story
by
Stephanie Rice
CHAPTER 1: VESPER
The only sound that mattered was the dry, grinding hum of the Soul-Siphon. Vesper pressed the cool, brass cylinder against the temple of the sleeping citizen—a low-ranking District Auditor named Corin. According to the ledger, Corin’s dreams held a dangerous surplus of "Sentimental Attachment." Vesper watched the meter on the Siphon’s face; three distinct needles, calibrated for Joy, Defiance, and Love, flickered rapidly before slowly settling back toward zero as the device did its work.
Corin didn’t stir. He was already pale with the beginnings of Apathy Sickness, his face slack and mercifully peaceful. What Vesper feared wasn't the pain she inflicted on him, but the void creeping into her own mind—a cold, spreading silence that made her wonder if the dreams she was stealing belonged to her, too.
Vesper was a Dream Tax Collector, a crucial functionary in the dystopian metropolis of Aethel. Her grim purpose was to operate the Soul-Siphon, extracting the "Sentimental Attachment" the Ministry labeled as dangerous. This collected essence, known as Aether, was the literal magical power source that fueled the city’s infrastructure and the luxury of the High District. By siphoning the populace, Vesper ensured emotional control, preventing uprisings and creating the obedient, apathetic drones prone to Apathy Sickness that crowded the lower streets.
Vesper performed the logout ritual on the Siphon’s pad, her fingers moving with rote, exhausted efficiency. As she worked, she caught her reflection in the polished brass of the cylinder. Even distorted, her features looked sharp—almost predatory. She had a narrow, angular face framed by an undercut of ink-black hair, the longer strands pulled back into a tight, utilitarian knot. Her skin, once healthy, had paled to a translucent grey, making the dark circles beneath her eyes look like bruises. She wore the charcoal-grey vest of the Ministry, tailored to her lean, wiry frame, her sleeves rolled up to reveal a series of faint, glowing tattoos on her forearms—the geometric marks of a high-ranking Collector.
As the data scroll vanished, she allowed herself one forbidden, microsecond of hesitation. Lately, she had begun to feel the effects of the Dream Drain herself. Her frame felt heavier than normal, and she carried herself with the fatigued posture of someone running on perpetually insufficient rest. Yet, her movements remained meticulous—a necessary trait in Aethel, where precision equaled survival.
Peering down at her latest tax contributor, Vesper was briefly pulled back to one particular memory that she guarded with everything she held dear. It was a memory that, if known to the Ministry, would certainly mean her time as a Collector would end, and she would find herself in line with those whose vessels were siphoned instead of being the one to take.
For a split second, Vesper was back in her Academy room. Sitting on the edge of her bed directly in front of her sat Gypsy, the only man she’d ever had a real relationship with. Placing her hand on her Siphon tool, the coolness of the metal acting as a bridge to the past, she recalled his jet-black hair, spiked in his signature mohawk, and his baby-blue eyes peering into hers with a heated desire that still made her skin warm. Dating while completing training was more than just frowned upon; it was an act that would get you expelled not only from the Academy but from the city itself, making what they had all the more potent.
The sound of the Soul-Siphon completing its data transfer snapped Vesper back to the present. Quickly, she looked around to ensure that she was still, indeed, alone. Capturing one last glance at Corin, she quietly whispered, "I'm sorry, old friend," as she made her exit.
Reaching the street below, she stretched, attempting to shake off the effects that seemed to be growing rather rapidly. As a Collector, she was supposed to be exempt from the effects of the Siphon, yet lately she was becoming more and more convinced that things were not as they should be. Speaking out would mean trouble, but if she did nothing, she would become one of the mindless zombies that now populated the ever-growing city—souls totally void of human emotion.
Quickly shaking the thought from her mind, Vesper pondered her next move. She had completed her log for the evening’s siphons, but at that moment, the screen on her Soul-Siphon chimed with a new notification.
"Odd," Vesper muttered, swiping down to open the message. They were typically only notified once per evening when they received their log sheet. It was highly unusual to be contacted twice in one day. Her eyebrows arched in a furrow as she read the text.
"What the hell," she muttered. "This can't be right." Quickly summoning the virtual keyboard, she responded with quick, precise strokes. Are you sure that this is the next location? Why was it not on the log? She hit send, impatiently watching the flashing light as the person on the other end responded.
She realized she had been tapping her foot—an old habit she thought she had broken. A few moments passed before the Soul-Siphon finally chimed.
"Do not question orders, Lieutenant. Simply do your task and report back as soon as you have finished the above task."
Vesper stood staring at her screen, utterly confused, a feeling of dread finding its way to the pit of her stomach. Orders were orders; that was the first thing they taught you at the Academy. They were not meant to be questioned, only fulfilled with zero hesitation. If you were found incapable, you would be pulled from your position without explanation, never to be seen again.
Placing the Soul-Siphon back into its carrier, she made her way to the next location: the High District. From what she understood, this was where the noble and High Elite of the city lived, far from the emotionally dead zombies that crowded the lower streets. As far as she knew, this place was off-limits to Collectors. Not only were they not supposed to collect tax there, but they weren't even supposed to set foot within the district limits. Doing so could potentially earn a death sentence from the Boss himself.
"So why in the hell," she thought, "am I being sent there now?"
Infiltration of the High District
Chapter 2:Disobedience
The cobblestone of the lower city abruptly ended. After walking for what seemed like forever, Vesper finally saw the high arch: the rough, cold stone of the barrier wall was suddenly replaced by flawless, polished obsidian. The cold flame etched above the arch represented the Higher District—the unspoken symbol of the Kingdom’s Power and Stability. This emblem was crucial; the "Aether" (dream energy) was the city's lifeblood, and by keeping the flame unnaturally still, the Ministry symbolized their absolute control over the volatile forces of human emotion.
On either side of the arch stood massive towers that housed what she had only heard about in hushed whispers: the Golem-Guard. Slowing her pace, Vesper paused, craning her neck to peer at the luminous spires blooming high above. Her eyes locked onto the entity that seemed to consume the very space it occupied. Attired in seamless, matte-charcoal armor, it appeared to absorb the light as it glided along the sterile path. Its helmet was featureless save for a thin, horizontal slit of cold blue light, matching the static flame inlaid upon its chest plate.
The air around the Golem was noticeably colder—a localized zone of absolute zero. It was the perfect enforcer, forged from the very emotional essence Vesper herself stole. Trembling, she realized there was no sneaking past the gates; the Golem-Guard existed to keep the "heathens" of the lower city out, ensuring the elite were never burdened by the sight of the soulless reality they created.
Vesper retreated, rounding the corner until the obsidian gave way to the grime-caked stone of the barrier's foundation. A hundred yards down, she found a narrow, shadowed channel where metallic decay stained the air—a place where the Higher District allowed its necessary filth to gather. She scanned the shadows for the weak point she had studied: a maintenance access panel secured by an archaic locking wheel.
A faint, intermittent flicker of warm, uncontrolled color bled from the seam—a careless leak of raw Aether. It was the only invitation she needed.
Kneeling in the freezing mud, Vesper produced a slim, carbon-fiber rod. The locking wheel was nearly fused shut by years of neglect. She inserted the rod, its tip laced with the powdered remnants of stolen dreams, into the seam. As the raw Aether met the conductor, the air shimmered with the smell of ozone and sweet, forgotten memories. The metal glowed a dull, internal orange, softening under the corrosive power of pure emotion. Vesper felt a sharp twinge of energy drain from her own core—the tax for using the Aether—but she pushed through it.
With a grunt, she twisted. The iron sheared away with the sound of tearing wet cloth. The panel clicked open, releasing a suffocating wave of heat and the sickly-sweet aroma of refined dream-power. Behind it lay a tight, vertical shaft descending into darkness.
Taking a breath that tasted of rust and stolen hope, Vesper slid inside and pulled the panel shut. The metallic clunk of the seal was deafening—a final, dangerous commitment. Now, there was only one way out: up.
The air in the shaft was thick, heavy with the nauseating heat of the conduits. Darkness consumed her, triggering a primal terror rooted in her childhood—memories of a cruel stepfather and small, locked rooms. She fought the urge to retreat, bracing herself between the narrow walls and using the cross-hatched support structures as makeshift rungs.
She climbed blindly, becoming a weightless shadow. She tuned into her own breathing, moving with a silence that settled her nerves. Halfway up, her boot snagged. A piece of iron piping shifted, and Vesper gasped as her weight pitched outward. She caught herself just as the debris rattled free, falling into the void. Tink... tink... tink... She froze, waiting for the Golem-Guard’s low-frequency thrum. Nothing. The city above remained menacingly silent. She continued, noticing the air transition from the stench of the slums to the sterile, pressurized chill of the elite.
A ventilation fan hummed above her head. Through the slats of a bolted vent, she saw it: the white, glittering light of the Higher District. Using the last of her Aether-laced rod, she dissolved the corroded bolts. With a protesting screech, the vent gave way.
Vesper tumbled onto a polished, pearlescent floor. The transition was jarring. The filth was gone, replaced by the faint, melodic hum of unseen machinery and the distant clink of crystal glasses. Tucking herself against a sterile wall, she willed her heart to settle. It hammered against her ribs like a hundred wild mustangs. To steady herself, she reached for the memory of Gypsy—his sultry gaze, the warmth of his presence—but the word MISSION suddenly screamed in her mind.
Her eyes snapped open. She pulled up her Soul-Siphon, the green pin blinking. She was at the High District loading docks. Even here, the "filthy" work of shipping was pristine. Massive containers hummed with power, and the scent of diesel mingled with the river breeze.
Her trance was broken by a sharp buzz from the Siphon. A deep, luminous voice filled her ear, the words scrolling across the screen:
“Complete your mission, Agent. Defiance will not be tolerated. Perform a full-load siphon, then report back. Insubordination is death. You will find your subject in Car 11.”
Vesper froze. "Sir... did you say a full drain?"
There was no reply, only the hiss of static. A full drain was a death sentence. It didn't just take the dreams; it took the spark of life itself.
She looked up, noticing the small red lights of cameras tracking her every move. She reached Car 11. An invisible shimmer hung around the door, accompanied by a low electric hum. She pulled the door open, expecting a political prisoner or a rival agent.
Instead, she saw a small, fragile girl.
The child’s hazel eyes were wide with a fear so profound it stopped Vesper’s breath. A dark curl fell over the girl's face, breaking her trance. She looked at Vesper with a silent, haunting question: Are you the one who ends me?
Vesper was many things—a thief, a shadow, a collector—but she was not a murderer.
"Fulfill your mission, Agent!" the voice roared, no longer from the Siphon, but from the dock's overhead speakers. "Disobedience will not be tolerated!"
In that split second, Vesper reached out—not for her tools, but for the girl’s hand. As her fingers closed around the child’s, the sound of crunching metal echoed through the bay. The walls of the shipping container began to contract, a mechanical tomb designed to crush them both for her mercy.
Chapter 3: The Daring Escape
Fear soared through Vesper, but she refused to let it cripple her. Instead, she harnessed it, using the adrenaline as fuel to escape what surely would have been their tomb. As she sprinted, she glanced back at the girl swinging behind her like a paperweight. Vesper worried her desperate pace might be hurting the child, until she caught a glimpse of the girl’s face.
She was smiling. Had they not been in the middle of a life-or-death flight, Vesper might have stopped to ask the girl if she’d lost her mind. But when a squeak of genuine excitement escaped the child’s lips, Vesper couldn't help but feel a grim smirk tug at her own mouth.
As they rounded a corner, Vesper spotted a small crawlspace tucked away from the glare of a looming streetlight. She needed to breathe. Her mission had devolved into a disaster with breathtaking speed, and the stakes had shifted; she wasn't just fighting for her own life anymore, but for the girl's as well.
She pulled the child into the shadows. "Just need to catch my breath," Vesper whispered, gasping for air. "Then we move."
The girl nodded. Her curls were matted to her forehead, soaked with sweat from their frantic dash through the prestigious—and forbidden—streets of the High District.
"I'm Vesper, by the way," she added with a shrug. She nodded back toward the dark street they had just fled. "Sorry for tossing you around like a ragdoll."
A giggle bubbled over the child’s lips. "It’s okay! It was sort of fun. My name is Elara."
Vesper looked down at her, prepared to ask how a child ended up in such dire straits, but Elara suddenly stiffened. "They’re close," Elara whispered, her voice turning eerily calm. "But I should have some strength back now."
Before Vesper could ask what she meant, she witnessed firsthand why the Agency had put a hit on a girl so young. With a casual swipe of Elara’s hand, a heavy thud echoed through the alley. A man’s body crashed against the stone wall separating them from the street. He made a sound like a deflating balloon before folding over, toppling to the ground in a heap. He wasn't getting back up.
Vesper stared at her new companion, shock radiating from her face. Elara looked up, her eyes wide and searching. "You’re not mad, are you? I don't want to upset you."
Vesper wasn't angry; she was in total disbelief. She tried to find the words to rationalize what she’d just seen, but logic was a luxury she didn't have. A female voice hissed from the darkness deeper within their hiding spot.
"Elara!" the woman whispered. "Bring your friend and come this way. I’ve secured a route to safety."
Vesper looked at the wall behind them. She could have sworn it was solid stone just moments ago, but now a narrow passage stood open, revealing a slender, sharp-featured woman waiting in the gloom.
Vesper hesitated, but what choice did she have? She was a trespasser in the High District, running blindly through streets she didn't know, praying for a Hail Mary. With an inward sigh, she steered Elara ahead of her and stepped through the impossible opening.
Today was a day of revelations. On the other side of that wall stood Rahelin—a woman she had been taught to view as an arch-enemy. Vesper realized then that she had been deceived, not by those she was told to hate, but by the very people she had given twenty years of her life to serve.Vesper stepped through the threshold, the air turning cold and smelling of damp stone as the hidden door groaned shut behind them. "Who are you?" Vesper demanded, her hand hovering instinctively near the hilt of her blade despite her exhaustion. The woman, Rahelin, didn't turn around immediately; she kept her eyes fixed on the shadows of the tunnel ahead, her posture stiff and elegant. "Someone who knows the weight of the lies you’ve been carrying," Rahelin replied, her voice like velvet over gravel. Elara reached out, catching Vesper’s sleeve with a small, trembling hand. "She helped me before, Vesper. She’s the one who told me you’d come." Vesper’s heart hammered against her ribs as she looked from the girl to the woman she had been trained to kill on sight. "The Agency says you’re a ghost, a traitor to the District," Vesper spat, though the conviction in her voice was wavering. Rahelin finally turned, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. "The Agency calls anyone they can't control a traitor, Vesper. You saved that girl tonight, which means you’ve finally joined my side of the story. Now, walk. We don't have long before they realize the wall isn't as solid as it looks."
Chapter 4: The Ghost and the Letter
The hidden door groaned shut behind them, sealing out the frantic sounds of the High District. The air inside the tunnel was instantly colder, smelling of damp stone and ancient secrets.
"Who are you?" Vesper demanded. Even in her exhaustion, her hand hovered instinctively near the hilt of her blade.
The woman, Rahelin, didn't turn around immediately. She kept her eyes fixed on the shadows ahead, her posture stiff and elegant. "Someone who knows the weight of the lies you’ve been carrying," she replied, her voice like velvet over gravel.
Elara reached out, catching Vesper’s sleeve with a small, trembling hand. "She helped me before, Vesper. She’s the one who told me you’d come."
Vesper’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked from the girl to the woman she had been trained to kill on sight for two decades. "The Agency says you’re a ghost—a traitor to the District," Vesper spat, though the conviction in her voice was wavering.
Rahelin finally turned, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. "The Agency calls anyone they can't control a traitor, Vesper. You saved that girl tonight, which means you’ve finally joined my side of the story. Now, walk. We don't have long before they realize the wall isn't as solid as it looks."
They moved deeper into the gloom. Vesper remained wary, her mind a storm of confusion. "I’m not moving another inch," she finally commanded, stopping in a wider section of the passage, "until you tell me why a 'traitor' like you is playing savior to an Agency blade."
Rahelin halted and leaned against the rough stone. "You think I’m the enemy because they told you I killed your kind. But I’ve spent my life hiding the people the Agency decides are no longer 'useful.'"
"Lies," Vesper hissed. "The Agency protects us. They lost good men to your people. They lost... they lost Gypsy."
The name hung in the air like a terminal diagnosis. Rahelin’s expression softened into something agonizingly sympathetic. "Gypsy didn't die in an ambush by Divergents, Vesper," she said softly. "He died in my kitchen. In a small cottage on the edge of the Blackwood."
At the mention of the Blackwood, a fracture opened in Vesper's mind. For a heartbeat, the tunnel vanished.
He had been leaning against a tree, his Agency scout uniform dusty but his smile as bright as the morning sun. "Just a scouting mission, Ves," Gypsy had whispered, his thumb tracing the line of her brow. He lingered there, staring into her eyes with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "You know, the Academy calls them 'tactical assets,' but to me, they’re silver-fire. Promise me you won't let them dim that light while I'm gone."
Vesper snapped back to the present, her breathing ragged. "You’re lying. He was killed by the enemy."
"He was killed by the people he served," Rahelin countered. "He found out the Agency was staging the attacks themselves to justify the war. He ran. He was bleeding out from an Agency-standard bolt when he collapsed at my door. I used every ounce of my magic to shroud the house—to keep the Agency 'cleaners' from smelling his blood while they pounded on my door, calling him a crazed traitor."
Rahelin reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a piece of parchment, yellowed and stiff. "I tended his wounds until his last breath. He knew he wouldn't make it, so he wrote this. He made me swear I would only give it to the woman with the 'silver-fire eyes' if she ever woke up to the truth."
Vesper’s hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the paper. She unfolded it, seeing the jagged handwriting—his handwriting. It was a poem. She scanned the lines until she hit the final stanza:
"The dark is deep, the woods are cold,
But I hold the spark I was blessed to behold.
I’ll die in the gray, but I’ll die satisfied,
Having lived in the glow of my Silver-Fire Eyes."
Vesper let out a sound that wasn't a sob or a scream, but a choked, animalistic gasp. "Silver-fire." It was a private name, a secret held between two people in the dark of shared quarters. The weight of twenty years of loyalty collapsed. The Agency hadn't just lost him; they had hunted him.
Vesper’s knees hit the cold stone floor. The grief she’d kept tightly boxed for years exploded, her body racking with uncontrollable sobs.
Elara didn't pull away. The child moved closer, her small frame pressing against Vesper’s side. She moved her hand to Vesper’s temple. The touch was as light as a moth’s wing, but the moment her fingertips brushed Vesper's skin, the pain shifted.
"Show me," Elara whispered directly into Vesper’s mind. "Let me hold the weight with you."
Through Elara’s touch, the memories became a sanctuary. Vesper saw Gypsy again—the way he laughed, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the warmth of his hand. Elara was weaving the sorrow into something beautiful, something shared.
"He was brave," Elara murmured, her eyes glowing with a faint, soft light. "And he’s still here. He’s the reason you saved me."
Elara pulled a smooth, translucent river stone from her pocket and pressed it into Vesper’s palm. "When the dark feels too big, hold this. It’s a piece of the light I saw in your head. It’s an anchor."
Vesper looked down at the stone, then at the girl. The crushing despair hadn't vanished, but it had transformed into fuel. She wiped her face, her silver-fire eyes hardening with a new, terrifying purpose.
She stood up, tucking the stone and the letter close to her heart. She looked at Rahelin.
"Lead the way," Vesper said, her voice steady and dangerous. "We have a long walk, and I have a lot of people to kill."