The first sign of the end was silence.
In Silvarii Hollow, the air, usually alive with the humming song of elemental magic, rang thin and still, like a held breath waiting for a final exhale. For a year, this quiet sickness had been creeping through the valley, a slow poison in the Hum. The colors that King Jethran's magic had awakened four years prior were still there, but they were sick.
The glitter on the golden leaves was tarnished, flaking away like dust in a faint breeze. The gilded grass was tinged with a lusterless hue, and the filigree on the Silvarii's skin had lost its brilliance. The Hum of the World had become a pained whisper that scraped at the edges of hearing, a nagging wrongness.
Sixteen-year-old Saga stood by the window of her family home. Her iridescent violet skin, marked by her own delicate swirl of glitter, was a lonely reminder of what was being lost in the fading world outside. Her vibrant garnet hair, a cascade she usually wore in a tight, traditional crown braid, felt like a defiant bloom.
She thought back five years, a time before King Jethran repainted the world in a riot of unruly hues. She remembered laughing with her momra in Eldrus Grove where the silvery sunlight caught the pewter-bright petals of a moonpetal flower. The world held a beauty that was perfect and predictable. She wondered if the world made more sense back then because she was younger or if it was because of the colors. Ever since her broven Fable married that Jethran, nothing made sense anymore.
Now, she watched as a young neighbor, once a bright sillie with skin of sparkling cobalt, stumbled as he tried to walk down the path alone. His wings flickered with an ashen hue before he caught his balance. She remembered his older broven and sistra, both lost to the FADES in the Spring. They used to walk that small trail together, a trio of cobalt sillies. Now, he walked alone.
Fear was like ice in the veins, a familiar weight that had grown heavier each day. She soon would be walking alone. Her broven hadn't faded, but he was still gone. Living in his palace with the plague-brought. Fable has abandoned her, their family, and all the Silvarii.
"Saga." The voice was a dry rasp, a shadow of the authoritative tone that had governed the Hollow for decades. She turned. Her dadzu, Mayor Lore, sat in his carved chair. His burnished carmine skin was now pale. He was the very image of a stoic varii, a being of unshakeable tradition. That rigidity was all that seemed to be holding his flickering form together.
"Come away from the window, dotra," he commanded, his voice thinning to a distant chord. "There is nothing out there for you but the proof of our failure."
Myth, Saga's momra, rose from a stool by the hearth, her own movements slow and deliberate. Her shimmering azure skin was now translucent and frayed at the edges.
"Don't be so grim, my love," she said, though her words were a weak echo of their usual cheer.
"Your dadzu is... weary," she said, as she placed a trembling hand on Saga's shoulder.
"I am dying, Myth. We are all dying." Lore paused.
He looked up at his wyfra, seeing the fear in her eyes. It wasn't until this very moment in his life, far too late for it to matter, that the varii realized something being true is not the only requirement for something being said.
"I am sorry, Myth,” he turned to his wyfra, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. “My dear... some water? My throat is... dry."
Myth hesitated, and her left eyebrow arched with a knowing sadness. She knew exactly what he was doing. She nodded once and glided from the room, leaving a fathru and dotra alone in the quiet. Lore looked at young Saga as he reached for her hand.
"I wanted to hold on until she…” Lore's gaze found Saga's. “Until it was her time. But I can't."
"Stubborn sill…” a weak smile touched his lips. “Always has to compete. She's only holding on now so she can boast in the Afterhere that she outlasted me."
“Dadzu, don't say that,” Saga pleaded. “There is still time.”
The smile faded, replaced by the heavy weight of his duty. He looked at Saga, his eyes holding a lifetime of tradition and a terrible fear.
"No, my dotra. There is no more time. This is what comes from embracing the outside world. This plague... it arrived with the colors. The healers see the truth, even if others are blind to it. This King Jethran... the Blush Born King." Lore spat the name like a curse.
"He stained the world with his feelings and with his Spectrasy,” the old varii exclaimed. “And my sonzu chose to stand with him. Now look. Our Hum is poisoned. Our people fade."
"The love Fable chose," Lore shook his head, his gaze locking with Saga's. "I can never understand. There were plenty of varii who would have made a perfectly suitable husbran for Fable. What was wrong with Arch?”
Saga recoiled. The delirium had twisted his memories, damaged his element of Self.
“Purity is our strength,” Lore coughed, as he continued. “Tradition is our shield. Your broven has forgotten that. He has left us, left his duty, for a throne and a kingdom of messy feelings. And now, he is the only one who can save us."
"But Dadzu,” Saga begged. “What can he do? He doesn't want to return. I could lead the Silvarii."
“Saga, you are a sill and the Mayor must be a varii,” Lore corrected. “It has been this way for centuries. It is tradition. Tradition is the only safety we have.”
Saga arched her eyebrow as she looked at the floor. Tradition was no longer keeping them safe. Yet even now, she watched him cling to it as if it was the final lifeline.
"He is the firstborn sonzu," Lore insisted, the words a desperate creed. "He must return. He must cast out the outsider's magic, restore the Silver Way. It is his birthright. His duty." He beckoned her closer with a wavering hand.
"Saga," he repeated "The Hum... it is broken. I can no longer hear the Pure Melody."
His voice sounded like a distant echo that came from across a vast chasm. He looked at her, his stoic mask finally cracking to reveal a terror she had never seen in him before.
"Find your broven,” he echoed. “Only the firstborn sonzu can save our people."
With that final, traditionalist decree, his form wavered violently. The last of his substance dissolved into a shower of soft dust that settled over the empty chair like a shroud.
"Dadzu!" Saga cried out, the name tearing from her throat as she fell to her knees, the dust of her fathru coating her hands.
Myth returned. She saw the empty chair, the dust, and her dotra on the floor. The cup of water fell from her grasp, clattering loudly in the terrible quiet. She knelt beside Saga, pulling her into an urgent embrace.
"Listen to your dadzu. Find Fable, and bring him here," Myth said, her voice firm. "Your broven is wise. He will know the right thing to do. When you do, tell him that I love him."
She pulled Saga's face close, locking eyes with her dotra as she gave one final message. "You, my dotra. I love you so much. You with the Wind still on your wings. You are the Wave of promise. You are capable of anything. The Seed of our line, the Flame of every sill who flew before you, it is in you. Our songs are in you, singing in Harmony. Let them guide you. There is no Void too vast. Let no one stand in your way." Her grip tightened for a moment, pouring a lifetime of belief into one touch.
"Silvarii Hollow... It is your home. You can save it, Saga. You have to trust the Self within you," Myth gave her a final, loving look.
Then, with a soft sigh, she too faded. Her essence unraveled into another small pile of shimmering dust on the polished floor.
Saga was left alone, kneeling in the dust of her parens. The weight of their final wishes settled upon her in the sudden quiet of a world that had lost its song. She didn't move for a long time. She was a statue of grief in a mausoleum that had, just that morning, been her home.
The humming song of her parens' lives had been abruptly cut. She was left with a heavy and jarring emptiness in its place. Her mind was a blank slate of shock, refusing to process the impossible truth. They were gone. They had departed for the Afterhere, now part of the Pure Melody. They had left her behind. Everyone had left her.
The emerald sun began to fade as the pale peach sky deepened to a bruised marigold. The light filtering through the window cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the two shimmering piles of dust. One on the chair, one on the floor.
Her parens. Reduced to a substance. A task. A thing to be cleaned. The cold thought felt like a violation, yet it was also an anchor. She pushed herself to her feet and moved stiffly, like a marionette with its strings cut. She walked to the hearth where her footsteps echoed in the empty house. From the mantle, she took down two pearl-inlaid porcelain vases, their surfaces cool against her numb fingers. She found a soft brush, one her fathru used to clean his ancient books.
She started with him. Kneeling before the great chair, she began to sweep the fine, carmine dust into one of the vases. The work became a meticulous ritual. Each gentle stroke was a memory: his stern voice reading ancient histories, the way his wings would give a pleased flutter when she recited a law perfectly, the rare warmth of his smile when he thought no one was looking. She gathered every particle, every fragment of the varii who had been her foundation, her dadzu.
Then, she turned to her momra. The azure dust on the floor was a beautiful wound against the lilac wood. She knelt again, her heart now a frozen weight. She swept the dust of her momra. Myth was her warmth, her song, her everything. Saga swept her dust into the second vase.
As she gathered the last of it, a fine, azure powder clung to her fingertips. She tried to brush it off, but it wouldn't release, mingling with the oils of her skin. It became a part of her. She stared at her hand, at the shimmering blue dust coating her own violet skin. She was touching her. She was wearing her.
A guttural sob tore from her throat. It was too much. The intimacy, the finality, the sheer, horrifying wrongness. She scrambled back, wiping her hand furiously on her tunic, but the dust only smeared into a ghostly blue stain on the dark fabric. She looked down at herself, at the fine particles that now dusted her clothes, her arms, her face. She was covered in them. A numb need for cleanliness took hold.
She went to the small washroom, her movements slow and dreamlike. This was, she realized, a final pause before the world began again without them. She shed her dust-covered clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. In the shower stall, she turned the crystal knob, and a stream of fresh orange water flowed from the fixture.
She stepped into the spray, the shock of the cold water a grounding sensation against her numb skin. She tilted her head back, letting the water run over her, through the heavy strands of her garnet hair. The water washed the shimmering particles from her body. She opened her eyes and looked down. She watched as the water pooling at her feet on the shower floor began to change. The azure dust of her momra and the carmine dust of her fathru swirled together in the stream.
They blended into a soft muted violet that echoed the color of her skin. She watched in horror as the water, stained with this liquid echo of herself, swirled and disappeared down the drain. This act felt more final than watching them fade.
I'm washing away a part of myself, she thought. Through the grief, she shook her head.
When she was finished, her skin was clean, but she felt hollowed out. She stepped out of the shower and walked to her room, wrapping herself in a thick towel. She opened her wardrobe, the scent of dreft flowers and cedar spilling out.
Her hand hovered over her usual tunics, but then it stopped. Her gaze fell upon a garment she hadn't worn in months. It was a simple, elegant tunic of a deep teal. Her dadzu had bought it for her on her sixteenth birthday. She remembered the rare look in his eyes as he’d held it up to her.
“It matches the beautiful color in your eyes,” he had said.
He was right. She remembered her confusion even then, a quiet flicker of a question she never dared to ask. He always said that the colors were a curse, a stain upon their pure, silver world. How can a curse be beautiful?
She pulled the tunic over her head, the soft fabric a comforting weight. She sat at the small vanity in her room, the two vases resting beside her. She looked at her reflection, at the sill with the teal tunic and the wild, damp garnet hair. Her momra had always brushed it for her after a wash.
Saga picked up her brush and pulled it through the heavy strands. Then, her hands moved to braid. She divided the hair into three sections, but the pattern wouldn't hold. The rhythmic weave felt broken. Her hands fumbled, the hair slipping through her fingers. She tried again, faster, with more force. Her hands wouldn't fall into the memory.
The memory was just... gone. A hot spike of frustration cut through the numbness. It was just a braid. Why couldn't she–
She opened her mouth, the beginning of a plea forming on her lips, an automatic call for help. Her breath hitched. The name was unspoken. A fresh wave of sobs shook her, and she buried her face in her arms on the surface of the vanity.
She sat there in the quiet for a long time, letting the tears fall. It was then that a soft knock came at the front door. For a moment, she didn’t move.
The knock came again, gentle but insistent. Slowly, after taking a breath and wiping her face, she went to open it, her hair still unbraided and falling in a damp cascade around her shoulders.
An older varii stood on her doorstep. His kind, yellow eyes were full of a deep sorrow. His wispy lavender hair seemed to have lost some of its color, and his pale blue skin looked almost translucent in the fading light. He was holding a covered basket.
“Saga, my sweet,” he began, and his voice cracked. “I saw the light in your home… flicker. I was worried.”
“Peg sent these,” he offered her the basket. “Silverberry muffins. Your dadzu’s favorite.“
She winced as she took the small basket. His gaze fell from her face, lingering for a moment on her hair.
“It is… unusual to see your hair down,” he noted. “Less... severe.”
Severity is what I need, Saga thought, her eyebrow arching. The world is severe.
He then allowed his eyes to fall to the two vases she had placed on a nearby table. His eyes turned back to Saga who was staring at him, waiting for him to react. He simply stepped inside. Saga stood still. Her momra usually would be greeting a guest with cheer and offerings. Saga had no cheer. Even before, cheer wasn't hers to give.
"I’ve known Mayor Lore for nearly my entire life," Post said, his words thick with grief. "He introduced me to Peg and he was my best varii at our wedding. Lore was more than just the Mayor to me. He was my best friend."
He gently ran a hand over the fine, carmine dust that still coated the chair's arms. As Post began to speak, Saga's hands found their way to her hair. Her fingers began to move, absent-mindedly, finding the old rhythm. The braid formed under her touch, tight and sure.
"Lore was there when we welcomed Spindle,” the old Silvarii laughed. “Peg was so afraid he wouldn't make a good fathru.”
“Peg?” Saga said, “Peg is one of the best fathrus I've ever met.”
“Because of Lore!” Post clarified, “Lore gave Peg this speech about purpose and changed Peg’s entire view on it. I owe my family to that varii.”
“Of course, Lore had no fears about becoming a paren,” Post shook his head with an expression of severity. “I remember when Fable was born as clearly as I remember when you were born. Your dadzu was so proud. He was always proud of you both. Until…"
"My dadzu sent me to find Fable," Saga interrupted. “It was his last command.”
She secured the braid. Choosing to let it fall down the front of her chest. This felt more adult than the crown braid. She turned to look at Post.
“A heavy burden,” Post nodded slowly. “And one that may already be too late.”
“What do you mean?” Saga asked.
“Oh, pencils, it’s Briar,” he said, in a worried rumble. “He’s already moving among the eldruus. He’s using this tragedy, this fear, to poison their minds.”
“He would dare?” Saga’s head snapped up. “Now?”
"He speaks of your fathru’s traditions as a fortress that was breached," Post confirmed grimly. "And he is blaming the breach on your broven… and his king. He’s offering them a simple answer in a complicated time. It’s a dangerous song to sing.”
“This Fading,” Post looked at the vases on the table, his expression distant. “It is worse than we thought, Saga. Eldru Thicket has been consulting the oldest records. The Hum is not just poisoned. It is unraveling." He leaned in, dropping his voice to a desperate whisper.
“You remember the First Lullabies,” he directed her to tradition. “The Pixxels of Power, the Seven Brovens of Silverlight who first sang the world into being. Their song is the Harmony.”
“And now, Harmony is broken,” Saga whispered, the old lesson feeling new and terrifying.
“It is shattered,” Post corrected grimly, his kind eyes wide with an existential fear. “The poison from the outsider’s magic... it has broken the bond. We are not just dying. We are becoming untethered. The rate of the FADES is accelerating. If the Harmony is not restored, the Silvarii will be only the first to go.”
“The world itself will follow,” he gestured to the dust on the chair. “It will all become dust.”
“Briar is wrong, the old ways didn't save us." Saga’s heart hammered, the scale of the cataclysm crushing her. “And the Brovens of Silverlight... they did nothing when the plague-brought stained the world. Why would they help now?”
“They have no choice,” Post said, a strange, hard certainty in his voice. “They must have a way to restore Harmony. It is their song. But they will not answer a plea from a broken people.”
“They will only answer a call from a united line,” he looked from the vases back to her. “Your fathru was right to send you for Fable, but perhaps not for the reason he thought.”
“What are you implying?” Saga asked.
“It is not about his traditions,” Post replied. “It is about his blood. Fable is the final blood of the line that has governed Silvarii Hollow for seven generations. Eldru Briar can sow his discord, but he cannot change that.”
“Fable is not the only blood of the line,” Saga clarified.
Post paused. He looked at Saga, then at the vases of dust, his face a mask of dawning realization.
“No, my dear,” the old Silvarii corrected. “Tradition requires the firstborn sonzu to step into the role of the fathru…”
“I just watched tradition swirl down the drain,” Saga spoke with a ghostly conviction. “Maybe it’s time for the old ways to be washed away with it.”
She began directing Post toward the door as he continued.
“Only Fable,” Post chided. “As the rightful heir can unite what remains of us and make the plea to the Pixxels. It is the only way. You must understand this. He must be made to understand this.”
“Oh, spice! Fable made his choice a long time ago, Post,” she said, her voice cold from the betrayal, as she opened the door. "The Hollow turned its back on him. So he turned his back on the Hollow."
"He must return!” Post shouted, trembling. His eyes pleaded with her, as she softly guided him out to the front porch. “But surely... surely he would not choose the love of this outsider over the very existence of his people. Over the world itself.”
Saga slammed the door closed.
Her path had been a fog of grief and impossible commands. It now sharpened into a single point of focus. The words of her momra, to trust herself, and the command of her dadzu, to find her broven, were two parts of the same terrible task. Her left eyebrow arched with a fierce determination she didn't know she possessed. Her grief, her rage, her fear gathered as fuel.
Filled with a new purpose, she placed the two vases carefully in a velvet-lined compartment in her travel pack. She would carry them with her to Fable. She gathered a waterskin, a small pouch of dried berries, and a warm cloak. She was the last hope of her people.
She walked to the door and paused, she saw Post still standing just off the porch. So she went to the back door. Before stepping out, she took one last look at the silent house, at the ghosts of her youthhood. Then, she opened the door and stepped out into the harsh emerald light of the sun.
It was the light of Jethran’s world, a world of chaotic feeling that she had been taught to fear, a world that she now had to enter to save her own. This was the last step she would take as a sillie. She was a sill now, stepping into a future she had never imagined, her heart a ruin, her purpose a cold flame.
She fluttered her wings and flew away from Silvarii Hollow.