In a world of eternal darkness, the light is slowly seeping in. It’s up to one particular winged warrior to save the Night.


1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1


The perpetual darkness is a living, breathing thing. The black is like an oily film unfurling to engulf you, the shadows grasping tentacles trying to grab at anything and anyone. The only light comes from the double-moons and faint pinpricks of distant stars. The air is cool and tainted with hidden magic, the bursting power of the Night. 

Phosphorescent orbs drift about overhead, their colour ranging from deep navy to vibrant violet. In the distance the eerie call of a Mithileen bird echoes in the silence. A small mammal rustles in the underbrush, scooting about in Greenthorn bushes, avoiding the poison-laced thorns and feasting off the flavourful berries. 

A sigh interrupts the sounds of nature, the only human sound for miles. A dark, humanoid shape darts through the trees, a lithe streak. It weaves through the trees and the darkness with grace.

Grace that I envy. 

From my perch high in a Glowling tree, I am unnoticeable. I am crafted from shadows, a child of the Night. A soft growl escapes my slightly snarled lips, and I drop from the safety of my tree, carefully avoiding snagging a wing on the twisting branches or letting my horns throw me off balance.

I barrel into the figure, my blood singing with adrenaline. Fire courses through my veins. I am alive with the power of shadows.

"This is my land," I growl, my voice a deadly low rumble. 

"This is no one's land," The person responds. Anger fires through me, swift-winged and vibrant, and I pin the trespasser against the nearest tree. I can tell it's a boy, not much older than me. 

His skin is flush with the memory of a suntan, and his hair is shimmering gold. He is beautiful, his eyes jade-green and soulful. But I see through the cracks. He is not supposed to be here.

"I don't know about in the Day, but here in the Night we have lands, territory to ourselves. We live off the land. We are not weak like you Daylings, and I suggest you leave while you can still move. Or breath.

That's right, the intruder is a filthy Day-side scum who had probably never tangled with a true Night-sider before, let alone a Nightblood. 

I unfurl my wings to their full span, black feathers swishing soundlessly. Without a second thought, I grab my knife, and cut the cord holding the Moonstone around his neck. 

Without it, he is powerless. A Day-sider can't survive in the darkness of the Night without a Moonstone, which uses powerful magic to protect them. They are rare and valuable, and I have absolutely no clue how he'd gotten one.

Once upon a time, both sides had been at peace. You could switch sides a often as you liked. But that did not last. War blossomed between sides, and has still been in full bloom ever since. Because two halves can never make a whole if one is dark and one is light. 

The boy gasps, feeling the full weight of the darkness on his skin.

"Sleep well," I hiss in his ear, as I shove him to the ground. He won't die right away, but will lapse into a coma. I sigh, stuff the Moonstone into my pocket, pick up his limp form, and lift into the sky on silent wings. 


I fly towards the north. My wings glide silently through the air, carrying me—and my cargo—towards the land of the sun. 

If anyone knew what I am about to do, the punishment would be grave. But I lived outside the governor's reach, and no one would suspect it from a Nightblood.

Nightbloods are a race of people native to the Night (hence Nightblood) but we are no ordinary people. We are crafted from the shadows, we are winged warriors. We are the highest order of the Night, we are the soldiers. 

When I see the place where the light falls away to shadow, where the shadow gives way to light, I glide in for the landing. 

I touch the ground on light feet, grasping the mysterious boy in my arms, I let him collapse onto the ground, still comatose. 

Now onto the most dangerous faze of the plan.

I scuttle about, searching. The rock is easy to spot, the only one in miles. The ground is desolate sand, dull grey and pebbly. The rock is sleek grey, nondescript if it wasn't so out of place. 

I hurry over and push it aside. It is twice as wide around as I am, and thick. I toss it aside like it is weightless. Revealing a tunnel descending into the earth. I grab the Dayblood boy, hoping he isn't a true Dayblood, merely Day-blooded. 

The difference? The Day-blooded, still referred to as Daybloods by the occasional naïve Night-sider, are the civilian class, just like the Night-blooded, while the Daybloods, the true Daybloods, are the supernatural warrior class, with eyes and bat-like, weathered wings of golden fire. The Nightbloods have massive black or silver feathery wings, slender deer-like horns or antlers. 

But the boy is merely Day-blooded, eyes dull yellow-brown, missing fiery bat wings and animalistic haunches.  My relief is palpable, I  do not feel like tangling with a Dayblood, much less saving one. 

I drop into the tunnel, tucking in my wings and clutching the enemy boy to my chest. 

The drop is short, and now we're in an earthen tunnel, roots poking from the sides of the rich black earth. A drop the boy and begin dragging him, conscious of every passing second. Each second could bring my demise, or the boy’s. 

Eventually the dirt fades to lose, dry sand, the roots receding. The tunnel begins to slant upward. I cease my dragging, depositing the boy on the harsh floor. 

I know I shouldn't, but I feel a twinge of pity for him.

But he should wake up at any second, So with a final glance I make my way back home to the Night, grateful when darkness embraces me, welcomes me home. 


Carson awakes to sand instead of sun. Sand in front of him, sand behind him, sand fading to blackness in one direction, and in the other... light. He hops up, dizzy and with gaping holes in his memory, and makes his way towards the light. 

He doesn't think much of waking up disoriented and underground, he assumes that he must have gotten drunk on dryberry wine or some exotic rum and winded up falling into an old rabbit hole, widened out by rain or some strange subterranean monster.

He doesn't bother to see what lies in the other direction. Which is good, because he'd find nothing but a dead end, sealed shut with rock, farther solidifying his drunken rabbit hole theory. 

It isn't until he gets back to town that he remembers his expedition to the Night, and how the mysterious winged girl had threatened him. Wings and horns and shadows, forged into raw, lethal, beauty. She had robbed him of his Moonstone, his means of survival. With it gone, he should have died, but he didn't. 

And suddenly he begins to question his very survival, how he is miraculously still alive and still breathing, still feeling the sun's kiss on his skin. And how he'd winded up underground. That is the strangest part, the tunnel, one end glimmering in the promise of light, the other wreathed in thick shadow.

And so he began to search for that tunnel, for the trembling sand and gentle soil, but never found it. It is not his to find.

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