The Seven. Peter Newman

       CHAPTER ONE

      Alpha of The Seven stands in an alcove, encased in rock that is eggshell thin. A fragile prison made of grief, of stone tears that flow briefly, hardening, smothering.

      For a thousand years, he and his siblings have dwelled in their chamber, wallowing, their gaze turned inward, falling further and further from humanity. It was not always this way.

      Once, when the Breach first stirred, they sent their sister, Gamma, to aid their people. It was her time to shine, to do the creator’s will and do glorious battle against the infernal.

      But there was no glory. Only death.

      When Gamma did not return, The Seven wept anew, a river of tears for the life that should have been. Endless.

      And when a lowly vagrant returned Gamma’s living sword, the relic had changed. They offered it rest at their side and it rejected them. It judged them.

      So they retreated from pain and grief, returning to a haven of memories.

      Years passed and a new threat arose from the Breach.

      The Seven turned their backs.

      And Gamma’s sword ventured into the world once more.

      This time a girl bore the sword back to them, and where the man had been silent, she had plenty to say.

      Alpha remembers her words. They sting and stir, making grief into anger, inaction into action. Rage shakes him. Cracks form in the eggshell-thin layer of stone. Individual chunks fall, like a jigsaw of a man unmaking itself, each piece revealing a glint of silver, a hint at the form that dwells beneath. Wings stretch: a cascade of stone as Alpha steps, shining, from the alcove, a halo of flying dust around him.

      As his essence flares into life, so too do his brothers and sisters. They wake slowly, reluctantly. Compelled but hesitant, curious but afraid.

      Alpha’s eyes are the blue of the sky. He looks to each of the alcoves, to his brothers, Beta and Epsilon, and his sisters, Delta, Theta and Eta. Silvered wings flex, and stone crumbles away, revealing bodies that gleam. The fragments shatter in a cloud. A wing-beat, two, and the cloud is dispelled.

      They stare at one another for a long time as dust settles and thoughts begin to form. Then, one by one, they step out from their alcoves to join Alpha in the centre of the room.

      Six metal figures, perfect, gather together in a circle. Their voices are music, each weaving with the others, harmonious. Slowly, they sing of what has happened while they slept, of all that has gone wrong, and begin to debate what is to be done and how many will have to die.

      Nearby, Vesper fidgets as feathers are woven into her hair. ‘Is this really necessary?’

      At her question, hands pause, and three sets of eyes flick to the other authority in the room.

      Overseeing the team of people dressing the girl is Obeisance, the only human allowed within The Seven’s inner sanctum. Wrapped in her feathered cloak, her skin is hairless, her toes and fingers without nails, her life and body dedicated to service. Obeisance’s voice can soothe immortals, it has no trouble with Vesper. ‘You do not approve?’

      ‘It’s not that,’ says Vesper. ‘I’m sure it looks … lovely. But it’s not really me. I think they should see me as I am.’

      ‘Do you believe you are defined by your appearance?’

      She scratches at a cluster of tiny white scars on her cheek, thinking. ‘No.’

      ‘Then appear to them as a leader. You are the chosen of The Seven, Bearer of Gamma’s sword. It will be your voice that leads us into a new age. Change is unsettling, and the people of the Shining City must put their faith in you. This,’ she gestures to Vesper’s outfit, ‘will make it easier for them.’

      Vesper shrugs, Obeisance gives a nod, and the team get back to work.

      Adjustments are made, tiny details agonized over. Her long coat is carefully arranged, the plates on the shoulders given a final polish. Vesper’s boots add an inch to her height, her hair another two. She does not feel any taller.

      ‘Are you ready?’ asks Obeisance.

      She is not. ‘Yes,’ she replies, lifting the sword and putting it onto her back.

      Obeisance gives a rare smile. ‘Good. It is time.’

      They gather around the steps leading upwards to the sanctum of The Seven. Thousands of them: a ceremony to welcome the Bearer back from her travels. Prominent residents of the Shining City and proud members of the Empire of the Winged Eye. The Seraph Knights in their gleaming armour, the soldiers in their perfect formations, and the citizens, modestly dressed, uniform in appearance and thought. Even the children are here, organized by choir, synchronized and silent.

      Like a living sea they swell around the great silver steps. A dazzling monument of seamless metal, fifty feet high, that ends, abrupt, in mid air. Another thirty feet of empty space separate the steps from the great floating cube that is the sanctum itself, turning slowly, featureless, suspended above by powers no longer understood.

      A small opening appears at the base of the cube, two figures framed within.

      Far below, the assembled crowd lower their heads in reverence and the knights draw their singing swords in salute.

      One of the figures, Obeisance, steps out, her feet finding purchase in the air, descending, her weight borne by The Seven’s love. This is an act of faith she makes daily. The second, Vesper, draws the sword and holds it out. Silver wings unfurl from the hilt, feeling the currents of essence mixed with the air. An eye is revealed set within the crosspiece. It opens and Vesper looks into it.

      The young woman gives a half smile and steps out after Obeisance.

      Neither falls.

      One walks gracefully, the other with a quiet confidence.

      When they arrive on the uppermost stair, Vesper frowns. The eye in the sword has not closed, instead, staring up over her shoulder, it is wide