To catch flies, use honey. To catch hyenas, use carrion.

- FORSAKEN PROVERB

When you stepped into the Union, the first thing you’d see would be forest.

Miles and miles of dark, spindly forest that stood like needles against the wind, the latter producing a howling sound that you couldn’t pinpoint the cause of. You would wander in the Dark Forest (a terribly original name, Vitajie Aundray knows), and immediately be struck with a decision to make: was it the weather making that noise, or the monsters?

Not that anyone wanders in besides soldiers, anyhow.

But that’s besides the point.

The Glorydark — taken from the Kato Verse, Crown — was the moniker of not the entire expanse, but the specific rift that spawned monsters year-round.

They got more prevalent during wintertime, the monsters — the seasonal cycle was allegedly due to the fact that the God of Death’s wife had returned to him and thus he spent more time with her than in Tartarus gatekeeping the monsters — although external influences did, in fact, weigh on the scale of things—

Right.

Aundray is getting off track.

Once you crossed the border region of the Glorydark, you would immediately leap to the Union’s allegedly only city, Tartarus, named after the part of the Dark Below (more commonly known as the Underworld, the place of Myth where the Titans were imprisoned). That’s where Aundray lives.

Tartarus, where the sky stretches like a dusky serpent, its coils of light wrapped around the bone-spire buildings ready to swallow. In one end of the Dark City, there lies the Vitajie Estate, home to House Vitajie’s ruling Clan, the Aun.

Aundray shuts the book and leans back on the tree.

There’s nothing he doesn’t know already.

“Aundray, Aundray!” calls a voice. Desarta Aceline, daughter of the current head of the Ace, rushes up the hill, a bouquet in her hand. “Look what I got for you.” She delivers yet another bunch of craggy tree pieces into Aundray’s hands.

He sniffs it. Bittersweet, with a tangy sour dampness to it. “It smells nice,” he admits. “What wood is it?”

Aceline smiles, triumphantly. “I got some people to go near the Glorydark and chop some trees for me. They’re fresh off the branch.”

Aundray looks slightly concerned. “But...won’t they—”

She looks amused. “You’re such a worrywart,” chides Aceline. “There aren’t many monsters this time of year, especially since it’s near First Snow.” She seats herself next to Aundray, rubbing her hands together as he frowns.

“You didn’t wear harpy skins today,” he calmly scolds. “You’ll catch hoar, if you keep going about like that.” He gingerly sets the bouquet aside on his lap, picking up the book and opening its pages up again.

Aceline still places her chin on his shoulder. “What are you reading, though?”

“Just some Kato stories,” Aundray says vaguely, frowning while setting the book aside yet again. “You know I can’t read with you breathing down my neck. What’s going on?”

Aceline shrugs. “Nothing,” she says, but her eyes are shifting. She’s obviously hiding something, but Aundray doesn’t push.

He blinks. “Alright, then, if you want your privacy.” He looks towards the horizon. The sky is hazy yet clear, pearly grey clouds swarming the expanse above the estate’s bone-mansion — Aundray can feel the promise of frost on his skin, and he gets up from his spot by the darkwood tree, retrieving the bouquet.

“It’s cold out here,” he remarks, frowning. “We should go inside, it might snow.”

Aceline snorts. “Worrywart,” she teases, but follows.

Flecks of ice brush his nose and hers as they head into the house.

The girl runs.

“Get back here, you scrounge!” A yell echoes behind her.

She snorts, internally. Scrounge. That’s a new one.

The place she’s currently being chased through, after all, is not a place that holds literary promise. Of course, the Lower Quarter is far more intellectually abysmal — she likes that word, abysmal — but those of the Harbors, observedly, suffer from a deprivation of insults that don’t contain bawdy profanity.

But there is no time for internal monologuing.

The waters of Lake Ichor are now a dangerous shade of midnight, lapping the shores like a persistent hound. She’d thought that the Harbormaster would’ve been snoring by now, but evidently she was wrong — a jangle of a lockpick’s encounter with a door (while she was exiting, she might add), and he was hot in pursuit. Contrarily, the cold of the night prickles the girl’s skin as she dives further into the city.

There are eyes on the occurring chase, but the girl knows that they’re more malevolent curiosity than anything else — good thieves, and the professional occupation of Thief, would likely take this opportunity to rob the Harbormaster’s home, now left unattended.

The girl bites back a swear. She got arrogant. If she hadn’t been desperate, she would’ve taken a companion. But she was, and that desperation propels her as her bare soles sear across the moist cobblestones. The uneven rock doesn’t bother her, but her feet, although fleet, cannot handle a long chase in the dark of night.

Not that this particularly lazy Harbormaster would keep up the challenge for long — the girl is sure he won’t.

True to her estimate, his yells disappear in the next few minutes, but she knows she shouldn’t relax until the bread within her hands is safely at the Institute. The moon is whole and taunting, and by its teasing light the girl finds her way back to her childhood shelter.

As she arrives at its entrance, she immediately breaks the paximathia bread in half, stuffing one in her own mouth, and the other underneath her ragged shirt. Trailing her eyes over the windows — none of them are lit, thankfully — the girl climbs up the slowly deteriorating trellis that decorates the left wall.

The bread’s lingering dryness in her mouth makes her lick her lips clean — visible crumbs would only mean discovery — as she opens the window and climbs in, shutting the glass delicately.

None of those awake seem particularly reactive at her entrance — a group is playing stolen poker by a corner, but they make up the few that have nourished themselves for the Dayhept. The rest are probably out on food trips, alone or for themselves.

“Number Five,” one acknowledges, curtly. “Make sure te’ shut the window properly. The nuns are making them rounds more frequently.”

The girl inclines her head. “I will, Ten,” she replies casually, stretching her limbs, “where’s Seven?”

“Here,” chirps a familiar voice, wriggling her fingers in greeting. Seven is bright-eyed as always, back from her shift at the Carnival. Although a supposedly unsavory way to earn coin, it doesn’t change the fact that the girl’s friend still does.

“If yer gonna talk,” says Ten, looking up from their cards, “make sure ye do it up on the roof. If yer gonna do the nasty, do it someplace else.”

Seven rolls her eyes. “We’re not into that kinda stuff, Terpsichore,” she says. “Right, Bridgette?”

“Bridgette?” the girl — more widely known as Five, but perhaps not — asks, raising her eyebrows. “You’re still hung up about that name thing?”

Ten narrows their eyes, interrupting the pair’s conversation. “Talk. On. The. Damn. Roof. Also, Terpsichore’s a stupid name. It’s blasphemy — it’s a damn Titan’s name, you idiot.”

Seven throws her hands up in surrender. “Right, right. Going.” She heads over to the window the girl just came in from. “Come on, Ruth. Terpsichore’s a beautiful name, I don’t know what Ten’s so hung up about.”

The girl known as Five mutters under her breath. “Really? Ruth?”

Still, the pair manages to clamber up on the Highlander Institute’s roof, shingles scraping across sore feet as the moon grins at the two of them.

“Terpsichore Highlander.” Seven’s eyes grow misty, like they always do. “It sounds heroic. I want a name like that.”

“You can name yourself, you know,” the other girl offers.

Seven shakes her head. “It isn’t the same, Elena,” she replies, leaning back on the roof.

The girl follows her friend, and the creaking tiles of the roof dig in both of their spines. “I don’t like Elena. It sounds old,” she says to Seven, finally. “You want me to name you, or something? I can do that — don’t think I’d be that good at it, though. You know me. Creativity isn’t my strongest suit.” Well, it kind of is, since she is the most literacy-versed orphan in the Institute, but the girl known as Five doesn’t do names.

“Yes, I do, very well,” answers Seven. “That’s why it shouldn’t be so hard to name you.” She sighs, but brightens. “Still, you can give the naming-me thing a shot. I’m sure you can’t be that bad.”

The girl considers her friend. Seven has a pale face, one of a dreamy-like quality that makes the girl wonder why the Carnival hasn’t done anything more than employing her (the brothel itself is renowned for ironclad indentures, after all). It’s moon-shaped, and the same glow that occupies the orb hanging in the sky taints her eyes.

“Pale,” she decides.

Seven shrugs. “Sure, why not?” The newly-named Pale looks at her friend. “Hmm, apparently it’s good to name people after things. I was about to name you Pearl, since pearls are pretty, but I saw this name in a text that means ‘pearl.’” Pale looks at the girl. “Margaret,” she names. “Margaret Highlander.”

Margaret makes a face. “It’s way too long,” she says. “Make up a nickname for me, or something.”

Pale shrugs again. “I suppose you could be Greta, but that takes the fun out of it.” She grins. “Margaret. That’s a nice name.”

Margaret groans. “I guess, I mean, if it makes you happy.”

The two talk into the night.