*

“There was a point in our world’s history in which every nation was ruled by firecores. They were the cruelest of leaders, consumed by their ambitions, and they warred with each other like wild dogs. It was the common people who paid the price for their greed.

Firecores were once revered for their courage and intelligence, but eventually, people of all nations learned a hard lesson: fire rules at our expense. To bow to a firecore is to be kindling.”

--From a history lecture on The Wildfire Era at Nuageux Academy, Modern Era Malais.

*

THE MAN

A man is asleep when a shadowy figure comes through his bedroom window in the dead of night, but he's always been a light sleeper. He's sitting up in bed before the intruder even has time to cross the room.

"You're getting worse at this, Shadowshy," he rasps into the dark.

A cool breeze floats in from outside, filling the room with the scent of ocean, of salt and fish. A year in this city, and he’s still not used to how different it smells. He grew up shrouded in the aroma of honeysuckles and swamp gas. These new scents cruelly remind him that he is no longer welcome back home.

"You wound me, fox," sighs Shadowshy. "For once I'm not here to kill you. I've actually brought you a gift."

There are no lights on in the apartment. The man in bed can just barely make out the intruder poised next to the window. He itches to turn on the light and reveal the assassin's handsome face. He never tires of seeing it.

"Your last gift to me was a knife to the ribs," the man reminds Shadowshy, resisting the urge to rub his hand over the scar. The wound had healed quickly, but the pain is a nasty stain upon his memory, a glaring marker of his mortality.

It does nothing to deter the flush building under his skin.

"Tsula, listen. Please.” Shadowshy says, a sliver of exasperation entering his feathery tone. He caresses every word so softly, each one nearly a whisper. For the first time in a while, the man in bed can detect hints of his Kairii accent. “I’m not looking for a fight."

The man clenches his jaw and glares resolutely at his would-be killer. "Don't call me Tsula anymore. I have a new name now."

"Oh?" Shadowshy cocks his head.

"Arthur."

"‘Arthur’?" Shadowshy repeats, each syllable downy-soft. "Strange. Have you gotten a Malroix surname, too?"

"Cendrillion."

A breathy laugh. "'To rise from ash'? How fitting for you, fox."

The man, Arthur, is overcome with the urge to see the assassin’s face. He gets out of bed and crosses the room in three quick strides to flip on the overhead light. The cool night air wafting in from the open window turns his bared skin to gooseflesh.

When he turns back around, he half expects his visitor to be gone. The assassin may be called Shadowshy, but it's light he truly shies from.

Arthur blinks rapidly when the light reveals Shadowshy standing patiently in wait, a stripe of stubborn black against the off-white walls of his apartment with a bundle of smoking darkness cradled in his arms.

"What is that?" Arthur demands, keeping his distance. He's fallen prey to the assassin's enchanted shadows too many times not to be wary of them.

Shadowshy's eyes are as still and dark as a Simikee swamp. His pink lips part uncertainly before he speaks. "When did you cut ties with Cornelia Duste?"

Arthur is taken aback. "That is hardly your concern."

"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have a good reason.”

"You were hired to kill me, and in a year's span, you have nearly succeeded twice. Why would I tell you anything?”

Shadowshy merely shrugs.

Heat creeps up Arthur’s back. He works his hands at his sides, fisting and unfisting them as his frustration grows. “I may enjoy your pursuit, but the condition of our little game is that you don't touch any aspect of my actual life. My relationship with Cornelia isn’t your business."

Shadowshy’s sharp features grow even sharper when touched by anger. His dark eyes don’t gleam with fury only because they can’t. The untouchable darkness of his irises is an eerie sight to behold, two bottomless pits in a bed of porcelain. “I’m not asking out of jealousy,” he growls. “I swear to the Salariat, you have the most roundabout way of saying you like me."

"I do not like you."

Pink lips purse. "Tsula."

"Arthur."

"Fine. Arthur.” Shadowshy rolls his eyes. “Haven’t you realized yet? I gave up trying to kill you a while back.”

Arthur crosses his arms, annoyed by the satisfaction curling through him. "You’re giving up on a mark? Your mercenary reputation must be in shambles."

"Yes," Shadowshy grits out. "The brokers will never hire me again if I don't kill you, but that’s not why I'm here. Stop trying to distract me."

He approaches until they are just an arm's length apart, his long strides liquid in their fluidity. Arthur licks his lips and lets his eyes trail over Shadowhsy’s wiry form before he can stop himself. His assassin is broad-shouldered yet narrow-waisted, an artful array of finely crafted muscle on a slim frame. He is built for speed and agility, a fine suit for his occupation, and his face is even more attractive than the rest of him. But Arthur knows better than to trust him. He waits tensely for Shadowshy to reveal that the bundle in his arms is some nasty surprise: a wasp's nest or a bomb. Surely nothing good.

"Cornelia has been trying to contact you," Shadowshy says, close enough that Arthur could reach out and touch him if he wants to.

"I've been ignoring her," Arthur explains despite his earlier protests. His traitorous throat has gone dry, and his heart pounds faster than it should. He observes the writhing knot of darkness in Shadowshy’s arms, barely distinguishable from the man’s dark clothes. "She seeks power by way of marriage."

"And you are nothing if not a powerful man?"

Arthur jerks his gaze up from the curious bundle of black, glaring. "Are you trying to insult me or flatter me?”

"I'm calling out your arrogance."

“I’m tired of these childish games. What is it you want?”

“I want you to listen. And to call me by my real name.”

"You mean Fukashi?" The name peels from Arthur’s tongue, saccharine and vulnerable. He’s crossing a line he knows he can’t come back from just by saying it. The act brings the heat boiling in his gut to his face. "I don't use it, because I don't trust you." He gives in and runs a hand across the scar across his ribs. There's an ache there, buried deep. “Is it any wonder why?”

Fukashi tracks the motion of his fingers, frowns, then slides his gaze across Arthur’s bare torso. Arthur often sleeps without a shirt. He tries to keep his breathing steady as Fukashi assesses his other scars, but then something in the assassin’s expression changes, turns heated.

"I don’t want to kill you anymore,” Fukashi repeats, but Arthur still can’t quite believe it. “The idea of losing you, of losing this—our little games and just getting to see you...that’s not something I want.”

Arthur scratches at his inner left wrist and focuses on the nightstand across the room. "You couldn't kill me if you wanted to, Fukashi."

Fukashi throws his head back and laughs. It’s a soft laugh, but such an honest, pleasant sound that Arthur is stunned.

"I am one of only two masters of Ten Thousand Blades in the world!” Fukashi exclaims. “I am perfectly capable of killing you!"

“Sure you are, and sure, you don’t want to.” Arthur pointedly stares at the writhing shadow-thing coiled in Fukashi's arms. "It's not a bomb is it?"

Laughter cuts off abruptly. "No, it's...” Fukashi glances down at the bundle, his expression pinching, his amusement vanishing in a breath. “It’s something of Cornelia’s. I took it from her.” He holds the thing closer to his chest. “I'm assuming you slept with her some time ago?" The words are only slightly accusatory.

Arthur rolls his eyes, wanting badly to avoid the subject but knowing, somehow, that he shouldn’t. "Yes, I bedded her. She was fun, for a time, but far too clingy for my liking. I thought I'd never be rid of her. She only recently stopped calling every day."

Fukashi’s lips purse, but Arthur can’t decide which part of his admission has annoyed him.

"When?" Fukashi asks.

"Three days ago was the last time. I've been enjoying the silence."

"The timing adds up."

"What timing?" Arthur snaps. “To the point, Fukashi.”

"Was she on preventatives when you were with her?"

Arthur stills, a peculiar chill slicing through him. "...for pregnancy?"

Fukashi tsks. "Yes, you dimwit. Did you at least ask?"

"Of course I did! She said she was barren! She offered medical documentation to prove it!"

"And you didn't check it," Fukashi states with the most unimpressed look Arthur has ever seen on his face.

"Who would bother? I trusted her! She seemed sincere!" Arthur runs his hands through his unbound hair, his heart thudding fast and loud in his chest. He paces back and forth, muttering under his breath and running his hands through his hair. When he faces Fukashi again, he’s scowling. "Tell me there's not a baby in there.”

Fukashi smiles grimly. "There doesn’t have to be. I can remove it."

"No!" Arthur says the word so fast he surprises himself, but he’s also pulsating with riling fury. “Why didn’t Cornelia mention it?”

“Come now, fox. Don’t play dumb. It’s leverage. She wanted a powerful husband. What better way to get one than to rope a man in with an unexpected child?”

Arthur bares his teeth like something feral. “The bitch.”

Fukashi hums in agreement. “She changed her mind the moment she saw what the child looked like."

A claw of icy fear grips Arthur’s spine as realization washes coldly through him. "She...she knows then. She saw it.”

It's been two years, and he's only just begun to think of Malais as home. The mere idea of moving again so soon makes him sick. But if Cornelia found out...if she saw the baby and did the math…

Then she knows what Arthur is.

Fukashi's scowl is not a comfort. "Well of course she saw it. The child came out of her.”

When Arthur thinks of all the people Cornelia could've spoken to in three days, his heart contracts. "Did she kill it?" He stares at the bundle, aggrieved. "Is it dead?”

"Would I bring you a corpse?" Fukashi glances down at the tangle of black and admits, “She tried.” Under his focused gaze, the shadows begin to unweave, vanishing into thin air. When they're all gone, a pale naked infant lies in his arms, the baby’s large eyes wide open and staring right at Arthur, each one a rubious red.

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath.

The baby's cheeks are ruddy as it blinks at him, its gaze far too intelligent for that of a human infant.

Entranced, Arthur gingerly scoops the naked toddler out of Fukashi's arms and into his own. The baby emanates a fierce warmth, but he knows it's not fever. The child's breathing and coloring are fine. Just the sight of the gray tuft of hair on its head leaves Arthur breathless and, like those red eyes, confirms Fukashi’s claim.

This child is his.

“You are the only firecore in Malais. Even if your coloring is…” Fukashi’s gaze darts over Arthur’s face, and then lingers on his hair—both black as a starless night, black as Fukashi’s own hair and eyes. “Peculiar for your heritage. Naturally, when I heard Cornelia was pregnant, I could only guess the child was yours." He brushes a fingertip down the baby’s cheek. "Once she gave birth, I knew for certain, for only a firecore can produce a child with red eyes, and there are no other firecores in Malais." He glances up, catches Arthur's gaze. "But when Cornelia saw those eyes, she changed her mind about roping you into a marriage. She swore her nursemaid to secrecy, told all her friends and family the child died during the birth, and hid this one away."

Arthur hasn't felt anger stir in him like this since before, before...

Before Rajask.

He swallows down the fire licking up this esophagus.

"Cornelia waited until the new moon, for the cover of darkness," Fukashi continues, "and carried this one out to the ocean. She was holding the baby under water when I arrived."

A tight feeling in his chest, Arthur turns to lay the child down upon the bed. He kneels to press his ear to its chest. "There's water in the lungs."

"Not much," Fukashi says, still standing so closely that Arthur can feel the heat of him. "It was mere seconds this one spent underwater before I got my knives in the mother. When I got this one back to shore, the merfolk were already eating Cornelia. She was screaming.” He’s smirking by the last sentence, but his amusement quickly fades. “The child heard.”

"It won’t remember," Arthur says gruffly, unable to look away from his offspring. "Do you know if Cornelia told anyone about…you know."

"Only the nursemaid knew, and I killed her earlier this night. Perhaps Cornelia had plans to tell others, but she hadn’t done so yet.”

Arthur lifts the baby to his chest again and turns a soft look on Fukashi. Any doubts he had about trusting the assassin are fading. "You keep saying 'this one'."

Fukashi's sheepish smile is sweet. "In Tetsushi, we choose our own gender, if we want one. Otherwise, we cast it aside. A body is not a person. A person is a person, no matter their body.”

Arthur walks over to the window, closes it with one hand. "Malais is not as open-minded as Tetsushi. If the child chooses a different gender when it is older, I will pave the way so it can be whatever it wants. Otherwise, it is simply easier that I call this one a girl for now."

Fukashi nods with reluctance. "The Malroix are not a very forward-thinking people."

Arthur shrugs. "She'll have enough worries otherwise, being the child of a known foreigner. No amount of military accomplishments can erase one’s appearance. At least she’s pale enough to fit into Malais. I’ll have to do something about her eyes eventually though.”

“You are handling this well," Fukashi states, breaking their staring contest and propping himself against the nearest piece of furniture. There is a weariness about him. "A little too well, if I'm being honest. You’re a father now."

"I have always wanted to put more of my kind in the world, but I feared the consequences." Arthur turns to tuck the baby into bed. She coos when he kisses her forehead. When he turns to Fukashi again, he cannot contain himself. "Stop this fruitless assassination mission and stay with me."

“You want me to stay?"

"Haven't we flirted enough?"

"I've stabbed and poisoned you."

"It was a memorable courtship."

Fukashi laughs, his arms falling to his sides. Happiness narrows his eyes for a moment, then his demeanor grows serious, as if something important has just occurred to him. "I tolerate nothing less than singular devotion. You bed-hop worse than a prostitute. That has to stop. I do not share."

“Nor do I.” Arthur takes a steadying breath and winds his arms around Fukashi's trim waist. Fukashi slips his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. They tremble against each other, neither one accustomed to being held so tenderly.

"I have spent a year chasing you through shadows,” Arthur says. “I am tormented by the damned things. If I get to keep you, I shall hoard you greedily and seek no others."

"I have spent a year getting burned, fox."

"Keep me, and know only the fires of my affection."

Amusement curls Fukashi’s pretty mouth at the corners. "Cheesy."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "It seems I have a daughter." He fists his hands in the back of Fukashi's shirt. "How do you feel about children?"

Fukashi’s eyes widen. “You would let me be a part of her life?”

“If you’re mine, you’re hers.”

Fukashi leans back, though not from the circle of Arthur's arms, to glance at the baby. "What will you name her?" he asks gently.

Arthur hums thoughtfully. "I’m not sure. I have only just found a name for myself, and it feels as unfamiliar to me as this wretched city."

"We will make it fit, love." Fukashi runs a hand through Arthur's loose hair. The light drag of his fingers feels amazing against Arthur’s scalp. "By the time I'm done with your new name, nothing else will sound right anymore. You must not change it again.”

Arthur smiles bitterly. “I’ll try.”

"Cornelia named her Ash," Fukashi offers, and when Arthur’s lips twist downward, Fukashi hastily adds, “It’s an idea.”

"Ash? The mess you find after a fire?" He scoffs. “Disgusting.”

Fukashi's eyes crinkle. "Think you can do better?"

Arthur turns them so he can stare at the child again. She's soundly sleeping, those alarmingly bright eyes closed, but he recalls them so easily. The very thought of them warms his heart. "I inherited my firecore from my mother. She was the dearest person in the world to me."

It hurts less to miss her these days. She died so very long ago, and the people responsible for her death are now dead. Arthur remembers the playfulness in her red eyes and the little red flowers he used to weave into her steel gray hair. The memories fill him with such fondness that his heart aches.

"Will you name the child after her?" Fukashi asks.

Arthur shakes his head. "No. She should be her own person, not stuck in the shadow of a memory, even if it is a good one.” He stares at Fukashi’s neck, not really seeing it. He’s thinking of those little red flowers again and how vibrant they’d looked in his mother’s braids. “But...but the house I grew up in…it was a tiny thing. Right next to the swamp, it was covered in these little red and orange flowers that prevailed no matter the season. Mama was always trying to kill them off. It never worked, but it was hilarious hearing her cuss at them."

"So you will name your child after a weed instead?" Fukashi’s teases.

"They were cute, resilient little things. I used to bring them to Mama, when she was sick and dying,” Arthur explains. “They always made her smile. No matter how bad she felt or how far gone she was, they made her laugh. She called them wildfire flowers, because they spread everywhere so quickly and were so hard to get rid of, but they had a proper name: Celosia."

"Sell-oh-see-uh," Fukashi carefully pronounces. He tilts his head as he considers it. "Celosia Cendrillion. It has a nice ring to it."

"We'll call her Cel for short.”

"We will, huh?"

Arthur grins. "I did say I'd be keeping you.”

"Not five minutes into this relationship and I've become a parent. You're so high maintenance, Arthur." Fukashi slips from Arthur's grasp to sit on the edge of the bed. Arthur stands next to it, bumping his hip against Fukashi's arm.

"Cel," says Fukashi, staring fondly at the sleeping baby. "Our daughter."

"Cel," Arthur agrees. "Our Cel."

*