The courtroom smelled like old wood and desperation, the kind that clung to the air like dust in the winter light filtering through high windows. Mara sat in the defendant's box, wrists cuffed in cold steel that bit into her skin, her once-sharp eyes dulled by months of fluorescent lights and antipsychotic meds the jail docs forced down her throat. The orange jumpsuit hung loose on her frame—she'd lost weight, muscle fading into something frail and haunted. Around her, the gallery murmured like a distant storm: reporters scribbling notes, victims' families clutching tissues, their glares like knives she could feel without looking.
Her lawyer, a young public defender with a nervous tic, had argued amnesia, trauma from her Apex days, even a wild theory about "environmental psychosis" from the Aether mines. But the evidence was damning fingerprints on the knife, blood under her nails, the kids' tiny bodies arranged almost ritually by the tree. No forced entry. No accomplices. Just Mara, alone in the slaughter.
The judge, a stern woman with silver hair and eyes that had seen too many broken souls banged the gavel once. "Mara Voss," she intoned, voice echoing off the paneled walls. "On the counts of multiple first-degree murders, including those of minors, this court finds you guilty. You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. May whatever god you believe in have mercy on your soul."
A sob ripped from the gallery Alex's sister, probably, the one who'd testified through tears about how Mara had "stolen our light." Mara didn't react. Couldn't. The meds fogged everything, turning memories into shards that cut when she tried to grasp them. Flashes came in nightmares: Alex's pleading eyes, her mother's whispered "why," the snap of small necks like brittle candy canes. She woke up screaming most nights, but in the light of day, it felt like someone else's horror. Not hers. Never hers.
As bailiffs hauled her up, she caught her reflection in a polished brass plaque, hollow eyes staring back, the same as mine. The Aether's mark. For a split second, she wondered if the others felt it too. Luca. Torin. Me. The squad bound by more than blood now.
Transport was a rattling van, armored like a tank, chains linking her ankles to the bench. Two other inmates rode with her—hardened types, one a lifer for arson, the other a drug kingpin with tattoos snaking up her neck. They sneered at her, whispering "kid killer" under their breath. Four cops up front: driver, shotgun rider, two in the back watching with hands on holsters. The van lumbered out of the courthouse garage, snow crunching under tires, heading for the state pen two hours north.
Mara leaned her head against the cold metal wall, chains clinking softly. The meds made her drowsy, thoughts drifting to before—lazy Sundays with Alex, his laugh like summer rain, the way he'd trace her scars and call them stories. Her family: Mom's apple pie, Dad's bad jokes, her brother's kids climbing her like a jungle gym. All gone. Because of her. Or the thing inside her. Tears welled unbidden, hot tracks down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered to no one. The arsonist snorted. "Save it for hell, lady."
The radio crackled on up front static at first, then a DJ's cheerful voice. "Folks, we're keeping the holiday spirit alive with some classics on this snowy drive. Up next, a timeless favorite…"
The piano notes trickled in, soft and insidious. Silent night… holy night…
Mara's blood went cold. No. Not here. Not now. The song was low, barely audible over the engine, but it pierced her like a needle. The Aether stirred, sleepy at first, then ravenous, uncoiling in her veins like smoke from a dying fire. Her vision blurred, the van's interior fading to gray. "Turn it off," she rasped, voice cracking. The cops glanced back, one chuckling. "What, you got something against Christmas tunes?"
All is calm… all is bright…
She jerked against the chains, heart slamming. "Please turn it off!" Panic laced her words, raw and desperate. Memories flooded: Alex's final gasp, her niece's tiny hand going limp. No more. She couldn't. But the song swelled, harmonious and hungry, and the blackout crashed over her like a wave.
When the haze lifted, she was moving. Not her. The thing. Chains snapped like twine under her grip strength from the Aether, twisting metal with a screech that drowned the radio. The back guards drew weapons, eyes wide. "Inmate, stand down!"
She lunged, faster than human. Her hand clamped on the first cop's throat, fingers digging into windpipe like clay. He gurgled, pistol firing wild into the ceiling—bang, bang—sparks flying. She crushed harder, cartilage popping, blood foaming from his mouth as his eyes rolled back. The second guard swung his baton, cracking her ribs. Pain flared, distant, irrelevant. She caught his arm mid-swing, bent it backward until the elbow reversed with a wet snap. He screamed high, animal and she silenced him with a headbutt, forehead smashing his nose flat. Blood sprayed, hot and coppery. She grabbed his sidearm, fired once into his chest point-blank, muzzle flash searing her skin. He slumped, gasping wetly, life ebbing in ragged breaths.
Round yon virgin… mother and child…
The inmates panicked. The arsonist kicked at her, boot glancing off her thigh. She turned, eyes hollow voids, and drove the baton stolen from the dead guard. into his gut. He doubled over, vomiting blood. She yanked it free, slammed it down on his skull—crack, like splitting firewood. Brain matter splattered the bench. The kingpin backed away, chains rattling, pleading "Hey, we can talk" She shot him twice chest and head body jerking like a puppet cut loose.
Holy infant… so tender and mild…
The van swerved, driver yelling into the radio. "Code red! Inmate looseshots fired!" The shotgun rider twisted back, firing through the grate. Bullets whizzed past, one grazing her shoulder, ignored. She rammed the grate with her shoulder, metal bending under impossible force. It gave way with a groan. She reached through, grabbed the rider's collar, yanked him halfway into the back. His gun clattered free. She bit down—teeth sinking into his neck like an animal, tearing cartilage and vein. Blood gushed, warm and salty, filling her mouth. He thrashed, weakening, until she snapped his neck with a twist.
Sleep in heavenly peace…
The driver slammed the brakes, van fishtailing on ice. She tumbled but recovered, crashing through the weakened grate. He drew his weapon, terror in his eyes, a young guy, probably with a family waiting for New Year's kisses. "Stay back!" he begged, voice breaking. She didn't. The song guided her hand disarmed him with a slap that shattered his wrist, then pressed the barrel to his temple. "Please," he whispered, tears streaming. "I got kids…"
Bang.
The van careened off the road, slamming into a snowbank. Silence, except the radio's faint loop. Mara blinked, the haze lifting. Bodies everywhere—twisted, bloody, the air thick with death's metallic tang. Her hands shook, slick red. "No… no…" Sobs wracked her, raw and guttural. The driver's plea echoed in her skull, a fresh wound amid the old ones. Alex. Mom. The kids. Now this. How many more?
She kicked the door open, chains dangling from one ankle. Snow whipped her face, woods looming dark and endless. Sirens wailed distant, backup coming. She ran stumbling at first, then faster, the Aether lending unnatural speed. Trees blurred, branches clawing like accusing fingers. Deeper into the white wilderness, the song fading to whispers.
But as night fell, alone in the frozen dark, Mara realized the truth: the Aether wasn't done. It never would be. And somewhere out there, the mountains waited, singing her real name.
The one that hungered for more.