Jenna Essenburg

Prologue The air lay thickly on Tiren Ryger’s senses, blanketing the castle grounds and sky in that tomblike silence for which the Dead Watch was named. From atop the northernmost rook, Tiren could almost believe himself the only person alive in the world. These were the soft hours of the night where anything untouched by the moon ceased to exist. The utter abandonment belied the clockwork he knew was at work behind the heavy wooden entry doors to his left, yet even after two months on the watch, he found the facade eerie. Inside the gaslights were throwing uneven shadows along the walls as dozens of maids passed like slippered specters from room to room, wordlessly tidying after the frenzy of the day. The queen required complete silence to rest. Tiren cleared his throat and continued his methodical circuit of the rook. The hush of tonight felt…odd. More so than usual. But nothing stirred. Nothing. With little else to occupy his mind, Tiren counted the steps between watch-posts; he judged he had at least twenty more paces of the perimeter before the watch was over–the sky was the shade-laden purple of a healing bruise, daylight trying its best to seep through the dark. The rapping of his boots on the flagstone echoed, doggedly following him, when a scream tore through the air, bursting the silence like an overripe fruit. It seemed to escape from every crack, every crevice of the stone. Beneath his feet, the castle trembled with the power of the scream. Tiren ran to the door, wrenched it open, and charged down the narrow flight of stairs inside. The scream was even louder here, reverberating unnaturally off every surface, as though the stones writhed and burned from some unseen fire or wound. At the first landing Tiren paused, eyes sweeping the corridor beyond. Empty. He turned back to the staircase and continued to descend; passage after empty passage, the dread spread like ice in the watchman’s veins. His mind worked furiously to understand--in his two months of training, he’d never seen the finely tuned machine so utterly devoid of life. Reaching the bottom of the final set of wide steps, he scanned the length of hallway outside the throne room and fought the urge to cover his ears—the pitch was nearly deafening. The scream was now more than mere sound. The very air before him shifted strangely, as though an echoing, bodiless entity bounced off the walls, ceiling, and floor, teasing the gaslights when it passed. For a moment, Tiren could only stare in abject horror. He’d never seen anything like it. He drew his sword and moved slowly into the hall, wary of the absence of clinking metal and shouts of alarm, but warier still of the loose magic ambling ahead of him on the stone, masking his footfalls as he approached the throne room door. He shivered to see it closed, his clammy hand tightening on his sword hilt. Magic was carnate--radiating, but never separating from its conjurer. It had been so for centuries. Until, apparently, today. A confirmation of his, and many other Viragoan’s fears. Just as his hand reached for the iron handle, a fresh scream tore through the air, spilling from the crack beneath the door. The terror behind it nearly gutted Tiren, sure now that it could be none other than the Queen. He frantically twisted on the door’s handle and swore loudly when it didn’t budge. He stood back and considered the door--it was heavy, ornately carved wood, the interior locking mechanism a thick iron bar. The room was its own fortress. He beat the hilt of his sword against the door for good measure and tore his eyes from the door. Windows dotted the hallway and he dashed to the northernmost, throwing open the sash and craning his head out to see what footing he might have on the exterior walls. The icy winter wind howled in his ears and he fought to see. While most stones were flush, a few sat slightly forward, giving the tiniest purchase he might use to reach the throne room window several meters away. It was dangerous, perhaps deadly, but what other option did he have? Just then, a massive thud sounded from within the throne room–unmistakably the iron locking mechanism drawing back. Tiren closed the window casing and crept back toward the door, holding his sword aloft, ready to strike. He put a hand to the door and pushed, the wood groaning as it opened into the strange, pitch-black interior of the room. He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, when a dense smoke began pouring from the opening. He stumbled backward, recognizing more incorporeal magic. The smoke billowed and curled as it flowed from the room and began to permeate the hall. It was dark, like clouds during a storm, rolling and rising in thick waves toward the ceiling, and it moved with obvious purpose--snuffing out the gaslights and settling onto everything within its path like a thick layer of dust. Within seconds, Tiren could barely see but a few feet in front of him. Then, pain took over, the smoke and the earlier screams becoming one furious entity, reaching into every sense, every pore. He doubled over in agony, the sound like a needle on his ear drum. His mind scrambled to stay alert, to fight, to escape, but a small voice in the back of his head told him what he feared–magic, not the queen, was ruling now. And it would no longer be controlled. The sound of the scream died out, suddenly and with finality, but the air continued to grow heavy. Tiren righted himself, gasping and choking in the increasingly airless hall, as a tremendous pressure now began building within him: his eyes bulged and his skin stretched sickeningly, his body a sack filled to bursting. His frantic eyes lit again on the windows, now at the edge of his smoke-clouded vision. The closest one was several feet away, and as he struggled towards it, he felt the skin on his thigh rip open like tissue paper, warm blood rushing from the wound, drenching his trousers. He fell to the ground, grasping the wound and tearing at his clothing with the trembling fingers of his free hand, desperate for a tourniquet. A strip tore free from his trousers just as another rip gaped open on his bicep, the white sleeve darkening in seconds. Tiren stilled and clamped his eyes closed, fighting off the nausea and dizziness that washed over him. The window was impossibly far, the moonlit patch of floor beneath it still more than an arm’s length away. The throne room--the whole castle for that matter--was deathly still. And he was so tired. And in so much pain. He had failed. He closed his eyes and wished for death. --------- Tiren awoke slumped on his side with a haze still clouding his senses. Had it been seconds? Minutes? Cool air now flooded the hall and he took small, shuddering breaths to avoid overloading his hungry lungs. He was within view of the throne room, the door ajar and the hall empty of magic. Wincing, he rolled to his side to better leverage his weight to stand, a terrible searing pain shooting through his body. He looked down at his arm, then his thigh, to find properly applied tourniquets. They were blood-soaked, but lifesaving. A clear path of blood shone darkly on the floor where he had been dragged beneath the now-open window. His sword lay conveniently at his side and he took it in hand, testing its weight with the hand of his uninjured arm. “Who’s there?” Tiren spoke into the dark. Silence. He stood carefully, testing his leg. He’d have to put weight on it to find out what befell the queen. Limping, he reached the door and found it similarly tampered with, now less open than he had left it when the smoke had poured forth. “This is Guard Ryger of the Queen’s Attendants. Reveal yourself.” But the castle remained a tomb. Using the tip of his sword, Tiren nudged the door open. A single wisp of the smoke-like magic buffeted past him, pulled toward the open hall window like water down a sewer grate. Tiren dodged sideways, shrinking away from it, and watched as it was swallowed by the world beyond the castle, twisting wildly in the wind toward Miren Forest. He sucked in a breath and moved into the darkened throne room. Moonlight from the hall weakly lit the vast space within, tapering into a mere slice of light where armor-clad bodies littered the floor. Royal guards. The river of blood that squelched beneath his boots told him all he needed to know about their fate. He crept in further, taking care where he stepped, noting various injuries as he passed. Many had clearly suffocated, as he almost had; others had terrible sawlike wounds across their face and body. Some had ruined eyes, the gooey white innards still slowly oozing down their faces. All of their swords were still tightly encased in their scabbards. Tiren paused next to a pair of bodies: Kessler and Isian. Poor bastards. They’d only just finished thone training last week. He’d been hoping to join them in a fortnight when he passed his own ascension test. Both of their faces were unmarred, but he couldn’t say the same for their mangled torsos. His hand clenched around his sword hilt, terror surging through him. Other castle staff were peppered among the mele--cooks, maids, and various servants-- all dead from a manner of grisly injuries. It was as if the whole castle had been roused, at an ungodly hour, and summoned to the throne room to their death. The corpses were spread curiously around the room, radiating out from a single fixed point, to which Tiren now inched closer. The light from the hall didn’t reach the inner cluster of bodies, but, Tiren was grimly certain what he would find there. He sheathed his sword and fumbled for a match within his pocket as he crossed to a nearby pedestal topped with a small candelabra. He lit the candles and picked it up, turning back to the gruesome scene to face what lay in the center of the gore: an undeniably female body, robed in velvet of butter yellow. The Queen. She had crumpled to the ground in the fetal position, her gown twisted about her legs and her bright red hair sprawled out behind her, the ends wet with a nearby guard’s blood. She was utterly still. Tiren limped toward her but stopped short at the sight of another redheaded body that had fallen opposite the queen on the innermost edge of the circle. It was a girl, no more than five, and he balked to see her here among this carnage. In many ways, she was the Queen’s copy--the red hair, the chalk white skin. But, he knew, she was different in the only way that mattered--at least to the ruling class of Virago. Her eyes were brown. Not the gold of those who possess magic. Lowen’s small frame was sprawled on her stomach, face covered by her fiery hair. She was bloodied but did not bear the awful wounds he had seen on the guards or staff. Tiren, like all Viragoans, remembered the spectacle that surrounded her birth--fantastic hope, followed by grave disappointment. Despite the centuries of intermarriage and the careful selection of a mate, Queen Ornesse’s child was entirely unremarkable. And, so, she had been treated as such. Without magic, she could not bear the title of “princess,” nor was she given the royal reverence or protection. Were it not for her red hair and white skin, the guard would have guessed her to be any of the dozen or so children in residence at the castle. Tiren breathed a small prayer as he turned and stepped towards his destination at the center of the bodies. As he sank to his knees beside the Queen, he felt the crushing weight of all that her death would mean for Virago. Who would rule now, without the divine right of magic to lead them? For lifetimes magic had been the pinnacle of fear and awe, a natural source of power and governance. For decades, a brutal anxiety over its dwindling rarity has festered, but there had always been hope. The queen was young--merely twenty-five---and had many childbearing years ahead of her. Had. He pressed his fingers to her neck and gasped at the weak fluttering he met. “By the gods! Your Majesty?” Tiren rolled her carefully onto her back and scanned her for injuries but could find none. Like Lowen, her clothing was bloody, but she bore no visible wounds. Her skin was warm and her chest rose and fell gently. He struggled to his feet and looked around the lifeless room, steeling himself to drag her body however far he would need to when her lids rose, slowly, her golden eyes rolling madly in the sockets. Tiren stepped backward as her hands clenched tightly, her fingernails drawing blood where they dug savagely into her palms. “Q-Queen Ornesse?” His voice shook with fear as her body began writhing and convulsing as if battling an unseen force. “Kill her,” a voice rasped somewhere to Tiren’s right. He spun wildly in the direction of the voice, his nearly forgotten sword at the ready. “Who’s there?” A wet cough broke the silence, followed by a groan. “I said, kill her. Now, Tiren.” Tiren froze at the mention of his proper name. “That is treason. Who are you?” The voice, Tiren realized, was coming from a cluster of bodies on the far side of the room that he had not yet explored. “I do not matter,” said the voice, “what matters is that you kill her, before she can inflict more death on the rest of Virago.” Tiren hesitated a moment, then moved in the direction of the voice, which had dissolved momentarily into a fit of coughs. “Look around you, boy, this took her a matter of minutes.” Tiren thought back to his own brush with death in the hallway as he stalked the remaining paces that separated him from the voice. “But why? Why would the queen have attacked her own guards? Her own servants?” He paused and looked down at the bundle of robes now lying at his feet. He could see the telltale pendant of stars and swords at the man’s throat. “Her own advisors?” Tiren finished, eyes wide. “Her own daughter?” Advisor Dyser let the question hang in the air for a moment, his dark green eyes piercing into Tiren’s. “Because magic is a disease. And she’s the last of its possessors. You must end it, Tiren.” “But I swore an oath of protection.” Tiren turned back to look at the queen where he’d left her. She was beating her body against the floor now, her elbows and heels cracking awfully on the stone. Her eyes were thrown open, staring at the ceiling, unseeing. “So did every man you see here lying in their own entrails. You see how far that got them.” The Advisor’s voice was stronger now, urging. “You see what she has become? What her own power has done to her. What good is an oath when it serves destruction and death?” Tiren held the candelabra up again to look at the bodies beyond Advisor Dyser. There lay Hylem, baker of the most delicious pies and cakes he had ever tasted, and Joyce, a scullery maid with an infectious smile who had started just last week. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Dyser reached out and clutched Tiren’s trouser leg. “Make a new oath, to the people of Virago. Do not let this suffering out of the castle. Protect them, Tiren Ryger.” Tiren closed his eyes briefly. He relived the choking, the way his skin stretched and ripped, the blood. He saw the horrors that had been visited upon the bodies in the room. He saw Lowen, the queen’s own innocent child. It took her a matter of minutes. He sheathed his sword and opened his eyes. Wordlessly he trudged back through the blood and bodies to the queen, the yellow of her dress now nearly dyed crimson. She was no longer thrashing--was instead remarkably still, her eyes open and wide. Tiren went down, painfully, on one knee, then the other, settling his weight evenly. From his belt he drew a dagger and took comfort in its familiar weight, it’s wicked blade that made quick work. He positioned the dagger above the heart of the queen, thinking of all the times in his life he had feared magic, how for decades it had been little more than a tool of division and power. How Virago had long been split between fear of its loss and curiosity for a future where magic no longer determined who could rule. That future could begin right now, with the queen’s death. Dagger aloft, Tiren looked her in the face. “What I do, I do for the people of Virago. Gods forgive me.” He sought her eyes, those harbingers of magic, only to find they no longer burned gold. They were now a deep brown. He lowered the dagger and put his fingers to her neck, selfish relief washing over him. She was dead.

Story Statement: Struggle to control, and end, the Sleeper curse Antagonist Sketch The antagonist of this story is The Assembly, primarily embodied by Leader Dyser. He mysteriously survived Queen Ornesses’ deadly attack that brought about the Sleeper curse, and, alongside Leaders Spenler and Gawyn, rose to power after her death. Though magic disappeared with the death of the last queen, The Assembly maintains an active anti-magic stance and blames it for ruining the lives of Viragoans. In the wake of the curse, The Assembly reorganized society into critical roles (Waker, Sentinel, Enforcer, Leader, Ordinary) and created Lacuna, a shadowy haven for the care and confinement of the Sleepers. They claim to be actively working to “cure” the Sleepers and end the curse, but little progress has been made in the fifteen years since its onset. There are those in Virago that trust The Assembly implicitly, believing that they are serving society’s best interests and working for the good of the world. But there are also a number of people that are distrustful of The Assembly’s actions, fearing the secretive nature of their plans. Our three protagonists have varying opinions on The Assembly that range from wariness, subservience, and down-right hostility. Breakout Title The Sleepers Comparables Divergent by Veronica Roth (society, dystopia) An Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir Hook Line Magic, once created, cannot be destroyed–but that won’t stop three teenagers from upending societal expectations and seeking to end the curse that haunts and hunts them. A magical curse haunts and hunts three teenagers on the precipice of adulthood, building ties and breaking hearts. Inner Conflict While the overarching conflict is with the curse itself, surviving it and taking up their mantle in society to try and end it, each of the three main protagonists face multiple internal and external conflicts in the course of the story. Avelley (Elley) Harker is the daughter of the famous, and unknown, Sleeper Assassin and she struggles with her father’s choice to give “mercy” to those stricken with the curse. She herself has lost both her mother and younger sister to the curse and no longer believes in the Waker propaganda spread by The Assembly about supposed “awakenings,” or instances of miraculous curse-breaking. When she herself is chosen as a Waker in society, she must confront her disbelief and work on the side she once vowed to hate. She struggles with the changing nature of her relationship to her childhood best friend Caspian Ryger and a growing, severe dislike of Caspian’s other best friend, Fenner Graves. Caspian Ryger is the prodigal son of Tiren Ryger, the hero of Queen Ornesse’s attack and lauded right-hand man of Leader Dyser. Caspian tows The Assembly line and genuinely believes they are doing what is best for Virago. He struggles with the institutional distrust his two best friends, Elley and Fenner, have for The Assembly, and he desperately wants to prove them wrong. He has recently realized he is in love with Elley, but is unsure of her feelings for him. He wants to live up to his father’s reputation, but struggles with making a name for himself. As the “man on the inside,” he is privy to plans of The Assembly and the many ways they must try and serve “the greater good.” Fenner Graves is the jaded son of Carina’s Head Enforcer whose wit and sarcasm get him in constant trouble. He has grown comfortable with being disliked, or so he says, but he is tired of being third-wheel to Caspian and Elley. He will never admit that he wishes he were accepted by his father and older brother and he wants to do something meaningful with his life, despite the fact that no one expects anything much from him at all. Fenner struggles with himself–self-sabotage is his favorite game–but he is actually a kind, compassionate, and heroic young man beneath all his bluster and posturing. Fenner later struggles literally with the curse, as he is stricken with it towards the middle of the story. Setting This story takes place in a fictional world called Virago that is similar to our early 1900’s world, but was once ruled by magic, which has now disappeared. Virago is made up of three major cities: Carina (a cape/port city), Mirus (a forest city), and Audere (a bustling border city that overlooks the wild lands). There is a fourth “city,” called Lacuna (a lightless underground city within the capitol where Sleepers are kept). Virago has a rich matriarchal history of enchantresses–those rare women born with magical powers—but was politically divided for many years over the fairness of their “divine right to rule.” Divided, that is, until the last ruling queen went mad and killed everyone in her castle, including herself, besetting Virago with a curse that makes those stricken have their reality altered to a horrific parody of itself. The past fifteen years of curse-fighting have been rife with mistakes, embarrassments, and, more recently, scattered successes. The society has been divided based on needed skills and all Viragoans take an assessment at the age of 17 to determine their “worth” to society. Our story picks up with the three main protagonists being assessed and assigned their roles.