🗡️ Rooftops and Rain – Chapter 1 of The Three Faces of Fate

Apr 22, 2025

Some stories begin with a prophecy.

This one starts on a rooftop, in the rain, with a girl in banded armour waiting to ambush a monster.

Her name is Astra Invicta.

She isn’t discovering her powers. She already has them.

There’s no origin story. Only grit, scars, and the steel resolve of someone who’s been fighting for too long… and still gets up.

This is the world of Dawn’s Warden—a standalone urban fantasy trilogy set in the same universe as my Night’s Champion series. No prior reading required, just a taste for broken heroes and cities on the brink.

Today, we begin.

🎧 Soundtrack the Scene

Track 3 of the album, Steel in the Shadows, is Astra’s heartbeat.

Play it while you read. This is what it sounds like to fight without magic.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

“The night calls my name, I can’t look away / A sentinel of broken light, I can’t disobey.”

Prologue

“Social media is on fire today following the latest round of cryptid sightings after Alex Macy, a twenty-three-year-old homemaker, posted a video of a goblin raiding his trash.

Government sources have been quick to respond, further denying this as a conspiracy of misinformation and claiming involvement from the Chinese Ministry of State Security. A CISA spokesperson released a statement: “This is another deepfake. You can make videos like this with a pocket calculator.”

Despite the statement, this isn’t the first time we’ve seen information like this appear. Ten years ago, Madison Square Garden was destroyed. Sources at the scene claimed a “brutal battle” between vampires and werewolves, with the werewolves eventually emerging victorious. But what many find strange is that despite the chaos and destruction, no footage or records of the event seem to have survived, and no one has seen a werewolf since. It’s as if the entire incident was wiped from existence.

What happened during that fateful event still remains a mystery to this day. Could this be a government cover-up? Many are now asking that very question as more and more unconfirmed sightings of cryptids continue to surface on the Internet. The lack of evidence surrounding the Madison Square Garden incident only adds fuel to the fire, leaving us all to wonder what exactly happened that day and why the government is so determined to keep it hidden from the public.

This is Emily Chen, Valhaven Observer.”

The Imbecile

The waterfront at night was no place for the young, the old, or anyone in between. Fog clung to the oily black sea, unmoving against the cool shoreline. The city noise kept its distance. Nothing moved; to move was to become prey.

So why is this cretin out for a stroll?

Astra kept her distance, hunched on a warehouse roof like a gargoyle against the clouded sky. She was used to the night, its darkness a comfort and its chill a balm. The grave mist that hovered over the water was an old friend: one that welcomed monsters but also her, the monster of all monsters.

The imbecile she followed was handsome, in a rakish way. His hair was longer than fashion liked, and Astra imagined it strawberry blonde, although the night hid that from her. Nice jawline, if you were into that kind of thing, with a trimmed beard that suggested wisdom his actions certainly didn’t.

He walked with sure steps, his face open and curious. Not afraid, as anyone who knew what lived down here would be. Not hunched or furtive. Just another night stroller, out for a walk in murder central. A satchel hung from one shoulder. He had good boots on, none of the slick-soled leather nonsense of city fashions, below a pair of worn but serviceable jeans. A longshoreman’s jacket and scarf completed the hipster vibe.

A sound like footsteps on stone came from Astra’s right, echoing briefly between the warehouse buildings before falling silent. If you hadn’t hunted in the dark for the last eight years, you might write it off as random noise, maybe just a trick of cooling stone. Astra hoped it wasn’t cooling stone. She hadn’t come all this way to fight rocks.

The sound came from the direction of the city. If they were after the handsome imbecile, that’s where they’d be coming from. To his credit, the imbecile froze, head tilted, listening. Astra didn’t move her body but tilted her head, watching.

Nothing. These assholes are good at hiding; I’ll give them that.

The imbecile didn’t run. He just shrugged the satchel strap higher on his shoulder, shook his head, shoved his fists into his longshoreman’s coat, and headed farther up the wharfs.

Astra waited a few moments. It started to rain, the patter of it tinking on her armour. She didn’t mind the rain. She’d slept under it often enough. Below, two shapes darted from around a corner, padfooting after the hipster imbecile. She grimaced behind her mask. Just once, it’d be nice not to be right about the murder thing.

She didn’t know what the thugs were, only that they wanted blood more than money. But she wasn’t sure why they wanted the sticky red wet. Vampires were all gone, so it wasn’t that. Werewolves too. But so many other nasties were out there, mould blooming in the grouting now the vampires weren’t around to stamp them down.

Time to find out what kind of fungus this is.

She rose, ghosting along the warehouse roof, feet whisper-light. The roof’s edge neared, and she urged her body to move faster. Then she was at the edge, vaulting the distance to the opposite roof, where she landed cat-perfect. Astra slowed, listening and watching. The rooftop was empty, hers alone. She liked old haunts like these. No one thought to look up. Not even monsters.

Astra kept low, but didn’t hurry. Furtive movements drew the eye more than assured ones. She climbed up the sloping roof, casting a weather eye in through skylights she passed. Nothing inside but racks and boxes. As she made the pinnacle of the roof, the rain started in earnest. Her armour husbanded the little light that made it to her and gleamed in anticipation.

Down the other side, and sure enough, there was the imbecile. He’d shored up underneath a light pole, confirming the strawberry blonde of his now wet hair, and broadcasting to any predator that prey was waiting in full illumination, night vision ruined.

Astra froze like a gargoyle again, waiting, and watching. There, around the corner of the warehouse, came the two thugs. They’d cast aside the padfoot pursuit and were all swagger and balls. The imbecile hadn’t noticed them. The fool was fussing with a document in a clear plastic sheet protector, turning it this way and that under the light.

Best come down behind the thugs. Stay hidden from the imbecile. She sprinted to the roof’s edge, grasped the gutter, and swung over. She dropped to the pavement behind the thugs, her feet splashing in the water. They turned, cat-quick, and she got her first good look at them.

Human… ish. Grey-green skin wouldn’t pass muster in the daylight, and neither would those saw-like teeth. Astra wanted to think goblin, but they were too tall—and too damn muscular. The one on her left wore baggy jeans and a bomber jacket. The right one committed the cardinal sin of double denim but redeemed himself slightly with a pair of Beats studio cans slung around his lean neck.

Both wore red hats. Bomber Jacket’s was a red ball cap. Double Denim had a beanie.

They looked her up and down. Bomber Jacket raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the mask?”

“What’s with the face?” Astra lowered her stance, then glanced to Double Denim and kept her voice low and conspiratorial. “Does Dre know you’re ruining his brand?”

“It’s Doctor Dre. He’s got a Ph.D. from UCLA.” Double Denim showed too many teeth in a hungry smile. “Are you some kind of hero? Gonna knock us off?

“I didn’t know creatures like you could spell UCLA. That’s a lot of letters all at once.” The mask hid Astra’s surprise. “I’m not going to kill you. If I did that, there’d be no one to tell the rest of you that humans were off the menu.”

“Hey,” called the hipster, his voice still safely around the warehouse corner. “Is there anyone there?”

Bomber lunged for her. She’d actually expected Double Denim to make the first move, but the strong silent type clearly wanted it more. She waited for the charge, ducked under his swing—sweet Christ, he’s got claws—then rose in a savage hiji age, her elbow connecting with Bomber’s chin. Teeth sprayed, clattering against her mask.

She slipped sideways, dodging Double Denim’s curiously inept front kick. Astra stepped in nice and close and acquainted Double Denim with her knee, then slipped back from his groaning swing. Three paces took her back to the wharf’s edge. Fog hid the water below, but she could hear the lapping of it against the wharf piles.

Bomber said something that could have been fucking bitch if you accounted for the missing teeth, then came at her in a rush. She braced, grabbed his bomber lapels, stepped to the left, and twisted. It was a textbook tai otoshi. Bomber sailed into the water below. Double Denim came next, but Astra wasn’t waiting this time. She darted in, chopped a shuto to the throat, and while he gagged, grabbed his beanie, then said, “Leave the fucking hipster alone.”

Then she heaved him after Bomber. He slipped through the fog with no further fuss than the splash he made.

“Hello?” The hipster imbecile’s accent was something from Europe. Scottish? Irish? In a different setting it’d be cute. The kind of thing her other self might want to listen to. His voice was steady, not the quavering of someone afraid of having his head kicked in.

Astra spied a drain pipe heading skyward. She tucked the beanie into her belt, then scampered to the pipe. She curled her fingers behind it, put the soles of her feet against it, and made a good approximation of vertical primate walking. In a moment, she was over the edge of the warehouse roof, play-acting a gargoyle once more.

The imbecile came around the corner of the warehouse. He still held the clear plastic sheet protector in one hand, but had the foresight to wield a flashlight in the other. Astra shrunk back, not wanting to expose even the hint of her mask to a stray beam.

But no, like everyone else, the imbecile didn’t look up. He walked to where Astra had fought two might-be-goblins-on-the-protein, and crouched, before tucking his plastic sheet protector into his satchel. He found something gleaming in a puddle, and picked a tiny object up, turning it about in the light of his flashlight.

He’d found Bomber’s teeth. He didn’t gag or toss them away in disgust. No, the hipster imbecile picked up another fragment of tooth, then tucked both away in his satchel.

Then he stood, looked around, and said, Irish brogue in full effect, “Ah sure, would you look at that now? I do hope I get the chance to thank whoever’s out here someday.”

Astra stayed still. She didn’t need his thanks. Her duty was a blessed reward.

The hipster imbecile sighed, scuffed his toe in a puddle, hunched into his scarf and longshoreman’s jacket, then—showing the first sign of intelligence all night—headed back the way he’d come.

Astra waited until he was gone from sight, then pulled the beanie from her belt. It was a horrible red, and her fingers smeared some of the crimson away as she touched it. She lifted her mask for a moment, then sniffed the beanie. Old blood. Lowering her mask, she tossed the beanie over the side of the roof, then turned to the city.

Valhaven gleamed right back at her, a city almost waiting for her.

Almost.

🔁 Coming Full Circle (Writer’s Note)

When I finished Night’s End, I knew I’d return to this world someday.

Isolde—Astra—was there in the back of my mind long before I wrote her name.

I actually had an entire trilogy outlined years ago… and deleted it. Not because I didn’t love the idea, but because I’d grown as a writer. I wasn’t interested in retreading old ground. I wanted to bring something sharper, messier, and more human.

Dawn’s Warden is that story. It’s a promise kept to longtime readers, and a love letter to the heroes that started my journey.

If you’ve read my earlier thoughts on superhero fiction, you’ll know I believe real heroes don’t become great because they get powers… but because they decide to stand up again when it would be easier to stay down.

Isolde never stayed down.

And I think you’re going to love her for it.