The afternoon smelled of burnt toast and jasmine—the last normal scents Elara would ever know.
On a drowsy Sunday afternoon in the Living Districts, a man in a long charcoal coat hesitated in front of a house on a tree-lined street. He hadn't parked a car, nor had he come by taxi. No neighbor had seen him strolling along the sidewalk. He simply appeared, as if stepping between one shadow and the next.
Inside the house, Elara sat on the living room rug. She was seven years old, her fingers stained orange from a bowl of cheese puffs as she tried to teach her twin sister, Hestia, how to tie a sailor's knot. On the other end of the sofa, their older sister, Ivy, stared at the television screen.
Ivy was different from other big sisters. Her eyes were the deep, bruised purple of a storm cloud, and her ears had slight, furred points that she usually hid under her hair. To Elara, Ivy's strange features were no more unusual than being the mirror version of another person. Grown-ups were always worried, always whispering about things Elara didn't understand, but in the heat of a Sunday afternoon, everything felt fine.
When the knock came, Elara hopped up to answer it. She hoped it might be a friend from across the street wanting to play video games. Instead, she found a tall man glaring down at her. He wore a heavy leather duster despite the heat, his shoes were shod with silver that rang hollowly as he stepped over the threshold, and his skin was the color of unpolished marble.
"Mom!" Elara yelled, a cold shiver racing down her spine. "Mooooom! Someone's here!"
Her mother came from the kitchen, wiping wet hands on her jeans. When she saw the man, she went pale. "Go to your room," she told Elara in a sharp, terrifying voice. "Now!"
"Whose child is that?" the man asked, his voice like silk sliding over a whetstone. He pointed at Elara. "Yours? His?"
"No one's," Mom snapped, refusing to look in Elara's direction. "She's no one's child."
That wasn't right. Elara and Hestia looked just like their dad. Everyone said so. Elara took a few steps toward the stairs but stopped, anchored by a sudden, inexplicable dread.
"I have seen many impossible things," the man said. "I have seen the ember before the blaze. But never have I seen this: A dead woman living. A child born from nothing."
Mom seemed at a loss for words, her body vibrating with tension.
"I doubted the Council when they told me I'd find you here," the man's voice softened. "The bones of an earthly woman in the burned remains of my estate were convincing. Do you know what it is to return from battle to find your wife dead, your only heir reduced to ash?"
Mom shook her head, not as if she were answering him, but as though she were trying to shake off the words. The man took a step forward, and Mom took a step back. Elara could see the odd violet tint of his eyes—eyes just like Ivy's.
"I was never going to be happy with you," Mom told him. "Your world isn't for people like me."
"You made blood-vows," the man said finally.
"And then I renounced them."
His gaze went to Elara, and his expression hardened. "What is a promise from a mortal wife worth? I suppose I have my answer."
Mom turned. At her look, Elara dashed into the living room. Hestia was awake now, looking confused. Ivy stood up, her feline eyes wide. "Who's at the door?"
"A scary man," Elara whispered.
Suddenly, their father appeared from the back garden, holding a heavy iron fire poker he had forged himself. He swung the iron toward the tall man, but the man was too fast. He drew a curved, silver blade from beneath his coat. There was a sound like sticks snapping, and Dad fell to the vestibule carpet.
The rug was turning red.
Mom screamed. Elara and her sisters screamed.
"Come here," the man said, looking directly at Ivy.
"Y-you monster!" Mom shouted, lunging toward the kitchen. But she didn't make it. The blade struck her in the back, and she crumpled to the linoleum, knocking magnets off the fridge as she fell.
The smell of fresh blood was heavy in the air now—wet and metallic, like the scrubbing pads Mom used on the frying pans. Elara ran at the man, slamming her small fists against his chest, but he paid her no mind. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the blood on his hands as though he wished he could take back the last five minutes.
Then, he sank to one knee and caught hold of Elara's shoulders, pinning her arms. His gaze was on Ivy.
"You were stolen from me," he told her. "I have come to take you to your true home, in the Nocturne. There, you will be royalty. There, you will be with your own kind."
"No," Ivy told him, her voice low and somber. "I'm never going anywhere with you."
"I am your father," he snapped, his voice rising like the crack of a lash. "You are my heir and my blood, and you will obey."
"You're not her father!" Elara shouted. His grip tightened on her shoulders, but she stared up at him defiantly.
He looked away, watching Hestia, who was on her knees shaking their mother's shoulder, sobbing for her to wake up. But Mom and Dad were dead. They were never going to move again.
"I hate you," Ivy proclaimed. "I will always hate you. I vow it."
The man's stony expression didn't change. "Nonetheless, you will come with me. Ready these little humans. Pack light. We ride before dark."
Ivy's chin came up. "Leave them alone. Take me, but not them."
He snorted. "And where would you have them go? They have no family left." He looked at Elara again and rose to his feet. "They are the progeny of my wife and, thus, my responsibility. They come to the Nocturne, or they stay here to starve."
Elara looked at her sisters and then at the man who had destroyed their lives. She didn't cry. The fear in her chest had turned into a cold, hard stone.
"We're going," Elara said, her voice sounding far older than seven. She realized that in a world of monsters, she would have to become something far sharper than glass. She would have to be iron.