They filed into the neat white room, most moving gingerly, feeling the aches of little used muscles. That would change, but for the first week while they grew used to the gruelling regime, Aurenna had found it best to teach something she knew would hold their interest.

They were a ragtag bunch after their morning lessons; bruises flowered on faces and arms, cuts and grazes abounded and she would bet one or two had already felt their first broken bones healing. The first class of the year was always a veritable garden of injuries, bright as the rainbow, but time stole the colour from their skins – and from their personalities, she found, which was a shame in itself.

“Hurry up,” she ordered, clapping her hands. Their shuffling feet moved fractionally faster. “Yes, I know you all feel like you’ve gone fifty rounds with a particularly angry elephant, but if you think you feel bad now, wait until your evening classes.”

A faint groan rose from the zombie-like masses.

When they were all seated in the long lines of chairs she’d arranged, she cast a quick eye over them. A small class – thirty – and she knew from long experience that maybe four or five would survive the year. Of those, perhaps one or two would go on to work on the killing field. If they were lucky.

She could already guess who would live and who would die. More than two thousand years of working for Nightfire had given her a keen if ghoulish eye.

“So. You’ve had your first morning of training. If any of you think it will get easier, let me disabuse of that notion right now. You’ll be up at dawn every day and spend your morning learning hand-to-hand combat and close-quarter killing. I expect all of you in here on time at nine o’clock and you will have lectures with me until twelve. You’ll get half an hour for lunch and then you will spend your afternoon training with weapons until six. Another half hour for dinner, and after that, you’ll be trained in the art of poisons by one of K’Shaia’s finest until eight. Pay attention, they do love practical demonstrations.”

Some of them were looking green at the gills. That was no surprise. It was the others she kept an eye out for: the ones with a devilish hunger in their eyes, the ones who would drink up this hard life as if it were the nectar of the gods. Those were the ones who needed to be controlled, tamed...occasionally destroyed.

“At eight, you’ll have an hour of technical training with an number of experts across the Furies. This week, I’m happy to tell you that Zane Martin – one of the oldest members of K’Shaia – has agreed to teach you basic security skills. This is the man who designed our vaults and this centre’s security system and whose Gordian Lock has yet to be cracked by anyone living.”

A few widened eyes, one or two swapping looks. That had woken them up a little, as well it might.

“And as for me, my name is Aurenna Ravija and I’ve worked for Nightfire for two thousand years now, give or take. I joined in the late twentieth century at the tender age of eight, when most of your ancestors thought legwarmers and puffball skirts were an acceptable fashion.”

A boy in the second row put his hand. His narrowed eyes, shifting from bright and blatant green into a muted gold, gave away his pedigree, but his face hadn’t yet lost the chubbiness of childhood, nor would it for a few years. “You’re really two thousand years old?”

She smiled. She wasn’t much changed from the girl who had lived through the glory days of the Furies, in truth. Time hadn’t added an inch of height to her small frame, or taken the strength from her face, dominated by a hooked nose and the wild gleam of her eyes, yellow as buttercups. Even her hair was the same, short and gold and spiky.

“A little over two thousand, actually, but keep it among yourselves. Any other questions?”

Another hand, this one belonging to the girl who was older than all the others by a good few years. She must have been eighteen or nineteen, and the only lovely thing about her was the voice that rolled out like velvet. “What will we be learning in this class?”

A human. They were still rare among the Furies, but those who had survived often rose higher than their Nightworld counterparts.

“As you know, practical training does not take place at the weekends, and instead you are expected to devote yourself to your academic studies,” she answered. They didn’t know – this was news to all of them, but only two or three revealed their surprise. Good. They were learning quickly. “Your weekend teachers will cover a range of subjects – we expect you to be proficient in mathematics, physics, chemistry, geography, to pick up the rudiments of two languages and to be able to read one dead language. In these classes, I will be touching on those subjects, but my work with you is far more specific. I am here to teach you the history of the Furies. We will cover their formation, their roots, their success and failings. We will examine particular cases and particular people. Which brings me to today’s lesson.”

They were all riveted now. No matter what they thought they knew about the Furies, they would inevitably be wrong about most of it and right about the things they thought barely mattered. She had been the same once: it was why she had requested that these classes be included in their training, and why Nightfire’s leader paid her so handsomely. She’d taught him too, after all.

“Today, I intend to tell you a little about one of the most famous periods in our history.” She paused, her voice moving from scholarly hectoring into something close to awe, though she didn’t know it. “The Schism, and the Soulless King’s Renaissance.”

All of them were focused on her now, bruises forgotten under interest.

She stopped and perched on her desk, looking over them. How young they all were. To them, those days were no more than an idea, a story they might have heard from bloodthirsty friends. But her memories still burdened her like scars, threat and reminder.

Aurenna tapped a button on the computer. The first of her slides came up, little changed from a thousand years before except that these floated in three-dimensional space.

“So let’s find out what you know,” she continued, mild once more. “Hands up, tell me what you’ve heard.”

Every hand was up. She gestured to a boy at the back. “Lysander Orage.”

“It’s Lee,” he said, ice-cool and precise. He might be five generations distant, but he was eerily like Telerana. “It all started with Aspen Martin. The whole mess was his fault.”

She sighed. “Spoken like a true Orage. Not quite accurate, I’m afraid, but we’ll start there. Aspen Martin – who was he? Why did he contribute to the Schism?”

The human girl didn’t wait to be asked, but said into the silence, “He was one of the three who started the Furies’ revival at the end of the twentieth century.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“He was a fruitcake,” Lee chipped in helpfully, full of disdain. “A fruitcake with nuts on top.”

“How poetic.” He was going to be trouble, no doubt. “And do you know why, Lee?”

Those turquoise eyes widened fractionally. “Who cares why?”

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “Children, let’s get something clear. One of the most important things you can learn here is why people act as they do – what drives them, what they desire and most importantly, how to use that. Even a madman has logic, Lee, and that logic comes from wants and needs just like everyone else.”

She pressed a button and a picture of Aspen appeared, larger than life in the cramped room. Or rather, a picture of a painting in which Aspen was cross-legged on the floor, spinning a dagger. Rumour said his eyes still shifted in mismatched rainbows, gazing slyly at the painter as they were; but this slide froze his irises to sludgy green and pale purple.

“That’s a Genevieve!” someone gasped.

“It is indeed. And it explains a lot about Aspen Martin, for those who have the skill and the patience. The hallmark of a Genevieve painting is not merely the fact that it changes to reflect influences on the subject’s life, but the clarity and precision of those changes. She was a true artist.” She moved to point out parts of the painting. “You can see here an eternity ring, a common symbol of a soulmate bond. The spider on his wrist is a representation of K’Shaia, and the serpent around his neck – note the resemblance to a noose – is Nightfire. This shadow on the wall – a standing man, and a crucifix. Obviously it doesn’t belong to Aspen. Common consensus is that it belongs to his father.”

“Meaning?” said the human girl, head cocked to one side.

She shrugged. “That his father cast a shadow over Aspen that subsumed whatever he did, great or petty. That Aspen’s darkness was born of that man. That he could never truly leave him behind. Any or all of those things. What we do know is that Laburnum Martin touched the lives of all the Furies’ leaders then.”

She had only met Laburnum Martin once, but he had frightened her enough to leave the dinner party early, enough to decline every invitation he sent her thereafter. Disturbing stories had follow in his wake like a nuclear wind, carrying poison and pain.

“Before the Schism, Aspen Martin led Pursang-”

A hand went up. This belonged to a thin, sinewy boy who looked as if he were a day away from starvation. “Pursang? They weren’t one of the Furies.”

“They were, idiot,” said the all-knowing Lee. “K’Shaia, Nightfire and Pursang. Everyone knows that. Where’ve you been living, a hole in the ground?”

The thin boy – John Doe, she remembered, that was all the name he’d been willing to give – glared back. “In a garbage skip, actually. Why, you got a problem with that?”

Lee gawped. No doubt he’d been entirely unaware that not everyone had his affluent, privileged upbringing. “Oh. Guess not.”

John Doe folded his arms and sat back, face unreadable.

“All done?” she asked dryly. “Good. John, Pursang was once the third of the Furies. The Schism is what we call the time when they began to break away from the others.”

He frowned. “I thought it was Nightfire, K’Shaia and Hades’ Last.”

“Hades’ Last came later, almost three centuries after the original rift. Can anyone tell me who the other two leaders were in the pre-Schism Furies?”

“Telerana Orage,” called someone from the back before Lee could open his mouth to extol the virtues of his ancestress.

“Correct.” Another slide, another Genevieve original. “As you can see, the family line throws true. Lee, you have her eyes.”

“Creepy eyes,” a girl whispered.

“Hey!” Lee snapped.

Other teachers on the site often remarked how lax discipline was in her classes. Aurenna’s answer to that was that she understood her students all the better for letting out a little character in the lesson. And in truth, she felt it helped them keep their individuality: that indomitable flash of self that they would need if they were to survive.

“Lee, if you had ever met Telerana – or Therese, as she preferred – you’d know that Nadine is quite right. She had the creepiest stare I’ve ever seen.” She garnished her words with a smile, directed at his sullen face. “She was also one of the strongest leaders K’Shaia had. She helped to form their identity within the Furies and to make them the power they are today. Her political acumen was second to none, and she had a rare streak of empathy-”

“Empathy?” sputtered Lee.

She quelled him with a mental prod, sparking on his mind like electricity. He took the hint and settled down.

“Yes, empathy. Though we cannot say for certain, it seems likely that Telerana had a brief affair with a human-”

Lee looked apoplectic while some of the other vampires smirked. He was overly proud of his heritage, and inclined to use it for his own gain.

“-whose later life we can find no record of. His name was Robert Silver or Slivan, we think, and her time with him changed her attitude towards humans considerably. She was the first to dabble in human politics – the first to actively assassinate a human ruler for the gain of the Furies. Unknown to many, she also set up the charity arm of the Furies, which runs a euthanasia centre in the Netherlands for terminally ill humans.”

She paused. They were still paying attention though one or two looked as if they thought she was lying, Lee among them.

“In her time, Telerana was known as the Viper Fury. Poison was her weapon of choice, often concealed in devices she thought up herself. She was a woman of immense intelligence and ingenuity, and we will be examining parts of her journals in the coming weeks which will give you all a thorough understanding of her methods and something of her thoughts. That’s two of our three done. Who was the last leader of the Furies before the Schism?”

Every hand was up. She nodded at the boy in the front row, built like a tank. “Bane Malefici,” he said, tasting the word as if it were holy. “The Demon Fury.”

“Correct. What else do you know...ah, you’re a Bane yourself. Named after him?”

“Yeah.” His eyes glowed with awe. “There was no one like him, before or after. He was the best assassin there’s ever been and he never lost a fight. He stole a dragon’s powers and kept them for his own. There wasn’t a weapon he couldn’t use and he made half the ones in Pursang today. He was invincible – no scars, no blood, nothing.”

“He was a perfect killer,” spoke up the human girl. “He didn’t feel anything.”

She held up a finger. “Wrong. Bane Malefici lost a good number of fights, most famously against the Grieving Fury when he tried to bring the Four back together to start a war.”

“What!”

“Nah, that’s not true-”

“-never lost a fight, never-”

“Like some witch could stop the Demon Fury...”

She let them clamour for a few seconds before chopping her hand across the air. They fell silent at once.

“Children, I’m afraid you’ve been fooled by the legends. Bane Malefici tried to bring the Four back together. And he failed only because Chatoya Irkil, the Grieving Fury, persuaded Ryar to stand against him. Chatoya succeeded Aspen Martin to Pursang’s leadership. She was the architect of the Schism, when Pursang began to drift away from the Furies.”

“But...” His namesake was looking distinctly distressed. “All the legends say he brought the Four back.”

“They are wrong.” Her voice was dry. “And as for him not feeling anything...surely you’ve all read a few fairytales.”

Widespread confusion. She did so love moments like this.

Aurenna had grown very tried over the last millennia of the propaganda that Bane Malefici engendered. Believe half the tales and he was more god than man, with a devil’s love of deals. She was quite sure he hadn’t been seven foot tall, and as for inventing weapons...he’d never bothered. He was quite resourceful enough with the tools to hand. Aurenna had never known anyone who could look at a length of string and a biro and see a weapon there.

What he had been was cruel and clever and often dangerously petty. None of which had endeared him to her.

“Then you’ve all heard of Hans Christien Andersen?”

Some nodded.

“The Brothers Grimm?”

More recognition, though some still looked blank.

“Alexandros?”

Ah. They all recognised that name. He wrote fairytales of a particular brand; tales telling of the Nightworld and its many dangers.

“So I’m sure at least a few of you have read The Last Memory, and The Starving Man?”

All of them had, even the boy who’d spent his childhood living out of dustbins. No real surprise there; Alexandros had a gift for words, and his wicked sense of humour which undercut every gory line and mocking moral made him a favourite of bloodthirsty children the world over.

She smiled. “Both of those are about Bane Malefici.”

Gasps and mutterings filled the air. Lee raised a tentative hand. “How do you know?”

“Those events were much talked about at the time.” Well. At the time meant approximately six months later when word first got out of the extraordinary occurrences. And behind the backs of all concerned. “And to anyone who knew him, Bane’s behaviour is quite recognisable.”

“But...both of those stories are about someone called Blue,” Bane Junior said plaintively. “And they’re about love.”

He said ‘love’ as someone else might say ‘oozing pustules’.

“Ah.” She clicked onto the next slide, and the Genevieve – the infamous painting which was now locked in Nightfire’s most secure vault – popped up.

It was striking in its simplicity: Bane was stood, filling half the picture while the other half was taken up by a full length mirror, pale and icy to the vibrant azure colour of his hair and the narrow blast of his eyes, which stared straight at the observer. One hand rested on the glass, cracks radiating out from it.

“He used to be known as Blue. You can probably see why.”

“But Bane Malefici had black hair!” squeaked a little shapeshifter girl in the front row, nose crinkled. “And his eyes were gold, like fire. That’s what my brother said. And he was taller.”

“They always are,” Aurenna murmured.

“Hang on...” It was the human girl, sounding cool and measured. “So if those stories are about Bane Malefici, that means he had a soulmate. So that must be her in the mirror.”

Their collective attention turned to the girl who dominated the mirror, head back while her black hair tumbled about her, hands high as if in supplication, finishing the line of her arched back. And where his hand rested, where that spiderweb of fractures ran out...both lay over her heart.

“Yes.” She paused for effect. She did get a cruel kick out of watching all their expectations crumble into dust. “That’s Chatoya Irkil.”

There was dead silence, then Lee Orage said, “That can’t be possible. They never stopped fighting. They hated each other. It’s what all the stories say – the Grieving Fury was his nemesis, his one real enemy.”

“Sometimes,” she acknowledged, patient with their naiveté.

He frowned. “You can’t hate someone and love them.”

The human girl with those few years of extra age, those chances to taste desire and love and a broken heart, only smiled sourly. Her eyes showed nothing of sadness, only a steely determination.

“No?” Aurenna remarked gently. “Can’t you hate them because you love them? Or hate some of who they are and love the rest? Can’t you stand up against all that you detest yet find yourself unable to fight when it comes to gentler moments?”

Of that room, only the human understood and she did not say a word either way.

"Do you know what happened to them?" asked Lee, squinting at the portrait with something close to hero-worship in his eyes. "Did they die?"

Ah. They always asked it. Her answer was always a lie, and always as true as she could make it. "That depends who you ask. Some say that if you go to the darkest, emptiest part of Hades, past the bones of Cereberus, past the rivers and the rocks, past the broken throne of Hades, you will find them both: ruling in hell rather than serving in heaven, beyond all else, beyond immortality or power, just a man and a woman who loved and lost - and still loved, unwilling or unable to accept loss."

They all gazed at her, full of awe.

"That's such crap," remarked the human girl, breaking the hallowed hush. "They died, like everyone else."

"Like Blue Malefici would let that happen," snorted Lee.

Well, that was certainly true enough. Though she wondered if Lee understood just how close to the ugly, raddled truth he had come with that remark.

And if he would not let her die, this monster that we bred - as we will shape you from clay and cruelty, as we will make you in our own image - how might he have forced her to live? If love if it was, it was nothing that we knew.

But she didn't say it. They were too young for the truth.

“Make no mistake, he was a remarkable man,” she said, and when she clicked through to another slide, her words appeared on the screen in long, flowing handwriting. “But in the end, he was only a man, and he lived the life that all such people do: they live and they burn so brightly that after they are gone, we are left in darkness, waiting for their return, not knowing if their absence is but a trick or a void in our life that we will struggle to fill. Either way, we endure and we grieve, hoping it will all be worth it one day.”

She paused. “Telerana Orage wrote that about her human. But it fits rather well, doesn’t it? We have filled the void with legends which are little more than lies, until the fairytales hold more truth than the textbooks. And that, children, is what I want you to take from this first session. Look past the gloss and the lies. You may just be surprised. If you’re really sharp, you may even learn something”

Into their reverent hush, she dropped her serious air, and nodded to them. “Take ten minutes for a break and then we’ll carry on with the history of the Schism. I see I have a lot to teach you.”