Night Rose, page 1
Night Rose
Worlds of the Poleaxes
Book One
J. C. Cooper
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of this author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover art and design by GetCovers.com
Copyright © 2025 by J. C. Cooper
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
No generative artificial intelligence (AI) was used in the writing of this book. The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training AI technologies to generate text, including, without limitation, technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Formatted with Vellum
For anyone trying to find themselves in a world that doesn’t value them for who they are, only for what they can do
Contents
Content Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
Content Warning
This story covers topics of physical violence, murder, and implied abuse, as well as alluding to sexual activities, which are off-page. Please read with caution.
Chapter 1
Briatta
Briatta Belrose wove her way through the bustling streets of Montclair, a bag slung over her shoulder, looking for all the world like just another young woman heading home or meeting friends for an evening drink. It was precisely what everyone else was doing at that hour, which meant no one would question her presence.
A young man with dark bags beneath his eyes passed by, bearing the Ardor-mark of a Wind Ardorist on his temple, just visible beneath the shadow of his white headscarf. Briatta noted that, and a furrow appeared between her brows. The strain on Ardorists was growing with every passing cycle, and there had been noticeably fewer luxurious uses of it in the city. Once, fountains had bubbled brightly on every block, trees had bloomed with inedible, functionally useless flowers, and winds had wended between buildings to help keep the people of Montclair cool. Now, only edible plants or bioluminescent flora were planted and nurtured, and water was limited to what was drinkable.
A familiar ache of yearning bloomed within, and Briatta’s mind wandered to the lifelong hope she would soon also receive a tattoo, the same as every Elfean in Belrune if they were lucky enough to manifest their Ardor during their Choosing ceremony upon turning twenty-one. Not only because it had been her lifelong dream to follow that path, but because she desperately wanted to help her people thrive again. They could only do that with more Ardorists.
Above the biodome encasing the city and protecting the Elfeans from the unhealthy atmosphere outside was a sky perpetually such a light shade of blue that it was nearly white, always visible except when the biodome darkened for bionight, as it did now.
Briatta glanced up at the larger, yellower Polar Sun, still visible on the horizon of the wastelands beyond the biodome. When it was high in the sky, the biodome—the physical manifestation of combined Ardor protecting the Elfean people—would remain clear because the fiery sphere was farther away and less harmful.
Briatta had never seen the smaller, hotter sun that rose when the biodome was dark—the glowing giant that was dubbed the Nocturne Sun.
Aside from the suns, the sky was never filled with anything else because there was no weather outside the biodome except for the occasional desert storm where sand and dirt were whipped violently around.
Just as the biodome darkened completely and bionight had officially begun, Briatta paused, allowing her eyes to adjust, and pulled the cream-colored headscarf she’d been wearing like a hood from her head, letting it fall around her shoulders instead. The mushrooms dotting the ground beside where she walked glowed pink and orange, and the flowers on the tree above her shone a faint purple onto her cheeks. All around, lights of Ardor-manufactured nature blinked to life to illuminate the city. Only when she could clearly see again did Briatta continue.
Five houses away from the one that was her target, a familiar presence fell into step beside her. Briatta glanced up at Neven, her lifelong friend and the one with whom she most often went on missions for the Night Roses. His blond hair was cropped short and brushed back to reveal his still-healing Ardor-mark. When he glanced down at her, briefly meeting her gaze with his piercing blue eyes, the corner of his mouth slanted up in silent greeting. Her chest warming, Briatta smiled up at him. Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, Neven looked straight ahead again; he was more tense than usual, but it was expected, considering their destination.
“Binding ‘til burning,” Briatta whispered, then.
“Binding until burning,” Neven echoed, and the back of his hand brushed hers. It was something most commonly said in Founders Halls to signify life since the Binding until they all passed and burned in the end, and it had become a familiar saying between Briatta and Neven as they started a mission.
One house away, Briatta stepped off the road and slipped into the shadows of the neighboring building while Neven continued without her. When she reached the back of the house, she set her bag down and pulled off her dress, revealing the black suit and leathers she wore only on such missions. Quickly, she pulled her long brown hair into a braid, tucking it behind her softly pointed ears, and then pinned it in a tight knot at the base of her head. Then, she wrapped a black headscarf over her features—similar to the pale ones she wore during the bioday to protect herself from the Polar Sun—and secured it at the top of her shoulders.
Tucking the dress and bag behind a large bush, Briatta quickly scaled the structure’s wall and plucked a glowing pink flower from the adjacent tree. Then, she wiggled on her stomach across the roof, making as little noise as possible to take her predetermined position near the edge. From there, she could see into the master bedroom of their subject’s home, while also being hidden from the street.
Briatta’s eyes immediately sought Neven, who was disappearing around the corner of the target house, having also changed into his fighting clothes, blond hair now safely hidden beneath a similar black headscarf. Catching the glint of the blade strapped around his back as he vanished, her heart clenched in her chest, both with the usual nerves that came with this job and her fear for Neven’s safety.
Briatta, trying to distract herself from the nerves coming to life in her heart, kept her eyes glued to the bedroom window, as she mentally reviewed every single detail she could recall from the case file she and Neven had pored over in the headquarters of the Night Roses.
The Night Roses had been formed centuries ago by a Belrose ancestor during a series of brutal murders that the city officials could not solve. Fearing for the lives of her family and friends, the ancient Belrose matriarch took up arms herself, and from that moment on, there were Night Roses standing vigil at all hours. Many terrible people had been stopped by the covert organization, even when the Weilers were unable to find sufficient evidence to bring such criminals to justice.
The Weilers, who were named after a guard animal that had been documented at one point during the expansive Elfean history, were the official soldiers of the crown. King Novak, the current ruler of the kingdom of Belrune, could not publicly condone the actions of the Night Roses, but he had never done anything to try and stop them.
While the Polar Sun had set, it was not yet considerably late, so it was no surprise that Mr. Bern was not home when Briatta and Neven arrived to settle in and wait. In fact, it had been planned this way. Through the bedroom window, Briatta watched Neven slide into the room and disappear behind the large desk in the corner.
Slowly, the minutes ticked by, and the sounds of people returning to their homes for the bionight diminished. A few streets over, loud, drunken shouts came from the popular bar near the city’s center, and someone giggled so frequently and loudly that Briatta considered the consequences of leaving her post to knock the senseless woman out. Briatta’s hearing was sharp, and though she couldn’t distinguish what they were saying at this distance, the repetitive sound was quickly becoming disruptive to her job.
A sand owl hooted somewhere to Briatta’s left, and she imperceptibly tilted her chin to turn her attention in that direction. Sometimes, bird calls were signals. Most of the time, they were just birds. However, sand owls were native to Vernona, and they rarely came this far north, preferring instead the even hotter climate of the southern reaches of Belrune—both kingdom and continent. Not that it was much cooler here. With two suns and the increasingly thinning atmosphere, most of the planet of Carceron was brutally hot these days.
Briatta kept her eyes on the window, but her ears remained trained in the direction from which the owl’s call had come.
As the air cooled infinitesimally within the biodome—thanks to the protection that the darkness of the shield offered from the Nocturne Sun—Briatta’s sweat finally began to dry, and she pulled leather gloves from her pocket, shoving her hands into them. The gloves were probably Briatta’s favorite piece of gear; they had been imbued with a small amount of Ardor so they would never leave a traceable mark, and her hands would never be too warm so long as she wore them. Still, she preferred to avoid placing her damp palms inside them.
After an hour, Briatta finally heard the telltale sound of Mr. Bern’s black leather boots and, more notably, his cane rhythmically tapping the stone of the road as he slowly approached. He came into view moments later wearing a black bowler hat and an unbuttoned grey trench coat, the hem swaying with his lilting, painful step. Mr. Bern’s leg had been broken in his childhood and allowed to heal poorly, and though the records didn’t state how it occurred, he’d been estranged from his father since the moment he moved out.
Briatta couldn’t help but curl her upper lip at the sight of him, and not just because of his atrocious taste in hats.
Tearing her gaze from Mr. Bern, Briatta looked back to the window where she knew Neven would be watching for her signal and opened her fingers, the glowing pink flower she’d plucked falling over the roof’s edge and drifting to the ground.
Mr. Bern neared the front of his home and stopped on the porch, leaning on his cane as he searched his pockets. His hand reemerged with a key, and he unlocked his front door to step inside. Briatta held her breath as she waited for him to appear in his bedroom doorway as he had done each time she’d observed him, studying his habits. Today, though, it seemed Mr. Bern had other ideas in mind.
Briatta wasn’t sure how much time had passed as she strained to hear anything from within the walls of Mr. Bern’s house, but there was nothing. Suddenly, Neven jumped from behind the desk and darted into the hallway.
Shit. This wasn’t the plan. What was he doing?
Torn between maintaining her post and rushing to help Neven, Briatta hesitated for only a second before hurriedly creeping back to the end of her roof and scrambling to the ground. As soon as her boots hit the dirt, she ran towards the rear of Mr. Bern’s house to where she knew Neven would have left a key—copied meticulously by a Night Rose locksmith—for her should anything unexpected occur.
Well, Briatta would definitely classify this as unexpected.
Cracking open the rear door after silently turning the lock, Briatta paused to listen. It was absolutely still within the house, and she didn’t understand how that was possible. Neven wouldn’t have abandoned their plan for no reason.
As far as she could tell, this was a perfectly normal house that had the unfortunate lot of being owned by a terrible man. Regardless, she touched her fingers to the walls and felt for any hint of Ardor that might mask sound. Still, there was nothing.
Even before an Elfean manifested their own Ardor, they could feel when it had been used. It was a skill taught early in life because there was so much Ardor in their everyday lives that it was important to recognize when it was absent.
Briatta pushed the door open far enough to slip all the way inside and closed it gently behind her. It was deathly quiet with no audible noises filtering in from the street outside either, and Briatta had the eerie sensation that she had stepped into a mausoleum.
Then, a loud thud came from somewhere below her, and she quickened her pace, searching for the entrance to the basement. The main floor of the house was fairly open, with the entryway, dining room, and parlor all on the right side. They were clear, so that left the kitchen and the office. Every room Briatta passed was sparsely furnished and so clean that it was hard to believe someone actually lived there—a detail she fixated on due to her training.
The second Briatta entered the office, she spied the secret door. It was wide open, behind a large desk, and had been previously disguised by bookshelves. She hurried to it and peered down the staircase leading to the basement. Neven was halfway up the stairs, wiping blood from his sword. He glanced up and met her gaze, his expression grim.
She raised a questioning brow.
Instead of speaking, as voices could be identified, Neven finished cleaning his sword, sheathed it, and then signed with his hands. All Night Roses were required to learn this language to avoid leaving traces of themselves behind on the job, including what they sounded like.
“Intel is correct. Man downstairs. He went for him.”
Briatta’s stomach churned with understanding then, and she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that Neven was the kind of man who would risk exposure to stop another death from happening. Neven tucked his cleaning rag into his breast pocket and gestured to the hidden door, his own expression piercing.
Shaking her head in answer, Briatta dug into the smaller satchel she carried on every mission, strapped to her chest. She withdrew the Night Roses’ evidence regarding Mr. Bern’s links to a series of cases, all of the older men found dead, and spread it over his desk in chronological order. The pictures and paper trails they had found were freshly printed and clean of fingerprints, and Briatta had only touched them with her gloves. When she finished, she took a small square of paper from her pocket and quickly sketched a black rose.
The signature was the one hint of themselves that all members of the Night Roses left behind. Part of the reason was so the Weilers would know the Night Roses were responsible and consequently avoid looking for other culprits, potentially apprehending innocent people in the process. The other reason was to surreptitiously show the Weilers how their job should be done, especially with cases like Mr. Bern.
Briatta took the small drawing to the front door, checked that the street was clear, and pinned it dead in the center just below the heavy brass knocker. The black rose emblem was recognized throughout Belrune, and whoever approached the Bern house first the following morning would know to call for help.
With the scene set and proof arranged neatly in clear view, Briatta nodded to Neven, who had followed her. As they passed the office on their way to the back door, Briatta looked towards the basement stairs. It was maddening that protocol stated she and Neven could not free the man trapped down there themselves. The Weilers would have to be the ones to find him and take credit for his rescue.
Briatta breathed a sigh of relief as she passed through the doorway and into the warm bionight air once more, the normal sounds of Montclair nightlife reaching her ears as if she’d moved clear of a soundproof room. It truly had been unnaturally quiet inside Mr. Bern’s home, and she shivered as she looked back at the house while she waited for Neven to check that, aside from their additions, the building was otherwise as they’d found it. When he was done, he gave her a thumbs-up before heading to retrieve the clothes he’d left. Briatta returned to her own things and pulled the dress over her black suit, stuffing the black headscarf into the bag alongside her cream one, removing the pins to free her braids.
Then, she walked back onto the roads of Montclair and made her way towards headquarters. A couple of blocks later, Neven joined her, throwing his arm around her shoulders and grinning down at her.
