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“Alright, lights out, ya degenerates! Time to close them peepers!”

“F*CK OFF! I SLEEP WHEN I WANT TO SLEEP!”

Keeper Lawson rolled his eyes and shouted back “Suit yourself! You fall asleep on the clock tomorrow, it is NOT my problem.”

Silence met his ears, causing Lawson to smirk in satisfaction.

Sometimes, he really did love his job.

Walking down the prison hallway to the break room, Lawson let out a yawn. Soon after he entered, the previous shift, a bespeckled, copper-skinned man with a mustache, waved to him from his locker. Returning the wave, Lawson sat down at a bench and began preparing himself for the night, casually engaging his fellow guard.

“So, things look alright so far. Anyone I need to watch out for?”

“Eh, a few. Prisoners one through twenty five weren’t too much trouble. Starting to get frustrated with Tim, though.”

“Wait, Tim? Again? That’s, what, four warnings and a night in the cells for loitering by the Defense Chair’s building? I get that he’s not in the best of circumstances, but come on!”

“Si, si, I know; at this rate, we might actually have to drop a serious charge on the sap!”

“Ugh! What number’s he THIS time? Thirteen??”

“Close; Fifteen. I put him in the right wing, third cell down from the first light, with access to the night sky. Felt a bit sorry for him and gave him a blanket for the night.”

Lawson sighed.

“Got it. Anyone else? The ‘Shackled Fur’ causing any trouble?”

Taking a moment to get the joke, Soto snorted, wiping away a tear from his right eye.

“Hah-he-he! ‘Shackled Fur’. That...that’s good. Yeah, he’s locked up nice and tidy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Vaulen so happy to arrest someone! Almost makes me feel sorry for him. Almost. The guy’s rotting in cell T-nine, isolated as much as possible. Noo idea how long he’s gonna be there, though. Just hope he’s not one of those ‘preaching’ kind of cultists. Otherwise, it’s gonna be a long year.”

“I hear ya. So, like I asked, anyone else?”

Slowing down a bit as he packed his things for the night, Soto mulled over the question before answering.

“Mmm, not that I can think…! Oh, wait!” Gesturing for Lawson to follow him, Soto walked over to the steel door separating them from the inmates and opened a small hatch that allowed them to look inside the hall. Soto searched for a moment before pointing towards the back-left.

“Number seventy-three, hombre, in the back near the door to the lower levels. Make sure to keep a close eye on her.”

Frowning, Lawson walked over to the prisoner identification board and quickly found seventy-three, nodding.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out for suspicious activity in that area. She shouldn’t be too much of an issue, though; we already placed an iron muzzle on her.”

Soto remained unconvinced, brow furrowing with anxiety.

“I don’t know, I’d still be extra sharp around her; something about the look in her eyes, it’s so...unnerving.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Putting the finishing touches on his night armor, Lawson gave Soto a nod as he officially began his shift. “Well, say ‘hi’ to Paul and the kids for me.”

“Will do, Quin, will do. ¡Hasta mañana!”

Waving Soto off, he opened the door to the prison cells, firmly closing it behind him, and began his rounds, hand casually drifting to the firearm at his side. Walking down the hallway, his eyes wandered from cell to cell, flashing a brief light to get a better look in the dimly-lit area

‘...Yep, Tim’s here. Gonna need to get that sheet from him sometime tonight. Maybe when it’s starting to warm up again...let’s see...clear...clear...clear…”

Glancing at the upper levels, he gave a wave to passing fellow guard. Returning his gaze, he continued onwards, occasionally examining a cell more closely when something caught his eye. Finally, he stopped at one cell in particular.

Seventy-three.

Clenching his firearm a little tighter, he examined the bars carefully for any signs of weakness, before looking directly at the prisoner in question.

‘Gotta admit, she’s no run-of-the-mill thief. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Recrafter like that.’

She’d definitely been a strange one; not uttering a single word during the ENTIRE interrogation, from what he had heard. No name, no job, no Haven; NOTHING. Making things even stranger was that the Recraft scanner had shown her reserves to be on par with some of the more experienced - and old - members of High Beacon’s recrafter community.

But there hadn’t been a single trace of it anywhere on her.

Someone had put two-and-two together, and suggested they check the mouth she seemed content to keep shut. All but confirming this was the fact that she had glared even harsher when they found about her recrafting - struggling when they tried forcing her to open up was just icing on the cake.

After resorting to alternative means when all else failed, they had found fair traces of recrafting lining the back of her mouth. After a slapping the best muzzle they could find on her, an inquiry had immediately been sent out to R.I.S.K.H., and she had been placed in a significant more secure cell than they had originally planned. As she was now, Prisoner Seventy-Three simple sat on her bed, legs crossed in a meditative pose, eyes closed, muzzle tight, and keeping her using her recraft. Carefully looking over her with his light, Lawson nodded once he saw that the recrafted-suppressing seals were in place; it never hurt to be cautious, after all. After re-examining the bars one last time, Lawson resumed his route.

Two hours later, and he was sitting on a small chair near the exit, drinking a bit of water as he looked over his person notes, occasionally glancing at the cells.

‘That’s two more payments down, and sis should officially be cured! Just need a biiit more from my ‘tips’, and I can FINALLY be done with this! No more having to constantly look over my shoulder every time I adjust the numbers! No one notices, no one gets hurt; everyone wins!’

Lawson smiled to himself.

And then, it began.

It started as the barest of sounds, easily mistaken for an exceptionally gentle whistling of the wind. It quietly echoed in the prison, waking not a soul with its humble aria. It brought with it soft images of the moon reflected on a lake, the waves caressing the shore as dragonflies landed on the surface, sending out minute ripples.

It was harmony.

It was the calm, soothing nature of the night.

It was peace.

Gradually, it began picking up, and soon, Lawson found himself unconsciously humming along to it. It went on for a while before Lawson felt himself yawn. Frowning, Lawson reached into his pocket and took out his pocket watch, still humming the soothing melody.

‘Aphyr’s left eye, it’s only been a few hours? I’m not even watching a pot boil!’

It was then that he noticed himself humming along to an unknown melody.

His frown deepening, he yawned again as he slowly got up, stretching his arms upwards as he stood. Letting out a sniff as he scratched himself, he held up his light as he began his route once more, squinting in the dark as he tried to find the source of the sound. By now, the song was a very clear melody, still quiet, but now audible in the silence of the night. With every step he took, his feet seemed to get heavier, and he found himself drifting in and out of the waking world every few blinks, yawning as he spoke.

“Wha...what the h*ll is...going on? Did someone spi...spike my drink? Gah, the lullaby certainly isn’t helping, that’s for su-?!”

His eyes briefly widened as it hit him, his heavy hand getting a brief boost of energy from the realization as it immediately reached for his alarm whistle.

“Gotta...raise the..raise the alarm...before it’s too...lllate…”

Barely managing to bring the whistle up to his lips, Lawson was able to issue a pathetic excuse for a blow before he collapsed onto his knees, dropping the alarm from his, before his face impacted the ground as sleep claimed him.

And just like that, all was silent. Not a single person had been unaffected by the song. The guards had collapsed while in action, and the prisoners had entered an even deeper sleep than the one they had been in.

Prisoner Seventy-Three closed her mouth.

Lowering her arms, she stood upright in her cell as she opened her eyes, midnight-hair curving above her neck to frame her face. In the glow of the moon, two things about her were immediately striking: the piercing blue eyes, as cold as ice, and a dark green, thick line that ran along her nose, and curved over her eyes.

Glancing downwards, she eyed the unlocked muzzle next to her feet...and at the runes glowing on her body. Rolling her eyes, she went over to the barred window she had been allowed, and opened her mouth.

And it began again.

However, this melody did not sooth; there were no waves to rock one to sleep, no moonlit images to invite a person to a state of tranquility.

Instead, there was an invitation: A pleasant scent catching the wind, likened to honey, dripping slowly from the comb as it slide down the tree; The call of the avian, encompassing all to come for their mate; an open letter from the king, sacrilege for some, a blessing for others.

And yet there was more.

In minutes, her song ended, a far cry from the length of her lullaby. But it was enough. Three shadows zipped past her window, speeding around the fort…

And soon, three nightingales fluttered into her cell, one with a piece of graphite, and the others with parchment. Pressing her paper to the walls of her cell, she wrote. When all was done, she sung another short melody, and sent them off into the night. Turning around to face the door of her cell, she opened her mouth one final time. A somber atmosphere began filling in the prison, and with it, a sea of loss was heard

A veteran greedily drained every last drop of the golden medicine that was liquor, aiming to lose herself to the sorrowful pleasure.

A man walked onwards back to his abode, exhausted, his search for his family’s legacy forever gone.

At last, a book of secrets, of a lifetime spent, was tossed into the fire, as its writer watched the flames eat away at that which will never be known.

As she reached the climax of her song, blue whisps began swirling out of the heads of everyone who was within earshot of Prisoner Seventy-Three, pooling into a single point in the air of the center of the room. Once it had all mixed together into a great sapphire cloud, she sang her final note.

And the cloud disintegrated, taking with it the memories of the past few hours.

Prisoner Seventy-Three dropped to one knee, panting with a few beads of sweat dripping down her face. Grimacing as the seals glowing on her faded to away, reminding her of the restrictions placed on her recrafting stock by the Enforcers, she took the opportunity to catch her breath. Swiftly surveying the prison, she nodded and began re-attaching the muzzle to her mouth, ensuring no one would ever know what she had done. Putting it back into pace, she spared one last look at the nightingales flying away towards their targets, and finally laid her head to rest.

Onwards, they flew, beyond the Haven walls. Message tucked into its feathers as the wind raked it, the eastern nightingale sailed past the walls of High Beacon. All the bird knew was its destination, placed in its gaze, and locked into its mind, and the landmark it was to soar to.

For three days it traveled, passing over arid deserts, bustling Havens, and scorching plains, and through darkest clouds and pouring rain it soared, never blinking, never erring from it’s path.

Then, at last, it arrived.

The mouth of a cave, screaming at the daylight world, lay hundreds of yards beneath its wings. The message still clenched in its talons, it gently drifted downwards…

And suddenly, the bird was seized by an invisible hand. The hand trembled and shook the bird violently as it dove downwards to the shaded entrance, dragging the panicked bird with it.

And out of the mouth, a small, cloaked figure emerged, a hand outstretched, trembling as it beckoned the avian closer. Gnarled, twisted, and mismatched, the hand grabbed the struggling bird as soon as was possible. And then the bird, as much as it was able to understand, became paralyzed as perceived its cloaked captor up close.

A ragged breathing came from the shadowed hood, the voice almost a deepened child as it grasped what it held in its hand. Then, as quickly as it had grasped the bird in the air, the figure savagely ripped the message from the petrified nightingale. The instant the letter left the bird’s clutches, the melody left its mind, and its own mind returned to it. Snapped out of its horrified trance, it viciously began mauling the hand that contained it, quickly tearing it apart.

The unseen hand that had captured it seized its head.

With a twist and a ‘snap’, life left the poor nightingale.

Staring at the dead nightingale in its hand, the figure retreated back into the wailing cave. Approaching a campfire it had made, it threw the bird into the blaze, causing the fire to flare...

...And reveal the dozens of corpses haphazardly strewn over the cave floor.

Meals had been made out of the majority of them, some finely roasted, and others barely cooked. More alarmingly, amidst the beasts were a precious few Incarnations...and humans.

Taking a seat by the fire to read the letter, the figure eventually stirred, and began to chuckle, the sound echoing off the walls;

A skeleton clattered as it’s bones hit the bottom of a narrow pit, clacking against each other in rapid disarray; a starving hyena laughed as it fought with another predator for its meal, and wind swept through the hallowed remains of a skull.

Swiftly, the laughter died, and the figure through the parchment into the fire. Raising a hand, it picked up the roasted corpse of the nightingale with it’s invisible hand, smothered the flames, and began to messily devour it, eating right through the bones.

Once it had finished, it got up, grabbed a makeshift-torch from the fire with the unseen appendage, and began venturing further into the cave. Walking past an opening in the ceiling, a gentle gust of wind lifted the hood…

...And revealed an enormous eye staring into the darkness.

Sclera as yellow as the pus of an infected wound, veins branched around the shrunken pupil as the eye quivered. Twisted, warped, and pale as the hand that had snapped the nightingales neck, the skin of the disfigured individual seemed to hang rather loosely from the muscle underneath, as if it had been hastily sewn on. Still quivering in its socket, the eye suddenly glanced downwards towards something hidden within its robe, not blinking once.

Then, it smiled.

Its breathing was heavy, cracked, and ecstatic, the mouth filled with small teeth shaped like shrapnel, and a thin, bubbled tongue.

“Soon...SO Very soon...It will ALL be OveR…”