Thick drops of blood fell from the pink clouds in the sky, running down and clogging the gutters of Kellingan's Bay.
It was an ill omen to most, but a blessed one to a few. At the crooked mouth of a dockside alley, Eustraehee'Elim knelt—naked—in one of the many puddles of crimson.
It soaked her up to her knees. It warmed her skin. Red droplets slid from the eaves above and spattered against her closed eyelids, then traced slow paths down her cheeks and throat, down her breasts and stomach. She breathed in, and the air tasted of copper. It had saturated everything until there was room for nothing else.
She smiled.
In Kinlidalh, she and the other faithful did not wipe away the blood of angels. Instead, they breathed prayers to Na'karat, God of the Bleeding End.
You bleed the angels for me, she murmured. Now let me bleed the people for you.
In the busier streets surrounding the alley, the port city worked. Brooms scraped stone. Buckets sloshed and emptied into gutters already running red. Footsteps passed at the mouth of the alley without slowing, and no one looked her way. They never did. Not until it was time.
Eustraehee tilted her head back, offering her throat to the rain, letting it strike her collarbones and pool in the hollow beneath them. The blood clung to her skin knowingly. Just as her mentor Vanelin'Elim had once explained to her, it recognized what she was—Worthy.
Such an honor.
The signs in the rib cages had been clear. The fractures, the angles. The way the bones had split neatly beneath her hands weeks ago. And now, despite what the others had said, she had proof: Just as she'd predicted, Na'karat really had sent an offering to her to be sliced open. The ship would be docked by nightfall.
Her long braid of hair, pale as ash, hung heavy against her back, darkened and slick with bloodrain. In the mountain range far beyond the city, her feathered dragon, Ire, would be thrashing in his cavern, four wings scraping stone in fury.
He hated waiting. Perhaps as much as she did. But he'd fly over to her soon.
Loud horns sounded from the harbor, bright and welcoming. They were meant for the Sea-crossers' ship.
Eustraehee lowered her chin and opened her eyes.
She rose from the puddle slowly, blood streaming from her skin, then bent over and picked up her lelem, the traditional Kinlidalhan dress, from the ground. She gathered it's wet fabrics over her chest and waist, then pulled on the three sleeves, two on her left arm and one on her right. As she reached for the straps, she sighed. Tradition aside, fastening them around herself while the separated sleeves tugged at her had always been a nuisance.
Yet she did as she had to. And moments later, fully clothed again, she bowed once more toward the bleeding sky.
"Guide my hand," she whispered. "Let their endings be true. All things, to the Bleeding End."
Then she stepped out of the alley, toward sounds of music and laughter.
***
Far out at sea, that same hour, blood fell on wood instead of stone.
The suddenness of its beginning made the old captain flinch. He lifted his gaze toward the distant port while his sailors around him rushed to the rigging, inspecting the sails and hauling them taut so the blood wouldn't pool in the folds of canvas. Regardless, the red struck the deck with wet, uneven splashes, warm against the wood, and streaked between the planks.
Faloran's first mate, Lienar, had warned him there would be a bloodrain today. Faloran hadn't believed him. There had been no red moon the week before, and his mother, when he was young, had told him the angels above wept only after such bad omens.
Evidently, though, his mother had been wrong.
The sky was bleeding. The sea accepted it without protest, and he would have to do the same. Beneath the falling crimson, Faloran stood on his ship, his good clothes being claimed by deep red droplet stains.
"Chi'orat!" he cursed, then came back to himself, and ran for cover at the stairs in front of his cabin.
His boots skidded on the slick deck, and it took all his effort to keep himself from sliding and falling onto his rear. By the time he reached the shelter of the overhang, his coat was already ruined—darkened nearly to black where the blood had soaked through the fabric. He swiped at it once with his forearm, a useless gesture, then let his hands fall to his sides.
Across the deck, the sailors worked on. Blood streaked their faces and soaked their shirts, yet they hauled lines and checked knots with the same steady focus they had before the sky had begun to bleed.
A sharp laugh broke out at the starboard direction, followed by a muttered curse.
"I'm telling you, it's the ghost again," one of the deckhands said, glancing toward the forward hold. "The one Chen saw when he was out of it."
"Nah, ship's making noises," another voice replied. "That's all."
Faloran shook his head and scowled at the red clouds overhead.
Well, what was a coat, he supposed, even a new one, compared to what his men were currently enduring, stuck working in the bloodrain? Their hair would be slick for days.
Still, he had wanted to enter the New Land wearing that coat. Clean. Presentable. A proper noble captain stepping onto foreign soil to conduct business with the colonies there, and with the Order of Gold and Red. Now, he'd have to conduct that business disheveled.
His thoughts were interrupted.
"Captain," his first mate, Lienar, said, joining him beneath the overhang. Crimson dripped from his long hair and beard, but his voice was calm. "If the wind doesn't turn, we'll reach port by sundown."
Faloran nodded, turning his eyes toward the crew. "Good," he said. The word came out firmer than he felt, as a result of his officer's training. Never show doubt. Never show weakness—only confidence on the high seas.
"See that it's known," he added, "that when we dock, I want every man to be fed properly. Fresh fruit, if the port has it. Good food—and I won't have scurvy following a voyage sailed this clean."
Lienar smirked, tilting his head up toward the bleeding sky. "Clean."
Faloran frowned. "You know what I mean."
"Aye," Lienar replied. "No men lost. No storms worth the name. No pirates, no trouble at all." His eyes flicked back to the crew, then to the blood-slicked deck. "Still, some will say this is an ill sign."
"They can say it in port," Faloran replied. "With full bellies and coins in their pockets. Perhaps in the embrace of a woman." He turned at last, meeting Lienar's gaze. "Morale rots faster than fruit. I won't have it setting in just because of bad weather."
Lienar studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I'll see to it. Food, drink, and music that's loud enough to keep the cleric at a distance."
Faloran allowed himself the faintest of smiles. His ship's appointed cleric really was an annoying one. "Make sure it is."
The blood continued to fall, staining the sea a dull red, but the ship pressed on through it, its hull cutting a clear path toward the nearing isle of Kinlidalh.
After the sun crested its apex and began its slow descent, the bloodrain thinned at last. The coastline emerged from the haze—dark cliffs rising sheer from the sea, broken by pale stone docks and the clustered roofs of the colony's harbor town, Kellingan's Bay.
Faloran lifted his spyglass.
The port town leapt into focus. Figures moved along the docks, small at this distance but numerous, most bent low and wielding brooms and buckets. They looked strange, but they worked in steady lines, pushing thick, dark rivulets of blood toward the edges of the stone and into the waiting sea.
Faloran lowered the glass, feeling relieved.
"They've got the natives cleaning the docks already," he said. "And in good order. It seems there's no trouble waiting for us."
"Should we signal our approach?" Lienar asked.
Faloran raised the spyglass once more. There was no shouting, no disorder, no signs of panic. Only strange, gray-skinned people at work. Methodical and coordinated. No sign of plague or pirates.
"Yes, signal our approach," he said, lowering the spyglass again. "Standard colors."
"Aye, Captain."
"The natives out there," Faloran added, "they really are dull-looking. Gray as rock. More so than you, Lienar. Strange people."
Lienar smiled. "Told ya. I heard they call us 'pinkies'."
"Yes, well, you won our bet. I'll buy you a drink sometime."
With that, Faloran smiled and turned away from the rail, but as he did so, a prickle crept up his spine—a strange sense that he was being watched.
He glanced back toward the forward hold. Nothing moved.
He hesitated for a moment, then spoke to Lienar again. "That talk from a few days past," he said. "The ghost."
"Aye?" Lienar asked.
"Did you have it looked into?" Faloran asked. "Anything found?"
Lienar shook his head. "Nothing. Chen said he saw something, of course, or someone, when his leg was being treated by the doc, but we didn't find anything. Maybe there's a little bit of grain missing from the stores, but that's all. Chen just panicked. Pain can do strange things to men at sea."
Faloran exhaled through his nose, then shrugged. "Alright. Well, let's see that it stays at sea. Treat Chen to a round of drinks once we dock, at my expense."
"Aye, Captain."
Faloran turned back towards the railing and distant shore. Kellingan's Bay awaited him—cleaning its stone, lighting its lanterns, and making ready for a ship that was arriving beneath a bleeding sky.