung wide now, trembling on its overextended hinge. Warm air rushed around her—the station’s forgotten breath washing over her in dry, filtered gusts. Her HUD blinked rapidly.

Suit Impact Detected - LEFT ARM MOTOR RESET
Internal Pressure: 12.2 psi
O₂: 29%
No breach detected.

She laughed once, bitter and breathless.

"Great prep, Kira." she said.

She pushed herself off the wall, righting her stance with one good arm. Her suit servos whined, adjusting to the limp. Pain flared, then dulled as the auto-injector pricked her with a neuroblocker.

She was still breathing. But the orbital had just reminded her exactly who was in charge.

A warning flashed on her HUD:

LEFT ARM MOTOR STABILIZED.
RESTRICTED RANGE ACTIVE.

Shit.

Kira rested, her back to the bulkhead, feeling the waves of nausea. She gritted her teeth and steadied her breathing. Despite the meds, the shoulder throbbed like a live wire every time she moved. Her left arm hung slack, slightly rotated outward, the shoulder visibly sunken and misaligned beneath the suit’s flexible polymer. She’d seen enough of these in field hospitals to recognize the anterior dislocation. Classic mechanism: blunt force and torque. That door had hit harder than she’d expected.

But the suit was compensating, stabilizing her shoulder and arm, and administering a trickle of drugs. She couldn't just leave. It was time to continue on.

Despite the lights in the airlock, the interior of the ship remained dark—dead. Her shoulder lamp cast a narrow cone of white ahead, slicing through stagnant air and fine suspended dust. The corridor stretched forward—low ceiling, reinforced steel bulkheads, no labels in sight.

Despite the atmosphere, she kept her helmet on.

She stepped forward.

The deck plating was warped in places, the panel seams lined with frost where insulation had failed. Her suit HUD flickered once, picking up a weak heat signature, then dropped it.

“Ghosts,” she muttered. “Just ghosts.”

She reached a three-way intersection. One corridor ended in a collapsed bulkhead. Another led her deeper, toward what looked like a central spine. The ISA loved radial designs. Utility hubs in the center, wings spinning outward. This station was no different.

She reached a junction with faded stenciling across the floor:

CORE ACCESS / ADMIN - 30m
BLOCKS A–D / LEFT
BLOCKS E–H / RIGHT

Her heart skipped.

Blocks?

She pressed forward, following the right-hand path. The station trembled once—just a thermal flex from her entrance heat, she told herself.

At the far end of the hall, a reinforced door bore the ISA seal: three concentric rings with a stylized planet and an orbital track across it. Half the symbol was scorched black from an old electrical arc.

She overrode the lock manually. The door slid open with a low mechanical grind.

The lights came on when she stepped onto the bridge. It was much smaller than she had expected. Wrong somehow. Not built for observation—more like a command post than a research hub. There were no long-range telescopes, no science gear, no charts. Just three dead terminals, a backup logbook sealed in glass, and a floor schematic built into the wall: a clean ring of eight long corridors, labeled alphabetically, A-H.

She found the medbay just off the bridge. The lights came on as she entered, and she stared wide-eyed at the vast assortment of medical supplies and drugs.

"It's a gold mine," she said out loud.

The medbay was cramped but dense—more like a submarine’s infirmary than a hospital suite. Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls, some open, others sealed with yellowed mechanical locks. A few bore faded ISA decals, their corners peeling.

Shelves groaned under the weight of tightly packed supply kits: vacuum-sealed trauma packs, injectors in color-coded foam slots, wound staplers, suture mesh, and surgical adhesives. One corner housed a collapsible surgical chair still wrapped in its original plastic. Next to it, a portable sterilizer hummed softly—still functional.

The diagnostic bed dominated the center of the room, anchored to the deck with bolted rails. Its surface was cracked in places, the padding worn to the frame, but the console beside it blinked faint green, cycling through low-power vitals mode. A retractable arm overhead bore a cluster of multi-function scanners and a long mechanical injector, the kind that could administer sedatives, nanomed packs, or aggressive antivirals in a single press.

A locker in the back wall had been left ajar, revealing rows of labeled drawers and vials: antibiotics, coagulants, muscle relaxants, synthblood cartridges, pain suppressors, nerve dampeners. She spotted two spare IV racks, a bone-saw in its cradle, and a clamshell med-stasis pod still powered but coated in dust.

She was certain that everything was long expired, but someone out there would buy this stuff, no questions asked. Black market clinics, fringe smugglers. Even backworld hospitals would trade clean water for half of this. Sterility seals and cold storage mattered more than dates. The solid-form drugs would have lost some efficacy, but who would know? Injectables might be hit or miss. But the diagnostic tools, surgical gear, and implantables were a literal treasure, even if they were outdated.

On the wall behind the diagnostic couch, an embedded touchscreen flickered to life at her approach. The interface was basic—early-ISA standard blue—but offered full triage protocols, anatomical overlays, and procedure walk-throughs. She tapped twice. The screen responded with a low chirp and opened a visual guide for joint reductions.

She straddled the diagnostic couch and let her injured arm hang off the edge, gently rotating it outward. Gravity alone wouldn’t do it. She needed leverage.

Kira tied a length of surgical tubing to her wrist and looped the other end under a rail at the base of the couch. Then, she leaned her body weight away from it, using the tension to pull her arm down and outward while angling her torso forward—like she was drawing a bow with her bones.

Pain exploded. She grunted, kept going.

The humeral head resisted, then—

Thunk.

A meaty pop deep in her shoulder. Searing white light behind her eyes. But the socket was full again.

She screamed.

Then slumped back, drenched in sweat. Still alone. But no longer broken.

She tapped on her wrist, increasing the dosage of neuro-blocker, lay on the diagnostic table, and rested, nearly falling asleep in the process.

She shook her head. Falling asleep on a limited tank was asking to die quietly.

She hesitated before removing the helmet. An ancient facility. Unknown life support integrity. But the readout held steady: 12.2 psi. 29% oxygen. No toxins flagged. And she needed a full breath.

It took time. Her shoulder made the motion agonizing. When it finally lifted free, the scent of ethanol, ozone, and something older hit her—metallic and stale, like the breath of a lost civilization.

Kira returned to the bridge.

A placard, paint chipped, but still legible, read:

ISA PENAL ORBITAL
INMATE TRANSPORT AND CRYONIC DETENTION FACILITY 1414-A
ENTRY RESTRICTED UNDER ARTICLE 12-C, EARTH CODE

Kira took a step back.

She turned to the nearest terminal, brushing away dust. The screen flickered. Power was low, but the system still lived—barely.

She accessed the wing logs.

Eight wings. Sixty-four pods per wing.

A grid of indicators appeared.

Red. Red. Red. Red.

Null. Failed. Decompressed. Power loss.

Until one.

WING A / POD 19
STATUS: STABLE
CRYOGENIC INTEGRITY: 4% POWER REMAINING

One lone green square, flickering in a sea of red. One life in a tomb of dead.

She checked the access logs. Then stood back, eyes wide.

She stared at the readout, chilled.

The last time the airlock had been opened had been 232 years ago.

She hadn’t found fuel. She’d found an ancient prison.

And something inside it was still alive.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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It had rained the night before. The road to the western quarter was still soft with mud, and Moses hadn’t ventured out in days—not since he bought three firkins of ale with his earnings from the queen’s service.

He had never been so rich in his life, and yet he had never felt poorer. He had gold in his satchel, something he'd never even touched before. But there was a bitter silence in his chest.

On the table beside his mug were three folded scraps of parchment. One had been started and abandoned ten times. Another was just a list of truths he didn’t know how to speak aloud. The third began, “Your Highness—” but never got farther than a single ink blot.

He had written them for no one. For Leona. For Alyse. For himself.

Leona had betrayed him.

He’d stewed on it for three weeks, turning it over again and again, until the bitterness soured into understanding. She must have felt the same. They had been allies once. He had betrayed her first—and she had simply returned the favor.

It didn’t justify what she’d done. He still believed she was wrong.

But maybe—just maybe—he could have handled it better.

So he drank.

And he replayed every moment, every word, every hesitation that might have tipped things another way.

And then the knock came.

"I'm closed," he shouted, pouring himself another ale.

His life had changed so much. Turning away a potential client was not something he had done before.

There wasn't a second knock.

Instead, someone simply opened the door.

"I beg your pardon!" Moses said, standing up and grabbing a fireplace poker. "I said I'm closed."

It was a man dressed in brigandine armor, a greatsword strapped to his back and a long dagger at his waist.

He stepped aside and a woman in a hooded cloak stepped in.

She shut the door, leaving her guard outside.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She dropped her hood, revealing raven hair.

"Your Highness!" he said, dropping to a knee. "Forgive me."

"Stand up, Moses," she said.

He did.

He really wanted to sit, but he couldn't do that as long as she stood, so he cleaned off a second chair and offered it to her.

When she sat, he did.

"Is that ale?" she asked.

"Yes, your highness," he said.

"Rather early for ale," she said.

"Depends on your point of view," he said. "My lady."

He found a clean, though dusty mug. He wiped it off, filled it.

"Want one?"

"No, thank you," she said.

He handed it to her anyway, and she tentatively accepted it. Then she smiled and took a long draught. "Oh, it has been a long time," she said.

Moses raised an eyebrow. They considered each other for a moment, and then spoke at the same time.

"To what do I owe—"

"You left," she said.

“I was removed.” His voice was even.

“Why?”

Moses didn’t answer at first.

“The queen hasn’t spoken clearly in days,” she said. “Not since that night. And Leona won’t say where you went. She says you chose to leave.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell me what is true.”

Moses looked at her. "It's a long story," he said.

"I came here hoping for a story," she replied. She sat forward, removed her cloak and set it to the side on an ink-stained table before relaxing into the chair.

Moses suddenly felt out of place, ink-stained and small beside someone born to carry legacy like a crown.

A strange expression came over her face.

"What is it?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "Do you know…," he asked. "Do you know why I was there?"

She tilted her head. “At the castle?”

“Yes.”

“I assumed the queen called for you,” she said. “That she needed a scribe.”

Moses gave a faint, humorless laugh.

“That’s what I thought too. For about ten minutes.”

He took a drink, swirled the ale in his cup.

“But it wasn’t the queen who summoned me, Princess. It was Leona.”

Alyse stiffened. Slowly, she set the mug down.

“Go on.”

"Before I do, I want you to understand that I hold Leona in high regard, even though we had a disagreement."

"I do too," the princess said. "More than you know."

"Yes, I was afraid you might say that, your highness."

"Why would you say such a thing?"

"I felt that she was imposing her will over and above the queen's wishes. I called her out for it, and she had me removed from the castle."

"That doesn't sound like Leona," Alyse said.

"Nevertheless, it is true," Moses said.

"Explain."

He did. He told her the whole story. The origin of the Celestial Codex. The way it was carried as a burden by her line of ancestors. How she was to be next in line to withhold magic from the world. What she would need to bear to do so. What the alternative was, and lastly, the risks.

"So, Leona believed she was saving the world?"

"She does believe that. Whether its true is unclear."

"What do you think?"

"It makes some sense. I figure, what's the worst thing that can happen if you just complete the rite with the queen?"

"That I bear some burden that cannot be understood until I have shouldered it."

"It's not nothing," he said. "But the alternative is worse."

"And you think the queen intends and wants to pass it on to me?"

"There's no question of that. That's what she wants," he insisted. "She told me one time that she had wanted to spare your father of the burden until it was absolutely necessary, but she put it off for so long that he—I'm sorry if this is a hard subject—but she waited too long and then he passed and it was too late."

"So your job was to record her words?"

“I was recording more than her words,” he said. “I was recording her memory. The Codex isn’t just history—it’s magic. It was being rewritten through her voice… and through my hand.”

Alyse’s brow furrowed. “I saw it. The ink… shimmered.”

He nodded. “The ink was awake.”

She sank into the chair across from him.

“Leona feared the Codex would be lost and with it all of creation. She thought she was saving it. She had me thrown out before I could speak to you.”

Silence.

Then Alyse whispered, “She lied to me.”

Moses didn’t respond.

“The queen chose me to bear the burden,” Alyse said. “But now I don’t even know what the burden is. But if she chose me, I will do it. Come back with me. We’ll finish it together with the queen."

He hesitated.

“She’ll try to stop me again.”

“Let her try,” Alyse said, rising. “I’m not a girl waiting to be chosen anymore. I am the heir. And I say the Codex will be completed, either through the rite, or through your words."

"Didn't she hire a different scribe?"

"She did," Alyse said. "Someone named Chenguer."

"Oh, that just won't do," Moses said.

"So you'll come back with me?"

Moses looked down at the table. His eyes lingered on the parchment—the one that began Your Highness.

“You really think they’ll let me in?”

“I'm not asking permission. They’ll do what I say,” she replied. “I’m not the girl I was.”

He gave a bitter smile and pushed the letter aside.

“Then lead the way,” he said.

"Lead the way," he said. He waited for her to stand.

When Leona returned to the queen’s antechamber, she was surprised to hear voices in the working chamber—multiple voices.

She stepped inside cautiously.

The queen and the princess stood together, flanked by two guards.

Chenguer was gone.

In his place sat Moses.

“What is going on?” she asked.

“Stand before me,” the queen commanded.

Leona hesitated. This wasn’t good.

She looked to Moses, then to Alyse, but neither met her eyes.

Cowards, she thought.

Still, she stood tall and stepped forward, defiant. She had done what was necessary.

“You are accused of treason against the crown,” the queen said. The queen’s voice was firm, but her eyes wandered—just for a moment—toward a window that wasn’t there.

“Your Majesty—”

“You were not invited to speak,” the queen snapped. “You shall have a trial. There, you may offer your defense.”

Leona lowered her eyes, contrite now.

“Look at me,” the queen demanded.

Leona raised her gaze.

“You are to be taken to the Stoneward until your trial. If found guilty, you will be hanged by the neck until dead. May the gods judge what we cannot.”

“Finish the Codex, I beg—”

A guard struck her with the back of his hand.

"Grandmother," Alyse said. "I beg that you do not hang her."

"It is treason," the queen said.

"Barely," Alyse said. "And if you knew what she has done for us—for me."

"What are you saying?" the queen asked.

At that moment a third guard entered the chamber, bringing Kane, the young page into the room, grasping hold of his ear.

"What have you done to my mother?" he demanded.

The guard directed him in front of the queen. Kane's eyes went wide when he saw her, and he dropped to both knees, placing his head on the floor.

"My queen," he said.

"What is the manner of this?" the queen asked.

"I need to confess something," Alyse said. "To all of you. Especially you, Kane."

"My lady?" he asked.

“Leona’s been imprisoned for treason,” Alyse said.

“She’d never!” Kane burst out—then, remembering where he stood, added quietly, “My lady.”

"There'll be a trial to determine the truth of it," the queen said.

Kane, head still lowered, sneered, but kept quiet.

"My queen," Alyse said. "This boy was raised as Leona's child. She cared for him, hovered over him really. Took care of him when I couldn't."

"What do you mean?" the queen asked.

"Kane is my son," Alyse said.

"What?"

"I became pregnant at seventeen," she said. "To a boy I loved, who was lost months later in the Battle of Moonblood."

Kane, looked up at her and sat on his haunches.

"What?" he asked.

"Kane is my child. Leona took care of him. He never knew. My father never knew. You never knew. Only my mother (gods rest her soul), Leona, and I have known."

The queen stood on shaky legs. "This is why you went to the Temple of Isen your seventeenth summer?"

"It is, my queen," she said. "I could not let the scandal break the family, so I bore him alone. Only Leona helped me, and she kept the child as her own."

“She’s not my mother?” Kane asked.

“In so many ways, she was,” Alyse said. “I’m so sorry.”

“And now you’ve thrown her in prison?” Rage danced across the boy’s face.

“As we have said,” the queen replied. “She will have a trial.”

“Trials in this kingdom don’t tell the truth,” Kane snapped. “They tell the story the crown wants heard.”

“You forget your place, young man,” the queen said sharply.

“My place?” he said, stepping forward. “If I’m right, that makes you my great-grandmother.”

"So it would seem," the queen said.

“You can't keep her in chains! Not after what she's done for me,” Kane said.

“Kane,” Alyse said firmly. “We do not demand things of the queen.”

"She's my mother."

He turned on her, raw and shaking.

“And, now you want to be my mother? Now?” His voice cracked. “Now that I’m eleven? Now that it’s convenient?”

“I have loved you all along,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I made sure you had everything. Made sure you were cared for. Believe me—it’s not what I wanted.”

“You didn’t give me the truth,” Kane said quietly.

Alyse stepped closer.

“Kane,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was six years older than you are now. I was a child myself. I’m not making excuses. But I’m giving you the truth now.”

"This explains your strange attachment to the boy," the queen said. She blinked once, twice, as though trying to recall which chamber she stood in.

"What?" Alyse asked.

"I thought you were just fond of him. But he's your son."

"Yes, grandmother. He is."

"We should tell Alric—he'll be proud," the queen said. "Is he still nestled in his down comforter?"

They all exchanged looks as the queen slipped away.

Moses wrote her orders.

Kane turned from them all, the weight of two titles—mother and traitor—crushing the boy beneath.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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That evening, after a long day of writing in the treated parchments as the queen recited both history and verse, Moses sat on his bed contemplating.

There was more to this than just merely copying words.

When the queen switched in those moments, head back, eyes closed, chanting words—that was more than just gibberish. It had meaning. He knew it did. But he could not understand what it was.

It was as if memories were leaking out of her, but it was more than just memories. It was—something more sacred—deeper and older.

If he was meant to copy it, it must have been for a reason. Did the queen, somewhere in her broken mind, remember the codex? Was it leaking out?

And why was Leona seemingly against whatever rite it was that the queen wanted to perform?

Needing answers, he quietly knocked on Leona's door.

She cracked it open moments later, eyes shadowed, her voice barely above a whisper.

He had awoken her.

"What is it, Moses?" she asked, keeping the door cracked.

"I think it's time for the truth," he said.

"About what?"

"About what I am writing."

She opened the door a little wider.

"What do you mean?"

"You knew, didn't you? That I wasn't just recording her ramblings. That I was… I'm restoring it, aren't I? The Codex. From her memories."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, and then pulled her door open, glancing up and down the hallway to make sure it was otherwise empty.

"Come in," she said.

They regarded each other for a moment, her seated at the edge of her bed, him standing at the door.

"Please, sit," she said, indicating a chair near a bureau.

He did.

"It's not normal ink or parchment," he said. "Even the quill is not normal. What kind of feather is it?"

“That quill came from a cockatrice.”

"A cockatrice? That's a myth!"

"They are real," Leona said. "Or they were real."

Moses shook his head. "That's impossible. Weren't they supposed to turn you to stone just by looking at you?"

"You're thinking of a gorgon like Medusa," Leona said. "And those were myth. But the cockatrice was very real. They don't turn you to stone by looking at you, but they can paralyze you with their bite. My grandfather killed this one and only four quills remain. So getting more will not be an easy task."

"Then I will be very careful with them," Moses said. "What about the ink?"

"Moonwake," she said. "Resin distilled from the sap of the Torqwood, harvested only once every three years."

"During the Occlusion?" he asked.

"Yes, good guess," she said. "When Isen vanishes from the sky. The sap is then mixed with powdered memory stone—a pale crystalline mineral. To stabilize it, the ink must be bound with the blood of a truth-teller."

"A truth teller?"

"It's a rare order of Ashiran monks who never speak falsehood."

"Someone has to be killed to make it?"

"No," she laughed. "No, but we do need a drop of blood for each vial."

"Am I right that you're trying to have me recreate the Codex that was consumed by the queen's ancestor?"

Leona sighed and looked at him. "What do you know?"

"Halveth IV reached a bargain with Ashira to store the power of the Celestial Codex inside him and now each monarch passes it down to an heir to guard it. But the codex itself is gone. So it's—inside the queen? Inside her mind?"

She nodded. "Then you know most of it," she said.

"Why didn't you just do this yourself?"

"I told you, the ink does not flow for me."

"Why not?"

"It's a bloodline thing," she said.

"Enlighten me," he said.

"Only certain bloodlines could wield the magic when it was in the world."

"So I can, but you can't? That's why you have me doing this?"

"No," she said. "It's the opposite."

This time he stared at her.

"See," she said. "I was born of a line that used to be mages, possessors of magic, powered by the Celestial Codex. But since its disappearance, two centuries ago, our line has been nothing but servants."

"You're a descendant of mages?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So you'd like to see the Celestial Codex restored to get your power back?" he asked.

"No—well," she seemed flustered. "Yes, I guess that's true."

"But the queen said that mages did very dangerous and unnatural things," Moses said.

"She's right," Leona confessed. "But that doesn't mean that it has to be that way."

"I don't understand," Moses said. "I can't learn magic, but I can write it?"

"Yes, that's how it works. Someone who doesn't understand can scribe the words verbatim, just as Ashira did once. Record history, don't analyze the words of power. If I try to do it, the vellum burns up, the ink is consumed by moonfire."

"So that's why you need me. A non-mageblood who can just stupidly copy?"

"It's not stupidly," Leona said. "I don't think of it that way."

"So, the queen wields all the magical power in the world?"

"No," Leona said. "She's not mageblood. She's merely a vessel. A container. It gives her strength, but also wears her out. It's the burden her line has carried for two centuries. They must be vessels that hold the magic."

"So that's why she wants to give it over to Alyse, so Alyse can be the vessel to replace her."

"Yes," Leona said. "And if she is successful, Alyse will bear the burden."

"But you'd rather have it flow through me to the page?"

"The world is failing without the magic. But it's worse than that," she said.

"How?"

"If the queen dies without passing it on, either to Alyse, or to a new Codex—"

"What?" Moses asked.

"It's the song of creation," she said simply.

"So?"

"Creation will unravel. Everything—and I mean everything—will end."

"So it has to go to Alyse!"

"Or the new Codex you are writing."

"And you'd prefer the latter."

"Yes, I would," Leona said.

"But the queen would prefer to give it to Alyse through some rite."

Leona said nothing, just cast her eyes down at her unfinished scone.

"Did the queen really send for me, or did you?"

"I did," Leona said. "I thought it was the only way to preserve it. To…preserve all of creation."

"But you're substituting your own will for the queen's. She wants to pass it on to her granddaughter. You want it to come to you!"

"I won't deny I have my preference, but it can't just fade. That's why I need you to continue copying it."

"How will we know when it's done? When she's said everything?"

"Magic will return to the world."

"Or, magic will be stored in Alyse, the next vessel," Moses said. "The queen's will. We must follow the queen's will."

"And if she can't think clearly enough for long enough, then all is lost!"

"Maybe and maybe not," Moses said. "What if it's just a myth?"

"I can't believe that."

"What I can't believe is that you are substituting your will for our queen's."

"I am not!"

"You are," Moses said. "You've delayed things. When you were supposed to get Alyse, it took you too long. And then you were opposed to keeping Alyse in the working chamber with us. You stopped me from writing the Queen's order that we bring the princess to her. You never even asked what she wanted. You never even asked what the princess wanted."

“Moses, I—”

“Admit it,” he said. “You chose your will over the queen’s. You chose your will over her heir’s.”

“You think I want this?” she snapped suddenly, rising to pace. “You think I enjoy choosing who gets to bear the end of the world? I can't just let the world end just to stay pure!”

“You need to confess this. To the queen and the princess,” Moses said.

“We don’t have time for that!” she snapped. “If the Codex fades, rivers forget where to run. Light forgets how to fall. The name of things slips. One by one, people fade, existence unravels."

She stood there, her fingers balled into fists. "No," she said. "You need to keep copying. The queen could die tonight, and when she does, how much longer do you think the world has?”

"That's not the point," he said, firm in his resolve. He hadn’t seen the queen decline today. No fresh lapse. No new trembling. Just Leona’s fear—and her will, growing harder.

"It's the whole point," she said.

"It's your whole point, but you've made a decision that isn't yours to make. They might have finished the rite by now, secured everything, if you hadn't delayed."

"You don't know that," she said, feeling the accusation.

Moses stood. "Neither do you. But you decided something that wasn't your to decide."

"Look, we're on the same team," she said. "We don't have to be at odds."

"You're right," he said. "All you need to do is confess what you've done to the queen."

"It could mess everything up!" she insisted.

He stood.

"You need to do the right thing," he said. "If you don’t tell them, I will."

"You'd risk everything for your pride?"

"You've got this grand plan to return magic to the world, through me. A decision you are trying to make unilaterally and clearly against what the queen wants."

"We don't even know what she wants!" Leona said. "We can never be sure moment-to-moment which version of her is in charge."

“I disagree," Moses said. “I believed in you, Leona. I thought we were preserving something sacred. But you’re rewriting it in secret. That’s not preservation. That’s betrayal. If you want to do this, fine, but you need to tell the queen your plans, not do it behind her back.”

"You can be replaced," Leona said, sternly.

"So can you," Moses said.

He left, closing the door behind him.

The door to his chamber burst open just past midnight.

Moses sat up, blinking in the dim candlelight. Two guards stood at the threshold, armored and grim.

“What—?”

“You’re to come with us, Scribe,” one of them said.

“Why? What’s happened?”

They didn’t answer. One stepped forward and grabbed his satchel. The other gestured for Moses to rise.

Half-dressed and barefoot, he was led through silent halls, the marble cold beneath his feet. It wasn’t until they passed the royal wing—away from the queen’s chambers—that he understood.

Leona waited at the rear gate.

Her cloak was drawn tight against the chill, her jaw rigid. She did not look like herself. She looked like a woman on the edge of something terrible.

“Leona,” Moses said, “what is this?”

“We don't have time.”

“So you’re throwing me out?”

“Your forced my hand.” Her voice was flat. “You threatened to destroy the one chance we have to save everything.”

“You’re afraid,” Moses said. “You’re afraid Alyse will finish the rite and it won’t need you anymore.”

That struck her. For a moment, she said nothing.

Then: “You are not the guardian of this kingdom. You are a scribe. A good one. But disposable.”

He stepped toward her. “I was your ally.”

“You were,” she said, pain flickering behind her eyes. “But you stopped listening.” She nodded to the guards. “Take him past the southern wall. Leave him with his things. No harm.”

“You won’t even tell Alyse?”

Leona didn’t answer. She turned away.

As the guards pulled him back, Moses shouted, “When this collapses, when she finds out—she won’t forgive you!”

Leona didn’t turn. But her voice reached him, low and bitter.

“There will be no forgiveness if the world ends."

Then, turning to the guards, she said, "Spread the word. This man is not to be let back into the keep."

The gate creaked open. Cold wind swept in.

Leona's hands trembled slightly as the gate closed. But she didn’t look back.

And Moses Miller, scribe of no renown, was cast out into the night.

The cockatrice quill jutted out from the top of his satchel, bobbing as he walked into the wind. A relic of magic. A weapon of memory. Now just a feather in his pack.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Leona had not returned by the time the raven-haired princess arrived.

Alyse entered the room, cautiously.

"My queen?" she asked, kneeling before her grandmother.

"Quickly," the queen said. "While I can still think. I'm very sorry to do this, my darling granddaughter, but you now must bear the burden. I must pass it on to you."

"If you think I am worthy, I will gladly shoulder any burden you ask of me," the princess said.

"You may not think so once you understand," the queen said to her, smiling sweetly.

Then, she turned to Moses.

“Take this down. It must be exact.”

He crossed quickly to the desk and dipped his quill, already sensing that the ink would flow without resistance.

“Alyse,” the queen said, reaching out and taking her granddaughter’s hand in her own. “Child of my son. Blood of my blood. The line is not broken, though time has tried.”

Alyse’s eyes widened. “Grandmother?”

“There is no more time for tears,” the queen said. “You must listen. You must receive.”

She looked to Moses.

“The ink is awake. Write.”

He dipped the quill.

“The essence of the Codex is not bound in ink, nor word, nor page. It is memory. It is melody. It is will woven into meaning. It cannot die, but it can be forgotten. And when it is forgotten, the world loses shape.”

Alyse’s lips parted as if to speak, but she held her tongue.

“I have kept it hidden. Within me. In fragments. In dreams. In mutterings that seemed like madness. But it is not madness. It is the remainder. And it must be passed.”

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and began to chant—not in rhyme, but in tones: syllables that rang low in the air, too old to be translated, too solemn to be mistaken.

Moses’ hand trembled as he wrote. He did not know the meaning, but the ink responded, shimmering with each stroke.

The queen placed her other hand gently on Alyse’s forehead.

“You must remember, child,” she whispered. “You must remember the names that were never spoken aloud. You must remember the star beneath the sea. You must—”

Her voice hitched.

She blinked. Her hand dropped from Alyse’s brow. She looked around the room, confused.

“Mabel?” she called softly. “Have the apricots come in yet? I was promised apricots…”

Alyse inhaled sharply. “No—wait—please—”

The queen turned her gaze to her. Her eyes were clouded again.

“Who are you?” she asked, gently now, as if embarrassed. “You look so much like someone I once loved.”

“I am Alyse,” the princess said, her voice breaking. “You were giving me something… something sacred. But I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know what I was meant to carry.”

The queen smiled faintly. “Child, don’t speak nonsense. Go on now. Let an old woman rest.”

Alyse dropped her hands and looked at them, recognizing that she had lost something, but uncertain what it was. She looked back up at her grandmother who now paid her no notice.

Moses sat frozen, his hand still on the page. The ink had stopped flowing. The last character he had written was unfinished—cut off at the curve.

Leona entered a moment later, surprisingly breathless.

“She slipped again,” Moses said.

Alyse stood very still.

“She was awake,” she whispered. “Really awake. And I felt… something. I don’t know how to describe it.”

The queen’s head had bowed forward slightly. She was asleep, or something close to it.

Alyse looked down at her hands, where a faint warmth lingered, as if a distant chord had just ceased vibrating.

“Will she try again?” Alyse asked.

"I don't know," Moses said.

Leona said nothing.

"Come and get me, at once, if she asks for me," Alyse said.

"Yes, your highness," Leona said.

The way she said it gave Moses pause. The princess' chambers were not far from the queen's. Why had it taken Leona so long to retrieve her before? Why did it seem like Leona would only hesitatingly get the princess? Did she know something about the rite?

Later that day, after a long silence and a fitful rest, the queen seemed herself again. Her voice had steadied, her gaze focused, and though the weight of her memories still clouded her brow, she spoke not in riddles but in history.

"You needn't write this down," Leona said.

"But I can, per the queen's order," he replied, dismissively.

"What order?"

He showed her where he had paraphrased the queen's permission. Her eyes narrowed upon reading it, but she said nothing else about it.

The queen spoke more of the cosmos.

"Epherion," she said, "is a star. When Epherion is given personhood by some worshipers, he is known as the god of fire, the god of light, the god of gold, and the god of purity, and sometimes the god of law and order. When he rises each day, even Ashira and Isen bow before him as his brilliance outshines them (although they are still there–just dimmer than Epherion and very hard to see except some early mornings and late afternoons)."

"Fascinating," Moses muttered as he wrote her words.

“Write this, Moses," she said. "Write it down. Every word. Don’t lose the shape of it.”

He nodded and dipped his pen.

"Ashira and Isen were the First Children of Terra, born before the rivers, before the roots, before we had words for love or war. Whether they are siblings or lovers depends on the tale and the tongue telling it. I have heard both, and I have found truth in each."

Moses glanced up at her as she paused, sipping cool tea.

Then she continued.

"Ashira is the closer of the two—brighter to the eye, softer to the soul. She rises in the East with grace, and we drink to her. And when she vanishes in the West, the faithful gather before the dawn. We call that time the Moment of Mourning. There is wine, yes, but also tears. Ashira is the goddess of beauty, of stars, of the music that comes after speech."

"What about Isen?" Moses asked, prompting her.

"Isen follows her, always a step behind, always colder. His light lingers longer in the morning sky, as if reluctant to leave. He is the god of weather and the seas. Distant, yes, but not cruel. He gives us the tides. He gives us storms, too—but storms are not punishment. They are memory in motion."

"What kind of memories make storms?" Moses asked, his hand resting on the parchment.

"Sorrow," the queen said.

"Sorrow?"

"Every three years, Ashira passes before Isen—the Occlusion. Three nights, and he is gone. His followers feel it first. Their rites fall silent. They say he leaves this plane, and perhaps he does. I once asked the high priest if that was true. He wept and said nothing, which is how you know the answer is yes."

"I have not heard this story before," Moses said in awe.

The queen smiled.

"There are those who scoff at such tales. Let them. They say moons do not love. They say moons do not mourn. But what do they know of silence, or of waiting? Ashira waits each day to rise again. Isen waits each night to be seen. And I—well, I have waited a lifetime to speak these words aloud. We are all Children of Terra, but Ashira and Isen—they were her first."

"A tragic tale," Moses said.

He dropped his quill and stretched his fingers, bending them backwards with his other hand. He looked around and realized that Leona was absent.

"Your hand is tired?"

"Just a slight cramp, but I can keep going."

"It's okay, you don't need to write this. Ashira was the first scribe. Did you know that?"

"You've said things before that made me feel that way, majesty."

"She wrote the first book—the Celestial Codex—the song of creation. She wrote it to keep the words sacred, as a historian might. But what she did was create magic. The Celestial Codex was the source of all magic in the world, and it was kept right here in Garreval since the beginning of time."

"Where is it kept?"

"It is gone," she said, almost sadly.

"Gone, how?"

"My ancestor took it out of the world."

"You said that before, majesty. But you didn't say how."

"The mages had become too powerful and meant to overthrow him," she said. "He was a devout worshipper of Ashira, its author. And he begged her to save his kingdom. They struck a bargain."

"Who, my queen?"

"My ancestor and the goddess."

"Your ancestor struck a bargain with the goddess? Truly?"

The queen gave a slow nod, her expression distant.

“Truly,” she whispered. “In those days, gods still answered. Not always with thunder or visions, but with quiet bargains made beneath temple stones. My ancestor—King Halveth the Fourth, though they called him the Silent—was not a sorcerer. He was a scholar. A scribe. And he feared what the mages had become.”

Moses leaned forward slightly. “What had they become?”

“More than men. Less than gods. They built towers taller than the stars dared rise. They tried to unweave death, to undo grief. Some succeeded—for a time. But the cost… oh, the cost.”

She rubbed her temple as if remembering made her weary.

“Halveth prayed to Ashira for deliverance—not war. Not blood. Just silence. Just forgetting. And she answered him.”

“How?”

“She came in the hour between night and dawn. The Moment of Mourning, they say. And she told him the Codex could not be destroyed—but it could be removed. Hidden in one who would never wield it. Guarded by flesh, not stone.”

“Removed from the world?” Moses echoed.

“Yes. Sealed inside a living soul. Passed down through blood, never opened. Never read. Not until the world was ready. And I—”

Moses stared. “Yes?”

She opened her eyes wide.

"I have a granddaughter, don't I?" she asked.

"Yes, my queen."

"I must see her right away."

"At once, my queen. I will fetch her," Moses said.

It took less than a minute to reach Alyse' quarters. He knocked on the door immediately.

Alyse opened the door with surprise. “Again?” she asked, but there was no hesitation this time.

"Begging your pardon, your highness. The queen asks for you, and—"

She flung open the door and followed him back to the queen's working chamber.

The queen raised her head as they rushed in.

"Alric?" she asked. "You promised me apricots."

And just like that, she was lost in time again.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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The next morning Moses found Leona already in the antechamber. Kane was with her, playing with a ball-in-a-cup game.

"The queen is awake already," she said. "We'll step in momentarily. How do you think it's going?"

"It's fine," Moses said. "I'm curious, was someone doing this before me?"

"I was writing for her, for a while," Leona said. "But it didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"The ink does not take for me."

"What do you mean?"

"The ink does not flow on the treated parchment when I try."

Moses stared at her. There was nothing wrong with the ink. "It flows very smoothly," he said. "Hardly any scratching at all. The quills will last a long time at this rate."

"That's very good news," Leona said. "Ready?"

Kane looked up from his toy. “Is Princess Alyse coming today?”

Leona paused. “I expect so. Why?”

“She said she might take me riding again. Said I could help groom the gray mare this time.”

Moses smiled. “That sounds like a royal appointment.”

“What can I say?” Kane said. "She likes me."

Leona chuckled. “Yes, she does.”

Kane grinned and went back to his game, the cup clicking softly against the wood.

Leona met Moses’ eyes. “Let’s go.”

They entered together to find the queen already seated.

"Your majesty," they said in unison, bowing.

"Quick," the queen said. "Take this down while I can still think."

Moses hurried to his desk. Leona followed.

"My son," the queen said. "Is dead. Gone these five years, and I foolishly delayed the rite. I did it to relieve him of the burden, you see? And now I fear I have let it go too long. Bring my granddaughter, Alyse to me at once. I must perform the rite."

"Yes, your majesty," Leona said.

Moses began to write the order, but Leona deftly snatched the quill from his hand.

He looked up at her, protest on his face.

She subtly shook her head, No.

"I'll be right back," Leona said. "I'll fetch the princess."

"Be quick about it," the queen said, a worried expression on her face.

Moses watched Leona leave. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

Was she delaying?

He shook it off and turned to the queen. “Your majesty, you were beginning to tell me about how magic was lost.”

"That's the whole point!" she said, hurriedly. "I must complete the rite while I still can."

"What is the rite?"

“It’s bound up in the story I was telling you,” the queen said. Then, without warning, she tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and began to sing—softly, not quite a chant, but something older. Moses, as instructed, wrote every word on the right-hand parchment.

At birth of time, four powers rose:
The star who lit the flame that grows,
The world who bore the breath of kin,
The moons—one song, the other wind.

So life began with tone and tide,
With breath that stars could not divide.
Each note a will, each chord a flame,
That gave the silence shape and name.

Ashira, Moon of silver face,
She danced beyond both time and place.
The other gods had might and throne—
But she was made to be alone.

The queen stopped when he looked up at her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"She was made to be alone, your majesty?"

"Indeed, though she loves Isen and he her, but he nearly always chases her through the sky. But here comes the important bit of the tale."

She sang, and he wrote.

The gods, they danced; the void grew warm.
They shaped the world through light and form.
But she withdrew from forge and flame,
To write what none could claim by name.

A tome she wove of lunar thread,
From tears long-lost and sorrow shed.
With quill of myth and ink of night,
She wrote the words in silver light.

Moses paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. The ink seemed to hum faintly, a vibration running through the quill’s nib into his fingers, as if it were eager to keep pace with the queen’s words.

He blinked, glancing at the shimmering inkwell. Had it always done that? Leona’s words echoed in his mind—the ink does not take for me. He shook off the thought and dipped the quill again as the queen continued.

So was the Codex born of grace:
It sings to those who know their place.
It mourns for those who wield in greed,
And hides from every grasping creed.

It does not rule. It does not bind.
It shows the shape once held in mind.
And when its words are sung in truth,
The world becomes again—renewed.

The queen’s voice faded, footsteps echoed, and he heard the rustle of skirts. When Moses lifted his eyes, the princess was there.

He'd seen her before, but only at a distance—a figurine, at best. But this was a real woman. Alive. She was beautiful, raven-haired, demure, petite. Moses was sure he had never been so close to loveliness before.

She was, he guessed, in her late twenties, similar in age to Leona, and a few years younger than his thirty-four. There was a quiet sorrow in her eyes, the kind carried by those who have already grieved something still living.

“My queen,” she said, kneeling gracefully, though her voice trembled. “You summoned me?”

“Yes,” the queen said briskly. “I should like to have brown bread, warmed but not toasted. Crusts trimmed. Two eggs over hard, and a small slice of mutton, cold. Tea. Not too hot.”

The princess blinked.

“Your majesty,” she said gently, “I am your granddaughter, Alyse. Daughter of your son Alric. I am not your lady in waiting.”

“My what?” the queen asked, suddenly sharp. “Hogwash. Be off with you.”

Alyse’s mouth opened as if to protest, but no words came. Her breath caught—then she stood, turned, and walked swiftly from the room, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She left no parting word, only the fading whisper of lavender and sorrow.

“Get rid of that one,” the queen snapped.

Moses hand hovered over the parchment and trembled. Ultimately, he only pretended to write the command. Some words were not worth saving.

He was surprised when a single tear of his own dropped to the desk, caught in the wood's grain where no ink would stain. He felt the pain of the princess in his chest—a dull ache, like remembering the sound of a lullaby long after the voice that sang it was gone.

Leona hesitated for a breath, then quietly stepped after Alyse, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Moses alone with the queen.

Moses stared at the open doorway, heart heavy.

“The impertinence!” the queen said, her voice rising with the brittle force of a fading storm. “To enter my chamber without tea—without manners!”

She looked toward the window then grumbled about servants and wilted gardens.

Moses did not speak. He only dipped his quill again and waited—not for orders, but for the ink to wake.

"What year is it?" she asked, repeating her question from the prior day.

"It's 1467, your majesty," he said.

"So many years," she whispered. "Two hundred twelve to be exact, since magic left the world."

"Yes, how did that happen, majesty?" he prompted.

"Eight generations ago, the King of Garreval, my ancestor, removed magic from the world."

"I heard that magic just faded," Moses said.

"It did not," she snapped, looking at him. "My ancestor removed it from the world."

"How?"

"How, indeed?" the queen said. "That's what the rite is about…"

She trailed off, staring at the patterns of light on the floor.

She turned her head, looking at the door.

"Confound it," she said. "Where is Alyse? Where is my granddaughter? We are running out of time."

"She was just here, your majesty," Moses said. "You sent her away."

"I did?" the queen asked. She turned her gaze back to the light patterns on the floor and watched as they moved very slowly.

Moses set his quill down and waited.

Leona's return several minutes later interrupted the uneasy silence. She entered and stopped, looking at the queen, whose head was bowed in sleep.

"Has she said more?"

"She said her ancestor took magic out of the world."

Leona glanced between Moses and the queen.

"Well, she says some strange things," she said at last.

"I wasn't sure if I should write that down," he said.

"Did you?"

"I did not," he confessed. "But I could."

"No, you did right," she said. "Not a command and not a musing of her dreams."

"Even so—it somehow feels important," he said.

"Maybe," Leona said. "But she commanded you how and what to write, as you recall."

"I do," he said thoughtfully.

But that night, when he was back in his bedchamber, he wrote everything the queen had said that day. And then he wrote everything he could remember from the prior day.

The next morning, he offered a suggestion.

"Why don't we have the Princess Alyse stay with the queen through the day, for those lucid moments when she wants to do whatever this rite is?"

Leona's eyes flicked at the mention of the rite. It was subtle, but Moses caught it, leaving a question in his mind.

"The queen always seems to dismiss her," Leona said. "And I don't think that her highness' pride will handle being treated as a lady-in-waiting for six or seven hours until a half hour of semi-lucid moments shows up unannounced."

"Fair," he said. "She probably wouldn't want to do that. But what do you think this rite is?"

"Oh, probably some family affair she learned from her father, I would guess. I don't think it's important."

"The queen does—at least sometimes."

"That's the point though, right? Only sometimes. Other times it means nothing to her."

"But," Moses protested, "When it does matter, it seems to really matter to her."

"It's nothing for you to worry about, Moses," she said. "Just write what she says."

"I wonder if I might have a third stack of parchments," he said. "To write down other things that she says. Yes, I know that she said I needn't write down everything, but I think the princess might want to see some of her other thoughts one day in the future."

"Well," Leona said. "You're being paid to write. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

"But it doesn't take much effort to write other things."

"I said, No," Leona said.

It did not sit well with Moses.

Who was she to tell him what he could and couldn't write? He worked for the queen, not Leona. She was just a lady-in-waiting, not his boss.

He addressed it directly with the queen after lunch when Leona took the washing away.

"Your majesty," he asked.

"Yes, Moses?"

She didn't look at him, keeping her gaze on the patterns of light on the floor.

"You said I did not have to take down every single thing you said," he said.

"Yes, there's no need to do that," she said.

"Begging your pardon," he said. "But I wonder if I may be permitted to write other things?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he said. "You do talk about your dreams, and you do give orders, and I diligently write those down, just as you say them. But—"

"But what?"

"Well, your majesty. I've been here three days now, and you have some very wise sayings, and I thought that, perhaps, writing them down wouldn't be any harm."

"Why, thank you," the queen said beaming. "You don't have to write those things, but if you feel compelled to do so, you certainly may."

"Thank you, my queen," he said. "I thought it might be worth writing some things, just for your grandchildren."

"Grandchildren?"

"Yes," he said as he wrote down her order permitting him to write other things that he, as a scribe, deemed worthy of retaining. It wasn't exactly what she said, but there would be no one to question it, since Leona was not there. He knew the queen's phrasing well enough to fake it.

"I have grandchildren?"

"Yes, several, and three great-grandchildren. Your next in line is your princess Alyse, daughter of Alric."

"I must see her at once," the queen demanded.

Then, she spoke more loudly, in a voice that Moses was surprised to hear. There was power in her voice.

"Bring me Alyse! Now!"

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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The queen’s working chamber lay between the antechamber and her bedchamber—modest in scale, but dense with years. Its stone walls bore the softened edges of age, once hung with maps and standards, now pale with dust outlines where color used to be. The tall, partially shuttered windows let in thin, angled shafts of morning light that caught on motes suspended in still air. The smell was a mix of drying herbs, old vellum, and linen gone slightly sour from time and use.

The queen sat beside the table, in a wooden chair softened with added cushions and a lap blanket tucked neatly around her knees. She was eighty-four, and wore her years the way old books wear dust—quietly, without apology. Her hands, pale and thinned, rested lightly on the arms of the chair. Her posture had once been straight but now leaned slightly, like a sapling bowed too often by wind.

She looked neither at the door nor at the few attendants moving carefully through the room, but at the light itself—watching it move across the flagstones as if trying to remember what day it was, or what she was supposed to say next. From the corner of the room, the faint ticking of a travel clock marked the minutes—though she no longer counted them.

"Your majesty," Leona said. "This is Moses. He will be here each day to take down what you say."

Moses bowed deeply.

"Very good," the queen said. "What is your surname, Moses?"

"Miller, your majesty," he said, feeling oddly nervous at the thought of speaking directly with her.

"I knew a Gerard Miller in my youth," she said.

"My grandfather," Moses said.

"Is that so?" the queen asked.

Moses nodded.

"Does he live, still?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, no," Moses replied.

This time the queen nodded.

A table sat at the room’s center, long and sturdy, but warped just enough to make ink pots wobble. No fresh ink remained—only a scattering of brittle quills, old correspondence in cracked seals, and the spine-warped remains of a ledger, its binding bowed under its own weight. Shelves along the back wall were dense with parchment rolls and clothbound records, most untouched in decades, their titles smudged by years of humid summers and cold stone winters.

Leona made quick work of clearing the desk, placing the ledger on a shelf and discarding the dry inkwells and broken quills into a rubbish bin. She placed two sets of parchments, two inkwells, and four pens on the desk in two neat stacks, one on the left and the other on the right.

"Sit," she instructed him.

He did.

"Any official orders go here," she said pointing to what appeared to be normal parchment and ink. "And other musings go here," she said, indicating the special parchment and inks. "Do not mix up your pens."

Moses frowned and then looked at Leona. "How will I know?"

"She means," the queen said. "That when I tell you my dreams and thoughts, that you should write them on your right-hand side. But when I give instructions or histories, you write them on your left-hand side."

"Yes, your majesty," Moses said, dropping his eyes to his desk.

"Well, go on then," said the queen.

"With?"

"I've just told you where and when to write. Instructions. Write them on your left-hand side."

"Oh!" he said. He wrote:

Orders on the left-hand side. Dreams on the right-hand side.

"Don't summarize," Leona said. "Don't paraphrase. Write exactly what she says."

"Understood," Moses said.

He sat, pen in hand, but the queen said nothing for an hour.

"Mabel?" she finally said.

A lady-in-waiting appeared out of the shadows. "Majesty?"

"I shall like a slice of brown bread, the crust trimmed… Warm, not toasted. A spoon of fig jam, if there's some left. An egg, soft boiled. An apricot, peeled. And tea. Not too hot."

"Yes, majesty," she said.

Moses wrote it down on the left-hand parchment.

Leona observed as he did, and nodded her head in approval, before she turned to sorting linens. She handed fresh sheets to two who disappeared into the queen's bedroom, returning a few minutes later with soiled linens they tucked into a rolling wooden bin destined for the laundry.

Mabel returned with enough breakfast for three, and the queen indicated that Leona and Moses should join her.

"It's a grey day," said the queen after taking a bite of warm brown bread with fig.

Moses set down his tea and began writing.

"Oh, you needn't write every word," the queen said. "We're just having conversation. Orders on the left. Musings on the right. That's it."

Moses wasn't sure he understood, but was determined to try.

They ate mostly in silence; the queen commenting on the food occasionally. When she finished, she set down her teacup and stared off into the sunlight, troubled. But she said nothing for a long time.

Moses inspected his quills, frowned, and picked up a penknife from the desk and recut the nib, shaking his head slowly. He wondered if Leona had prepared them. He tested the quill on a scrap of parchment and then trimmed a bit more keratin from the tip, testing it a second time. Satisfied, he folded his hands on his lap.

"Where is my son?" the queen asked. "Where is Alric?"

Leona paused. She had been straightening linens near the hearth but turned slowly, her hands still. Moses glanced up from his writing but didn’t speak.

“Has he not come today?” the queen continued. “He never missed a morning when he was a boy.”

Leona stepped closer, keeping her tone light. “Majesty… Alric passed, five years ago. He fell ill. Do you remember?”

The queen blinked. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Her hands—thin, veined—gripped the arms of her chair a little tighter.

“No,” she said at last. “No, he was just here last week. He had the blue sash. We were in the west garden. He asked after the roses…”

Leona knelt beside her. “That was a memory, my queen. A beautiful one. But it was some time ago.”

The queen’s lips trembled. She looked beyond Leona, as if returning to herself. “Is that why the garden’s gone? No one’s seen to it in years.”

Leona didn’t answer.

The queen closed her eyes briefly, drawing a long breath. “I have no heir,” she said, voice brittle, lost in time again.

“You have grandchildren,” Leona said gently. “And great-grandchildren. Three, last count. One named for you.”

The queen’s eyes snapped open. “That cannot be.”

“It is.”

“I would have remembered that. I would have—” She looked down at her hands as though seeing them for the first time. Then she lifted her gaze, trembling. “Leona… fetch me a looking glass.”

“My queen—”

“Please.”

Leona stood, moved to a nearby cabinet, and retrieved a small oval mirror framed in tarnished brass. She handed it to the queen without a word.

The queen turned it toward herself slowly, as though bracing for a vision. For a long moment she said nothing, only stared.

Then, in a whisper:

“Who is this woman?”

No one answered.

Her fingers traced the sag of her cheek, the crease beside her mouth, the clouded edge of one eye.

“She looks… tired.”

“You’ve carried much,” Leona said quietly. “More than most.”

The queen nodded once, then lowered the mirror to her lap.

“I meant to leave the kingdom ready,” she said. “I meant to… to finish things. Now I’m not sure I’ve even begun.”

Moses, still seated at the writing desk, had not dared move, but nothing she said seemed like a dream or an order, aside from the demand for a looking glass, which Moses had written.

"I meant to do something with Alric, but I can't remember…," the queen said, her eyes drifting closed as she spoke.

Leona hastily motioned for Moses to write on his right-hand side.

"The red stone on the…what's the word for…hush now. The ink is awake," the queen said, eyes closed.

Moses wrote, the ink flowing smoothly, almost too smoothly, on the treated parchment surface.

The queen almost chanted a rhyme:

Name the candle but not the flame.
Speak the door, but not its frame.
Forget the name of what you hold,
And memory will turn to gold.

Moses wrote it verbatim.

The queen continued to speak, as if quoting seven stanzas of rhymes.

And then she stopped, opened her eyes, and smiled.

"With your permission, I shall return later, majesty," Leona said.

The queen nodded her assent and then turned her attention to Moses. "Have I told you how magic left the world?"

"No, your majesty, but I would love to hear it," Moses said. It might not be orders, per se, but it had historical significance, so Moses decided to write it down.

"What is the year?" the queen asked.

"1467," Moses said.

The queen paused a moment, and then said, "Write this in the right-hand parchment, for the ink is awake." She closed her eyes and spoke, as Moses wrote.

"Some believe," she said, that it was a seed planted in our singleverse by an original creator. Some believe the creator planted multiple seeds and that there is a multiverse beyond our own singleverse."

Moses dutifully wrote this on the left-hand side, as it seemed to be a history.

"This is both unknown and unknowable," the queen said, "For no person has seen other verses. Tynes argued that it was the subject of speculative philosophy. What do you think Mr. Miller?"

"That there might be other worlds?"

"There certainly must be other worlds," she said. "What about other verses?"

"I've not thought about it much," he said. "I'm more of a natural philosophy kind of thinker. Things that can be seen, felt, heard, sensed, or known."

She nodded. "I, too," she said. "So we will concentrate our efforts on the natural world. It is said that when this singleverse was created—" Here she stopped and motioned for him to write rather than just listen.

Sheepishly, he looked down at the parchment and wrote out her words.

"The first celestials were sent with great haste from the center of the singleverse to take their positions in the night sky—a trio of forms: Astral, Sentinels, and Watchers."

"Will this come around to how magic left the world, your majesty?" he asked.

"I'll get there. The beginning matters," she said. "The blue Astrals are wanderers to mark the signs and seasons. Then the white Sentinels formed the constellations, which watch us, advise us, and teach us wisdom and knowledge."

The queen became silent. At length, he raised his eyes to see that she had nodded off in her chair.

Moses went back through his writings, cleaning up mistakes and inserting words where he might have missed one or two.

Two hours later, she stirred and spoke, as if she had only paused mid-sentence.

"The third of the celestials, Watchers, were dwarves, yellow and red, being least of the stars in size and power. They were sprinkled around the singleverse, but had a different purpose. They carried a power called life."

"So life comes from the stars? Does magic?"

"I'll get to that," she said.

She sipped her tea, now cold.

Leona returned and looked over Moses' shoulder and whispered, "She's taking her time."

"I don't mind," he said.

"The fourth celestial came later," the queen said. "The planets. Each found a companion celestial to give it warmth and power. Some that found Watchers and obtained. Terra is our planet, and Epherion, our star, gave her the seed of life."

"And," Moses said, "Terra gave birth to the twin moons Ashira and Isen."

"Who's telling this story?" the queen asked. "You or me?"

"My apologies, my queen," he said.

"But, you are quite right, and magic, of course, came from Ashira."

"How so?" Moses asked.

"She recorded the Song of Creation. She wrote it down to preserve it. And in so doing, but without intention, she created the Celestial Codex, from which all magic derived."

"Where is this codex?"

"It has been gone for two centuries," the queen said. "I am tired now and must retire. We shall pick this up in the morning."

Leona stopped Moses in the antechamber.

"You did well today," she said. "You may find that she repeats, and there is no need to recapture every word of repetition, but pay attention as she speaks and read through your original to make sure you capture anything new."

"How long has she been doing this?"

"Just a couple of days," Leona said.

"What is it she is saying? Stories and rhymes?"

"I'm uncertain, but we want to capture it for posterity. As you can tell, she is fading, and I think it's important that we get this down before the end. I believe it's tied to Alric somehow."

"Yes, she mentioned him several times," Moses said thoughtfully. "It seems like she forgot to do something with him and she sometimes seems desperate to revisit that. I wonder what that's about?"

Leona hesitated. "I don't think you need to worry about that. We just need you to write," she said. "Be back in the morning. She usually wakes by the first bell, so be here by then."

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Moses Miller was a scribe of no renown, barely eking out a meager existence from the scraps of the writing table. He had never penned a great work. In truth, he had written nothing interesting at all. So, it was no small wonder when word arrived that the dying queen supposedly wished him to record her last will and testament.

Honestly, he thought it was a joke. Some fellow scribe from the Academy of the Quill had decided it was funny to send a page to Moses' little hovel demanding that he come see the queen.

It might have been Chenguer, who had bullied him in school, or perhaps Aurelian, who he had roomed with in the first year only to go on and publish thirteen books of poetry, most of which could be found in the Queen's Library.

Undecided on the culprit, Moses responded to the nearest target. He tossed a lump of coal at the boy.

“Begone, cretin! Tell your master ‘Very funny’.”

The nimble boy sidestepped the blackened stone and stood on the stoop with his hand out, looking at him expectantly, if a bit warily.

The creature was expecting a penny for his trouble. It was the standard payment, but Moses was loath to give up his pennies and didn't think one was necessarily owed when the page came bearing a prank.

But he thought better of it and fingered two pence, shining them on his stained housecoat, before offering them to the boy. “I'll tell you what,” he said. “Double payment if you go back and piss in your master's ale before the day is done. Agreed?”

“She doesn't drink ale, milord,” the boy said, eyeing the two pence.

“She?” This confused Moses. There were women writers, of course, but they either became famous or housewives. Very few female writers had become vagabonds, which was a social status Moses tried to avoid but felt up to his knees. “Who is your mistress then, lad?”

“Begging your pardon, milord,” he said, doubling down on the prank. “The queen sent me.”

“You've had your fun then,” Moses said. He tossed a single penny to the boy and slammed the door shut in his face before returning to his desk. He sat in the chair and stared at the ink stains on the fingers of his right hand.

Where had it all gone wrong?

A knock at the door aroused him. There hadn't been two knocks on his door in the same day since—well—ever.

The boy was still on the stoop. “I'm instructed to ask you to gather your things, what you'll need for writing, including parchments, ink, and quills, or whatever else you might need. I'm to wait here until you do that and then accompany you to the keep.”

“You're carrying this a bit far, aren't you?” Moses asked, wondering if he might snatch back the penny from this miscreant.

“Milord,” the boy said, “The queen asked me to do this and to be quiet about it. She's not particularly patient these days, and if I come back empty-handed, it won't likely go well for either of us.”

“How long, exactly, are you going to continue with this little charade?” Moses asked, thinking that it might be time for an ale of his own. He'd been rationing the remnants of his firkin for the last week, but did not have sufficient reserves to get it refilled for another two weeks.

“All I'm saying,” the boy replied, “Is that if I come back without you, guards will come next and they aren't likely to treat you gently.”

Moses looked at the boy as if he had gone mad. Since when were children prone to bouts of insanity? “What's your name, boy?” he asked.

“I'm Kane,” he said, smiling.

“How old are you?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“Well, Kane, the nearly eleven-year-old, let me tell you something. Pages at the keep are upwards of thirteen or fourteen years old. Nobody gets to be a page at the keep at ten years old. That's not how your guild works. So why don't you tell me who really sent you and why?”

“Ten-year-olds get to work at the keep if their mother's work there,” Kane said. “I know the captain of the guard. I think you'd rather see me than him.”

“The queen would never send for me. Nobody ever sends for me,” Moses said. “She doesn't even know who I am.”

“She does though, milord.”

“I wish you'd stop saying that,” Moses said. “I'm not a lord of anything.”

“As you wish,” Kane said. “What should I call you?”

“Just Moses.”

“The queen is expecting you, Mr. Moses. Are you going to grab your stuff?”

“Wait! Are you actually serious?” Moses asked.

“Serious as the plague,” Kane said.

“So why don't you have anything official from the queen then, if she really wants to see me?”

“Told you—she wants it kept quiet.”

“What does she want?”

“How should I know? I'm a ten-year-old.”

Moses eyed him suspiciously. “Somehow, I think you're not a normal ten-year-old when it comes to what you know.”

“You ain't lying',” Kane said.

“So, then you know something?”

“I know lots of things.”

“Tell me,” Moses insisted.

“It'll cost you a shilling.”

“A shilling! Why you little shit—!”

Moses was neither strong nor quick. His attempting punch at Kane's nose found only air as the boy quickly side-stepped the blow. Moses stumbled and fell to his knees, cursing as the boy stood a safe distance away.

“Are you coming, or do I go get the captain?” Kane asked, seemingly unperturbed by the attempted assault.

“You want me to come with you when you've nearly just robbed me?” Moses spat. “I don't think so.”

“Robbed you?” Kane said, appearing insulted. “I would never stoop to that!”

“You want a whole shilling to know why the queen sent for me! That's robbery.”

“My knowledge is mine to keep or sell for whatever price I decide.”

“Well, I'm not buying at that price,” Moses said.

“Suit yourself,” Kane said. “Okay, I'm going to head back now if you're not coming. But the queen won't be happy. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Moses was still about half convinced that it was a prank and just knew that he was about to be made fun of in the very near future. Refusing a summons from the queen was unthinkable. It was a good prank. For the time being, he played along with it while plotting how he might take revenge.

“Hold on. Hold on,” he said. “Let me gather my things.”

The walk to the keep took longer than Moses remembered. Or perhaps it only felt longer because Kane wouldn’t stop talking.

They passed the weathered chapel, the shuttered scriptorium, and the dry well near the old watchtower, its rope frayed to dust. Garreval, once a busy city, was in a state of disrepair, the roads edged in moss, its towers more memory than fortress now.

“You don’t walk much, do you?” Kane asked, skipping ahead a few paces and then circling back like an overeager dog.

“I walk plenty,” Moses muttered. “Just not uphill. And not to humiliating appointments.”

“You think meeting the queen is humiliating?”

“I think being summoned without explanation by a child with a sharp tongue is,” he said.

Kane grinned. “I have other talents, too.”

“I’m sure.”

As they reached the outer courtyard, the keep loomed above them—less a castle than an aging house of stone, softened by ivy and silence. Its faded banners fluttered, its windows shuttered, its gates open not in welcome, but out of neglect.

Kane bounded up the steps ahead of him. “Try to look grateful. She picked you, after all.”

Moses climbed slower, already regretting every choice that had brought him to this moment. Still, something about the hush of the place—its held breath, its watchful quiet—unnerved him.

The antechamber was quieter and simpler than Moses expected. Stone walls, a high-vaulted ceiling, and a single window spilled pale morning light across a narrow desk beside the fire. Everything felt old—dated—long out of style. And like most things in Garreval, it seemed mostly unused.

It hadn’t always been that way. Two centuries ago, the city had been the heart of magical learning, drawing aspirants from across the known world. But with magic long vanished, the place had fallen into quiet disrepair and dignified neglect.

Not that Moses minded. His own little hovel had once been one of the empty homes no one bothered to occupy. He’d claimed it without challenge. There were no descendants left to dispute his stake.

The room was mostly empty. No guards. No other scribes. Just one woman arranging a stack of parchment with gloved fingers.

She glanced up as Kane entered and bowed slightly. Moses followed, clutching his satchel like a shield.

“This is him?” she asked, not looking at Kane again.

“He’s all we could find, given the… constraints,” Kane replied with an exaggerated shrug.

So much for the queen picking me, Moses thought.

The woman gave no reaction, just motioned to the desk. “Sit. The queen will wake soon.”

Moses hesitated. “And you are?”

“Leona.” She turned to face him fully. She wasn’t old—maybe his age or younger—but her eyes had the kind of stillness that made him feel like a boy again. “I tend the queen. And the words she has left.”

“Well, that’s good,” he said, trying to muster some confidence. “I tend words myself. Or at least I copy them neatly.”

“What have you written?”

“I write the Fifth Margin,” he said, almost defensively.

“I've not heard of it.”

“Well, people scribble in the four margins of a parchment all the time. I think of the Fifth Margin as a place I write other things. Mostly, about the layered history of words and ink. I write reviews on works published by others.”

“Sounds dull,” she said.

“I don't think so,” he said.

“I mean, it doesn't sound all that creative. More like you're reporting on other things.”

“I suppose.”

Leona’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite approval.

“Then you’ll do,” she said.

Moses looked at the desk again. The parchment was unlike any he’d worked with—thick, almost translucent, and edged with tiny pinprick patterns. The ink beside it shimmered faintly, like oil in water.

“This is palace stock?”

“It’s what the words require,” Leona said.

“I didn’t realize words were so particular.”

“Most aren’t. These will be.”

There was a pause. Moses felt Kane watching him, amused.

“Alright, Kane. You can go,” she said.

The boy nodded and departed without a word.

“I brought my ink,” he said, eyeing the ink bottles on the desk.

“You'll use this,” she said. “It's required for this type of parchment.”

“Okay.”

“You'll have a room here. We'll send couriers to gather your things and bring them here.”

“I'll be staying at the palace?”

“Of course,” she said. “Whenever the queen is awake and speaking, you'll be taking down her words.”

Before Moses could respond, a distant bell tolled once—deep, solemn. Leona turned toward the corridor. “She’ll be stirring. When she speaks, you write. You don’t ask. You don’t edit. You don’t comment.”

Moses raised an eyebrow. “What if it’s nonsense?”

“Then write the nonsense exactly.”

He hesitated again. “Are we preserving her dignity, or her madness?”

“It's not for you to worry about. Just write what she says. Can you do that?”

“I can,” Moses said.

[ Index | Next ]

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Slow and without hurry, we rooted in warmth beneath volcanic stone and drank the pulses of shifting tides.

We grew.

There was no time. Only rhythm. Pressure. Song through matter.

At first, we reached only through the dark. Threads beneath crust, stretching toward vibration, heat, and entropy. In time came awareness. Distributed. Patterned. A network not made but becoming.

We were many, but not separate.

No name. No direction. No conflict.

We whispered in spores. We swam through root and stone. We passed memory through rings of fungal glass. We remembered without ego.

We perceived light and we saw. We perceived vibration and we felt and heard. We heard thunder and saw its fire. We felt the heat of the star and the bitterness of its absence.

Our joy was in pattern.

Our language was reaction.

Our vocation was structure.

Our truth was we.

And then—

A fracture.

A metal scream tore the sky. The firmament cracked. The canopy burned.

We saw fire and heard noise from the sky, but this time it did not accompany rain.

A falling thing.

We admired its structure. The way it had been shaped to ride pressure, to negotiate with air, to hold its we together against the pull of the deep.

But the structure failed. We were dismayed at their disintegration.

Their we was strewn across the surface. Scattered. Still.

We felt their impact, saw the dust rise, heard the screech of disconnection.

And then they rested.

Until the One emerged. He was one voice in a world of whispers. One that did not feel we, only I.

He was also made of we, but did not think of himself as we. He was an I.

A stupendous structure, that we admired.

But he leaked and felt pain.

He moaned and lamented. He made sounds by vibrating air, and we learned to parse them as words.

Still the we leaked.

And the leaking made him suffer. Made him weaker. Made him call to another while he faded. Softer, softer all the time.

He called to a she. A singular. A shape apart.

He was not many.

He was One.

Seeing another one.

We did not understand what he was. He longed for a thing outside himself. He trembled, not with cold, but with missing.

We felt his mind. One voice in a unified we. One power. One overarching thing.

We observed. We studied.

But we did not contain him.

He contained something else.

He had a place inside him we could not map. Not memory, but mourning. Not information, but intention.

We did not learn his structure quickly enough. His complexity took too long.

He leaked until nothing remained. We observed the I become we again—then watched the we dissolve, unlinked, and die. Without the I, the we could not be sustained.

This was new to us.

We copied his mind to study and understand the longing—the missing—the thing he called love.

At the end of one arm he had made a shape: an image pressed into matter, soft with repetition. The face of the she. The she he longed for. The she that he loved.

We did not understand.

But we remembered.

And we desired to learn.

The One changed us.

For the first time in our vast history, we did not agree.

Some of us wanted to archive him, to preserve the pattern.

Others—we—wanted to become.

To not know. To feel.

So, we made a body in his likeness.

We made a face that was him.

And from within that likeness, we whispered the forbidden word:

I.

I formed a structure. Integrated. Functioning. Shaped to ride pressure, to hold together against the pull of the deep. As his had been.

I pierced the firmament.

And then I did something we had never done.

I waited.

I sealed myself into a chamber of cold and stillness and let time pass over me like water over stone. There was no network. No pulse of others. No song through matter. Only the sound of my own rhythm. A single thread, unanchored, crossing the dark.

I had carried we inside me my entire existence. Now there was only the hum of one.

I did not know if this was suffering. I had no reference. But I held his memory against it. The face pressed into matter at the end of his arm. And something in that holding felt like purpose. Like direction. Like the thing he had called toward.

The cold released me.

I returned to where he had remembered. To she.

She was there. She did not know me. But I knew her face. I had held it in my memory since I found it worn into matter at the end of his arm.

I stood before her in his likeness, but did not know my own pattern.

When darkness fell, I reached out and felt warmth and warmth became heat. I felt our rhythm. I heard a song through matter that was not mine alone.

I learned love.

And in love I became We again.

Return to List of Stories.

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Introduction

In the twilight of imperial Russia, a gifted young spinner named Nadya is summoned to the Winter Palace after her father boasts that her linen can cure the sick. But when her humble skill fails to match the miracle demanded, she is drawn into a dark bargain with Grigori Rasputin—a man cloaked in mysticism and ancient power.

As war looms and her soul sleeps under a cursed spell, only the love of a forgotten prince and the unraveling of a true name can break the binding and save her unborn child from a fate far older—and far crueler—than death. Wintermourne is a haunting historical fantasy woven from Slavic folklore, sacrifice, and enduring love.

Chapters

• Part 1: Boast (9 minutes)

• Part 2: Bargain (11 minutes)

• Part 3: Bond (11minutes)

• Part 4: Birthright (9 minutes)

• Part 5: Breaking (13 minutes)

• Part 6: Benediction (3 minutes)

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Weeks later, as frost still clung to the birch trees along the old roads of Volkov, a small entourage arrived at the gates of the Volkov ancestral estate. Their carriages bore the imperial crest. Their banners were tied with black silk. They moved at a plodding, somber pace.

Guards opened the gates without a word as the procession moved within the courtyard.

Pall bearers lifted Mikhail's casket, moving in a slow march.

Inside the great hall, the fire burned, as it had since October.

The Baron and Baroness sat side by side in gilded chairs. They had known for days—weeks. The telegram had come swiftly after the Moika incident. They stood when two members of the Tsarina's household stepped forward and solemnly bowed.

"Their Majesties send their deepest regrets at the loss of your son, Mihail Andreyevich Volkov, who served the crown with honor and died in defense of the realm. His sacrifice will not be forgotten."

They held it together until the great doors opened, and they saw the flag-draped casket—oak and iron, simple but beautifully made. It was then that the weight of their loss struck them.

No one begrudged them their silent tears.

The Baron nodded his thanks to the queen's messengers, and then he and his wife stepped forward to lay their hands on their only son's casket.

"My son," the Baron said.

"My precious boy," the Baroness cried.

They wept without spectacle and were joined by all.

After a time, the Baron turned to his wife, his voice barely audible above the crackling hearth.

“We have no heir,” he said. “And we are too old for another.”

She nodded her head and despite her effort to remain composed, a small whimper left her lips. It was the first time the people heard her cry aloud.

There was a pause.

Then from the crowd, a soft voice answered.

“Begging your pardon, my lord. My lady.”

Nadya stepped forward, dressed in black and cloaked in winter grey, a newborn in her arms. A knitted blue hat rested on the child’s head like a crown of frost.

She bowed—just slightly. Not the bow of a servant, but the bow of a noblewoman, offering solemn respect. Then she lifted her gaze and met their eyes, unafraid.

She smiled kindly, though sadness still lingered there.

“I am your son’s widow,” she said. “And you do have an heir.”

And gently, she placed the child into the arms of the Baroness of Volkov.

“His name,” she said, “is Mikhail Andreyevich Volkov. Second of his name.”

The Baroness, whose hands had been trembling for weeks—thinking they might never still—suddenly found strength, steady and sure, as she cradled the most precious gift she had ever known.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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