ã€ŠWayfarerã€‹


 1 - Exeunt of Order

    The immortal empire has fallen. Words no statesmen believed they would hear. They did however, think the phrase with great repetition over the past few years. Their first progressive thought was when the inconceivable had finally come to pass. Lord Percival Mason had trained his ears to ignore the clamor behind him. Where once sumptuous balls entertained the prim traditions of the Aldren Empire¡¯s elite, there those sycophants now cowered, trembling, rehearsing their stuttering terms of negotiation. What was meant by it was obvious; they had already assumed their lives would soon be at the mercy of the Faleri.

    They weren¡¯t entirely wrong. Percival oversaw his troops mounting Aldren¡¯s last stand from behind the parapets. The pommel of his sword scraped against the uneven stone as he surveyed.

    Trebuchets readied their massive munitions, each explosive shot flanked by torchbearers, eager to defend their home. The trebuchets were primed next to helepolises sporting multiple levels of weapon mounts. Distance humbled them all. His men were brown ants in leather and mail, carrying the flickering motes of torches down the streets of the capital. Boys forced to be men clad in armor that had proven ineffective against the enemy time and time again.

    In the capital citadel¡¯s highest towers, the last cadre of mages prepared their Spells, or what remained of them from the arcaneries Aldren had left. The atmosphere boiled with the energies of Mind and otherworldly planes. Percival scratched the mounting irritation at his exposed neck. He would have to endure being in the presence of those casters all night.

    ¡°Look at them Wayfarer. Feel the spice in the air. The final dish is almost ready.¡±

    ¡°You have had the power to stop this at any time during its procession,¡± Percival uttered. ¡°We have nothing to say to each other.¡±

    ¡°Your manners are abhorrent. Was it not I that saved you from atheism when your Spanish Flu took your entire lineage? Who knew gods were real? Ooh just not in your world. All those churches built for nothing!¡± And then came the laughter, deeply settled in Percival¡¯s ears. Like church bells.

    A cracking sound tore his attention back to reality. He had shattered a brick on the parapet in the grip of his gauntleted fingers. The stone dust adhered to the metal links underneath the plates, then blew away into the wind. Armor clinked on approach behind him.

    ¡°Lord Mason!¡± The young soldier said. ¡°Highcaster Tireliam requests your presence.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be there.¡±

    The young man hurried away. Percival watched him go with a forlorn gaze.

    ¡°It will hurt you to hear. But there were instances where you could have slowed the fall of Aldren. Shall I tell you?¡±

    Percival focused on the burn in his muscles, hauling himself up the spiraling stairs to the Highcaster. Every few steps he passed by a window, and his ears would pick up the faint crackling of fire and the dim echoes of orders. The oranges of manmade flame mingled with the tips of the setting sun. Another step, and it was dark again. Quiet. A few more, and the warlike orange returned. Then dark once more.

    ¡°You people can¡¯t resist tearing yourself down. You build and build so high up so others may see and flock to your citadel, sequester your failures by rewriting history, then die a slow death to mother Entropy. Again and again your civilizations rise and fall. Praising your own accomplishments, hiding your insecurities. Empires don¡¯t get to have skeletons in its coffers, Percy.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°You asked for me, Highcaster?¡±

    ¡°Yes¡­¡± Tireliam sat cross-legged a meter above the stone floor surveying a projection of the battlefield. The metal scales on his robes refracted a piercing gleam from an unseen source. The Highcaster¡¯s attire fit him better than any tailor could design; the flowing, golden robes moved with him like a second skin. His hair waved as if underwater, never seeming to be at rest despite the stillness of the air in the room. When Tireliam turned away from his facsimile of the battlefield, that gleam seemed to come through his golden irises. ¡°Percival, dear boy, you look exhausted.¡±

    ¡°These days have been trying,¡± Percival said, squinting. ¡°Lower your guard please, sir.¡±

    The light radiating off of Tireliam¡¯s robes dimmed.

    Percival sighed and approached the facsimile. Little figures moved in the diorama of the capital. Soldiers prepared defense helepolises. The image even relayed sound. It was a choir of metal, grinding rock, and footsteps.

    ¡°How goes the defense?¡± Percival asked.

    ¡°As well as could be hoped,¡± Tireliam replied. ¡°I expect us to last one month in siege. Three weeks if we are pessimistic.¡±

    ¡°That is...¡±

    ¡°Within your estimation.¡±

    Percival nodded grimly. ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°I did not call you here to exchange what we already know. I want to extend an invitation. Once the gates to the citadel are breached the other casters and I will Embark elsewhere.¡±

    ¡°Where else is there to go? The Faleri will hunt the last embers of Aldren wherever the wind takes us.¡±

    ¡°The Faleri have stretched thin as is to arrive here. Divinator Malidy has just finished her consultation. Her estimate is two decades. Twenty years before the Faleri reconstitute the internal stability behind their recently expanded borders. In which time it would be unwise of them to devote resources to pursue a Highcaster.¡± Tireliam¡¯s smile was magnetic. ¡°All of you would be under my protection.¡±

    ¡°If the citizenry were to hear of this¡ª why me?¡±

    ¡°We have observed your honest service to the late emperor. Your accomplishments, your victories. It would be a shame to lose someone of your character to this tragedy, young Percival.¡± Tireliam placed a gloved hand on Percival¡¯s pauldron. There was a fizzle of static upon contact.

    It bothered Percival to look into the endearing eyes of a man who appeared no older than he. The Highcaster had had that title before Percival¡¯s grandfather would have been born. He never liked the casters. There was more to their dishonesty than what could be seen at face value. And Tireliam was too close, it aggravated the itch on his neck.

    ¡°I need to think,¡± he said.

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    Percival stepped away and leaned on the edge of the tower¡¯s window, his head slung down. A chain of failures had led up to this moment. He had a part to play in them. To watch Aldren fall and be offered a safe exit while everyone else died gruesome deaths to the Faleri¡­

    ¡°Oh don¡¯t feel guilty now. You reveled for years in this world after mourning yours for but a few seasons. If only you were more proactive in those years. If only you didn¡¯t ignore the signs.¡±

    ¡°Is that what you want?¡± Percival whispered. ¡°An admission of hubris? A demonstration of humility? What do you get out of this?¡±

    ¡°I have no stakes in any world¡¯s crises. You matter no more to me than a drawing on parchment. I do like seeing you struggle.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re real. We can feel pain. We can love and lose. Can¡¯t you spare one iota of sympathy?¡±

    ¡°No more than you can spare a hand for the countless who will die before morning.¡±

    ¡°One day, your black heart will beat for a mortal in this world. When that day comes, I hope to the creator they never find themselves in a place like this.¡±

    Percival returned to Tireliam¡¯s side.

    ¡°I intend to fight as if we will win,¡± he said.

    The Highcaster nodded. ¡°So shall we. Our plans simply include the idea of defeat. Fight well, Percival. My eyes are above.¡±

    Percival excused himself and headed for the stairwell, ignoring the Highcaster¡¯s glowing gaze boring into the back of his head.

    ¡°After all this, at the very least assure me you¡¯re not this na?ve.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± Percival said. ¡°You could make this much more interesting if you tell me what he¡¯s planning.¡±

    ¡°The best laid schemes of mages and men often lead men to their demise.¡±

    ¡°Figures.¡±

 2 â€“ Exeunt of Order (2)

    The sun fully set. Mages anointed the tips of the archers¡¯ arrows, who¡¯d then aim high above Aldren¡¯s walls. The released arrows disintegrated in the air, and pale light rained down onto the dirt. The black battlefield became monochrome, a massive expanse of white surfaces and black shadow. The soldiers could now see their enemy.

    In the pale light, skulls looked bleached and their empty sockets like portals into the void. The soldiers saw rotted flesh adorned with the crest of the two headed deer at their pauldrons. The Aldren symbol. Like insects the limbs of ragged corpses were sprawled low to the ground. They moved like cockroaches. Aldren¡¯s own crawled towards them from beyond the walls. Each undead left a trail of fog in its wake. What little fertile earth remained after the torching finally succumbed to the trampling of the restless.

    ¡°Don¡¯t overlap fields of fire!¡± The captains would shout above the rising panic in their troops. ¡°That¡¯s what they want! To waste our ammo on fodder!¡±

    The young men loaded explosives into trebuchets. Archers loaded arrows onto nock. The helepolises spat munitions close and far, with heavy crossbows on the lower decks to catapults at the top of the tower.

    Percival watched the first defense unfold through his farglass. He watched numerous arrows embed into the bodies rushing at their walls. One in particular resembled a porcupine, shambling still towards the base of a helepolis, until a large man with an axe separated the corpse¡¯s head from its neck. Finally the body collapsed, reduced to a twitching, headless thing.

    He switched lenses with a flick of a finger. The view port magnified distance. He looked deep into the horizon where the pale light barely touched. There were far, far more on the way. So it was true; the defense lines behind the first were not obsolete. Percival glanced to his side to the stuttered whispers of the young woman in robes. Her hands were cupped around a faint ember, flashing in the dark. She had been trying to maintain it for the past few minutes.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Percival said gently. The woman¡¯s hood flicked towards him. He couldn¡¯t see her face. ¡°Stay with us and you¡¯ll be safe.¡±

    Percival heard a deep breath being taken and saw the hood nod. Moments later the ember sustained itself, and the woman held it in a claw grip, ready to cast. Percival smiled. He resisted scratching his neck.

    Blinding light.

    Percival recoiled along with many of the soldiers and mages at the second line. One of the helepolises had been reduced to a tower of billowing flame. Shards of wood and melted steel traced graceful arcs down to the ground. He brought the farglass to his eyes. The view trembled in his slick grip.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    There, in the distance, a moving platform. Its legs were human legs. Hundreds of them. Frayed and rotted, but moving. Atop the platform was a throne. Standing in front of the throne was a thin figure clad in black armor, with a cape that flowed down to the floor and trailed into mist.

    ¡°He¡¯s here personally,¡± Percival said. He had been feeling hot in his armor. Now bumps grew along his skin as though he had been awoken in the dead of winter. ¡°He¡¯s come to finish us off.¡±

    A red star suddenly neighbored the pale ones in the sky: the retreat order. The helepolises began emptying. Soldiers were running back.

    Whispers were already travelling.

    ¡°They¡¯re falling back already?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s too soon.¡±

    ¡°The first line just started!¡±

    Percival shouted, ¡°It¡¯s time for us to do our jobs!¡± That silenced the murmuring. Caster energies buzzed. Swords were raised, then imbued with fire from the mages. Percival brought his own two-handed sword to bear, a claidheamh-m¨°r he had won from a decade-ago campaign in the Heldrasi Peaks. The edges were eternally chilled with creeping frost. Living or dead, ice abhorred anything that moved.

    The second line soldiers parted to allow the retreating men through. Mostly spearmen and helepolis operators. They would have a few minutes to rest and re-equip while the second defense performed their duties. Percival doubted they would hold much longer than the first. But there was no time to second guess.

    The ground was trembling. Holes were punched through the capital¡¯s walls and towering giants made of bones shambled through. Their shoulders sprouted the upper torsos of human skeletons like a flower bed, each armed with a bow and quiver of arrows. The giant itself wielded a massive scepter. In one swing, a house was eviscerated. They were followed by more of the crawling corpses.

    Bones rubbed against joint, flesh groaned and cracked; these were the sounds of bodies in restless rigor. Like a moving slaughterhouse. His men were shifting in their positions. It was getting to them. Percival took a deep breath.

    ¡°Fire at will!¡± Percival¡¯s voice pierced the unrest. His men replied with a holler.

    Archers on the roofs with mirror bows launched three arrows at a time, two made of light flanking the original in the middle. Mages threw balls of fire. Crossbowmen fired explosive tipped bolts at the giants. The dimly lit sky was covered by thousands of tracers from projectiles.

    Some of the enemy made it through the trial. Percival stood at the front with his men and relieved their limbs in wide strokes. The bodies he cleaved sometimes shattered into cold chunks. His hands were beginning to feel numb.

    ¡°Tolerate me a little while longer, my girl Friday.¡±

    ¡°Talking to your sword again, Lord Mason?¡± Captain Barathon quipped as he pulled his own sword from an undead¡¯s chest. It twitched, sputtering puffs of black fog, then finally stopped dead.

    ¡°I¡¯ll have your tongue, Captain,¡± Percival said. ¡°Doubt that¡¯ll-¡± He thrust his sword into an undead, keeping its flailing arms well away. ¡°-matter since it hasn¡¯t seen action in years anyways.¡± Frost encased the damned creature soon enough. It fell fully dead.

    ¡°If only you had a wife to disappoint,¡± Barathon said. ¡°We¡¯d both be less bored.¡±

    The enemy wasn¡¯t slowing. The bodies were piling up. The black fog was growing denser. Percival and Barathon laughed. The soldiers who overheard laughed. And the shadows cast by the bone giants continued to lengthen towards them.

 3 â€“ Exeunt of Order (3)

    Percival¡¯s men had done their job. The second retreat order was given. Archers leapt from rooftop to rooftop in deft movements back to the citadel. They were the first to leave the battlefield. His men¡¯s place, however, was on the ground. Percival watched a young man run just a hair too slow. A hand clamped on the soldier¡¯s ankle in a corpse vice and pulled him into the black fog. The recruit must have been no older than sixteen. Percival vaguely remembered seeing him in training. He just didn¡¯t expect to see a human face contort in such a way. It didn¡¯t matter; the face was pulled under in seconds, submerged in the black curtain. Percival hoped to God he didn¡¯t have to see him again.

    ¡°There is a third line, right?¡± Barathon said.

    ¡°I have faith.¡±

    ¡°But you don¡¯t expect us to.¡±

    Percival saved his breath. Fear draped over him like a prickling wave, driving him forward. He wondered how many years one had to fight to become desensitized. Evidently, twenty wasn¡¯t enough.

    They ran and ran down the road towards the city¡¯s center. The citadel¡¯s walls were still so far, and there was nothing but road between here and there. Once these streets were vibrant with city affairs and festive chatter. Empty now, as what citizens remained bunkered away in the citadel. And the mages¡¯ ghostly stars only made a mortuary of the road.

    Another young recruit screamed behind him. Percival couldn¡¯t tell if it was his own blade chilling him or his fear. No one was waiting for them. There was no third line. Aldren was letting them die. Fear was becoming anger.

    A wall of water broke against his face. He gasped and held his breath instinctively. Cold sheets of what felt like the lightest rain swept past his skin, his armor, but it did not adhere to him like rain should. The droplets crystallized like splinters of glass and listed away into the air, sparkling. A wide procession of mages was suddenly ushering them forward.

    ¡°Get out of the way!¡±

    ¡°Come on!¡±

    He glanced behind him as he followed the instruction, mouth agape in confusion. Every soldier that made it through was wiping away water that didn¡¯t exist with silly swipes of their hands. Then they jumped at the sudden appearance of the mages. The wall of invisible water rippled with the entrance of every new survivor. Hundreds of mages were preparing Spells all around him. The itch in his neck was nearly unbearable.

    ¡°Looks like you were right,¡± Barathon said. ¡°Come on, close your jaw. We did our part.¡±

    Percival recovered and continued toward the citadel. Countless Spells detonated over his shoulder. The pavestones ahead flashed with brief illumination at each one. He heard giant bones shatter and wispy cries.

    Citadel guards waved the beleaguered second line infantry into the courtyards, where water, food, and medical attention was waiting. Percival had no appetite. He sat on a tree stump, emptied water skin in hand, and watched his people be treated. In an open tent nurses were stripping armor off a screaming man fighting the leather bonds they had placed on him. When the clothes were finally removed, Percival saw sloughs of blackened flesh. Some of the other soldiers looked away. Some couldn¡¯t stop looking. The doctor was saying something to the nurses. Percival turned his head.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    The screaming stopped.

    A piece of bread hovered near his nose.

    ¡°Come on, brother you need to eat,¡± Barathon said, offering.

    ¡°Not right now.¡± Percival pushed it away with the back of his fingers. When was it time? He didn¡¯t know. Perhaps he could never eat again. He left his seat and started up the stairs to the parapets. Two hundred steps to the top. His legs were steeping in exertion, but he needed the distraction.

    At the top he saw the third line engage the undead monstrosities. It consisted of the far more experienced mages. There wasn¡¯t enough to cover the second line further out, so they had concentrated them here closer to the citadel, sheathed in false vision. With the giants crumbling, the hordes were retreating. Yet the night was far from over.

    He smelled the metallic tang of a heavy storm, coming from his side.

    ¡°Success, for now,¡± Highcaster Tireliam said. ¡°You fought as well as you could have.¡±

    The mage leaned on his staff leisurely. The arcane weapon stayed upright, despite having naught to prop against.

    ¡°Your cadre couldn¡¯t have at least assured us we had a plan?¡± Percival held back most of his fury. He didn¡¯t have the energy.

    ¡°Against any other enemy, perhaps morale could have been prioritized.¡±

    Percival turned away. The Highcaster nodded in acknowledgement. ¡°I know. How about I tell you this. There is a fourth defense. The work of my personal party.¡±

    ¡°You trust me to survive if they make it through your mages?¡±

    ¡°I want you to at least have an idea of what it¡¯s like to harbor that which you cannot disseminate, no matter how much it would alleviate your comrades¡¯ fears.¡± Tireliam chuckled. ¡°But yes, please don¡¯t die to him now that you know this.¡±

    Percival made a grunting noise. He raised his farglass. By the entrance to the city, the bodies were accruing, climbing over each other, becoming something bigger. At their feet the figure in black beckoned unnatural energies, fingers violet with power. One demonic orchestra of dreadful Spells.

    ¡°How are you planning on dealing with him?¡± Percival asked.

    ¡°Hm¡­¡±

    ¡°Or don¡¯t tell me. Probably a better idea.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not sure if necromancers are capable of staying dead.¡±

    ¡°What?!¡± Percival whipped his head away from the sights. ¡°We had a whole campaign telling our people that-¡±

    ¡°Yes, well, a hopeful lie produces more utility than a measured estimate.¡± Tireliam sighed. ¡°Don¡¯t blame us. Blame the public¡¯s constitution. Humans are simply too¡­ short lived to know better.¡±

    ¡°You are human as well, Highcaster,¡± Percival said, making sure every syllable was clear.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t disparaging human nature, Percival. Our growth needs more time than the amount most of us are allotted. Why assume I was looking down on you when, here at the end of an empire, I still stand with you?¡±

    Percival turned away.

    Tireliam stopped leaning. His staff snapped to his grip.

    ¡°Good luck,¡± he said. ¡°When this ends, I¡¯ll collect you, and we can debate Aldren¡¯s failings in safety.¡±

    Again Percival smelled thunder and rain. He was alone on the wall once more.

    ¡°He¡¯s right, you know.¡±

    ¡°Shut it.¡±

    ¡°How many times can you humans make the same mistake? So much excess. Every empire you¡¯ve ever built, you¡¯ve suckled on the teat of manifest destiny. With your teeth. Until disaster outpaces your bureaucracy, and you run out of easy resources to claim.¡±

    ¡°You are a nasty, petty creature.¡± Percival sighed. ¡°But you¡¯re right. It¡¯s like this in every world, I suppose. I always thought the Spanish Flu was God¡¯s punishment upon the people from my world for trying to destroy our brothers and sisters. If we all believed, if we all had faith¡­¡±

    ¡°You think your God would have intervened? Ha.¡±

    ¡°Faith isn¡¯t about what¡¯s physical or literally real, creature. Faith is a willful bond, a handshake with others that transcends science and logic, so what is human can never be quantified, and people can never become just a number. After witnessing so much death from the Flu, do you think the humans of my world will want to fight each other again? That¡¯s the power of solidarity; that¡¯s what we need in this world. I don¡¯t expect a godless thing like you to understand.¡±

    The voice only laughed in response. But it said nothing else. Percival continued watching through his farglass, his lips pronouncing silent prayers.

 4 â€“ Beginning of the End

    The citadel gates opened for the third defense line. Levitating men and women in flowing robes hurried through before the heavy doors closed. Mechanisms slid into place, so loud Percival felt the thud in his chest. He wondered if it was the last time those slabs of wood and steel would welcome anyone in.

    Here at the end of an empire Percival only remembered the parts that worked, the systems that made an entity a hundred million strong stand for a thousand years. He remembered joyous citizens, a treasury so filled with gold and talium they could afford annual festivals for the entire capital. They would often receive visits from the other provinces from Aldren elites just for those events. Immense banquets and balls. Extravagant performances, fine wines, and exotic foods. Some of which had come from many a campaign he had won for the Emperor. He also bedded many a starstruck woman who thought him a hero. The voice had been there as well. Percival¡¯s heart sank as he recalled what he had been told years ago, ¡°This is all a front, Percy. You¡¯re all wallowing in deficit like fatted hogs.¡± But he had two supple thighs wrapped in a trembling grip around his head at the time, and wouldn¡¯t hear of it. It all made sense of course; the voice only gave him advice if it knew he wouldn¡¯t take heed. There was no limit to how much it enjoyed tormenting him.

    But how could he hate it? The voice had been right about everything thus far. Except one thing. People do change, and for the better; he had seen it before. He would prove the voice wrong before he was through with life.

    Now wasn¡¯t the time. The undead had formed amalgamations, towering masses that could easily scale the walls if not shatter them. Hot wind ferried the smell of carrion and the telltale spice of unnatural energy. Percival gritted his teeth, resisting the building nausea welling up from his stomach. He left the top of the wall and rejoined his men on the courtyard.

    People were yelling. Boots ground against wet dirt and upturned tufts of grass. The doctors and nurses were being escorted into the citadel. A few were resisting the guards¡¯ corral with what little strength their ilk possessed. Their quiet complaints dwindled all the way to the main entrance. The white tents were left unattended. Aldren¡¯s regal two-headed deer warped to the movements of fabric, dancing to the cloying scent of death. Injured men laid in their beds next to a shallow pile of previous patients the doctors had given up on. There hadn¡¯t been time to bury them.

    Percival nudged the flap aside and crossed from courtyard to purgatory. Men coughed in their sleep. Those awake could be surmised to be alive from the occasional blink their empty eyes did on occasion. By the corners of the tents, the metal of the beds shook from their occupants struggling against their restraints. Those patients had lost their ability to speak.

    Barathon stepped through. He tapped Percival¡¯s pauldron with the back of his knuckle.

    ¡°It¡¯s time. Standard proce-¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± Percival said. His dominant hand gripped the hilt of his weapon until his knuckles were as white as winter.

    He heard more sounds of boots. Soldiers were approaching the other tents. A pair of footsteps landed softly beside them, belonging to a thin man in the scarlet robe of Tireliam¡¯s Third Cadre. Gold lettering marked the mage¡¯s attire with his position and rank in the old tongues. Embroidered on his shoulder was the crest of the dragon¡¯s head, the insignia of arcanery, and it was adjacent to the two-headed deer. Percival hid his disgust. The juxtaposition was everything anyone needed to know about casters.

    ¡°I¡¯m Fulkurr Drei, here to oversee,¡± the mage introduced himself.

    More soldiers arrived. Ten in total. There''d be ten for each tent.

    ¡°You have three minutes,¡± Fulkurr said.

    ¡°Welp, I want to be on the right side when the citadel locks,¡± Barathon said. He drew his sword.

    Percival drew his as well and approached the side of the first bed. The occupant turned his eyes towards him. Two brown islands on bloodshot whites, half open. Cracked lips parted, and when the young man spoke it was with the strength of loosened ash from a spent chimney.

    ¡°Be swift, Lord Mason.¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Percival swung. The young man was two. A red-black sea seeped into the pillowcase. He looked away when the mage¡¯s turn came. The tent was briefly lit by firelight. A plume of flame for each head, including the ones that were dead before. When it was all done and the air was thick with the smell of roast, Percival took a deep breath, forcing himself to acknowledge the sight, sound, and scent before him, and whispered, ¡°May your memories live in your family and friends, and not in the hands of evil.¡±

    Fulkurr patted his sleeves clean of ash and blew out the last tongue of flame on his fingertips.

    ¡°Now, we must go into the citadel,¡± He said.

    A soldier questioned, ¡°Why? How long can we hold if your kind has given up?¡±

    ¡°Trust in the Highcaster, comrade,¡± the mage replied. He smiled after, as an afterthought.

    But you don¡¯t trust him, Percival thought, resisting a scowl.

    ¡°Come on!¡± The guards were yelling by the citadel entrance. ¡°Thirty seconds!¡±

    The soldiers and mages hurried into the citadel. Behind him, yet another set of gates cranked shut. Percival lingered on the antecessor hallway, where wall height windows once showed the splendor of the city. The others rushed past him. Greaves progressed the spidery cracks that had developed in the marble floors, the rich amber-white now a muddy color with a rusted note.

    He looked out at the city now. The districts bathed in the penumbra of the mages¡¯ pale stars. The Spell was waning; the light that had enabled their meager defense lines was nearly spent. But not before Percival was allowed to witness Aldren architecture crushed under the weight of the enormous monsters that were moments away from the citadel walls. Hundreds of rotted faces leered at him from the pits in their bodies, like the fleshy bulbs from the pox. And just as the monsters began battering the walls, the last star winked. It had become wholly dark. Silent.

    Then it was dawn. The soldiers that remained in the halls nearly fell over each other from the sudden sunrise outside the windows. Percival turned away. A pulsating pain settled in the back of his eyeballs. He blinked away tears. The world became a veiny orange for a few moments.

    The definition in the clouds had become visible. A swathing wave of the purest fire so perfect in form as to resemble the sun itself had fallen from the sky and drenched the area just outside their walls. The flame branched off into blankets, tenderly embracing the undead monsters. The waves must have been kilometers wide. Even where he stood he had never felt a summer hotter. Percival broke into a run before his skin began to blister.

    When he entered the main halls, the soldiers had already regained some of their spirit. Some had begun chanting, ¡°Hail the Highcaster! Hail Tireliam!¡±

    It was too much. Percival removed himself from the halls as quickly as he could. Along the way, had men try to stop him with mutterings of recognition. He ignored them all. Finally he was alone on a balcony near the citadel¡¯s bedrooms. The stench of the battlefield was favorable to anywhere back there.

    ¡°Has survival ever tasted so bitter?¡±

    ¡°Have you seen this happen before? These events?¡± He was shouting, and he didn¡¯t care if he was heard.

    ¡°Like I said, Percy, humans repeat their mistakes. Your age did not invent the idea of stagnancy and fall.¡±

    ¡°Why do you watch us do this again and again? What entertainment can you derive from this repetition?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m waiting to be surprised. I just might stand to wait forever.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll show you the unexpected.¡± Percival stormed off. From corridor to staircase. Higher and higher. He traversed the citadel all the way to the casters¡¯ towers. Up familiar stairs he marched, his legs crying for a moment¡¯s respite, until he was faced with the back of Tireliam¡¯s cloak.

    The Highcaster had just lowered his hand as he finished his cast, and he was radiant. His armored cloak looked molten, yet it held its congruency. One degree at a time Tireliam wound his power back as he turned to meet Percival. The Highcaster¡¯s expression was a single confused curl in his brow above brilliant eyes.

    ¡°Percival? The appointment has not yet come.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen that Spell before,¡± Percival said, holding back a scowl.

    ¡°Yes? It takes time to prepare.¡±

    ¡°Not once in the years we¡¯ve been fighting the Faleri.¡±

    Tireliam frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t follow.¡±

    ¡°How many are dead because you waited so long to unleash such a tool? Did there ever need to be defense lines?¡±

    ¡°My boy-¡±

    ¡°Answer me, old man!¡±

    Tireliam opened his mouth in a theatric search for words.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to say,¡± the Highcaster said. ¡°We can¡¯t tip our hand until our play is perfect. This is the way wars are fought.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve. Lost! We are but a dim ember choked into a corner!¡±

    ¡°There are¡­ always other wars.¡±

    ¡°You treacherous-!¡± Percival wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. It wouldn¡¯t unsheathe. He tried again, harder this time. Nothing. Not an inch.

    Tireliam watched him with a mused look.

    ¡°What have you done?¡± Percival said through grit teeth. He continued trying to draw his weapon.

    ¡°The cold in your blade is a tribal goddess of some snowed-in hill,¡± Tireliam said. His bemusement began to turn to boredom. ¡°It refuses to be drawn because it wants to keep the memory of its people alive, Percy.¡±

    Percival¡¯s anger was giving way to sense. He let go of his weapon, slowly, one finger at a time and relaxed his posture. Tireliam nodded approvingly, then walked leisurely to a series of cupboards on the other side of the room.

    ¡°Shall we have an early breakfast while we wait to see what our necromancer concocts next?¡±

 5 â€“ Beginning of the End (2)

    Percival had to restrain the shaking in his hand to lift the tea cup to his lips. Dread clung heavily on his thoughts, but his body enjoyed the hot liquid. The relief was brief. A few steps away Tireliam was cooking egg and sausage in an iron pan above a brazier. Flames from the blue-hot coals coated the underside of the pan, exciting the oil until sizzling. The mage would flip the food, then curse when a droplet fell on his hand. When he was finished, he fussed about with the presentation on a plate before giving one to Percival.

    When Percival wouldn¡¯t touch the food, Tireliam appeared disappointed. But no more so than a mother might with a rebellious toddler.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t eaten since the previous afternoon,¡± Tireliam said. ¡°The soldiery would benefit from a leader in his best condition.¡±

    The human mind might just be ill equipped to process what Percival felt. There was fear yes, that was certainly an ingredient in the mix. But he had been lied to for years. The entire empire had been lied to. The emperor had given the cadres so much power in their government, and they were so comfortable to let Tireliam¡¯s kind do their work. Aldren had forgotten who the mages were. The things they could do.

    Tireliam had already finished eating, and sat nonchalantly behind his desk. He pulled up the sleeves of his robe. Iron feather quill in hand, he began writing in the old tongue on a piece of paper. When he finished, the paper burst into flame.

    ¡°We are going to reestablish the third line,¡± he explained. ¡°I¡¯ve just sent the order.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°What is our friend doing?¡±

    Percival approached the tower¡¯s vantage point. He lengthened his farglass and brought the eyepiece to bear. The monstrous fusions had become statues blacker than coal, unmoving but as hot as a furnace from their baptism by fire. The burning bodies effectively became the citadel¡¯s defense. The pyre illuminated the city beyond. Aldren was clear all the way to the horizon; the undead had pulled back.

    ¡°They¡¯ve¡­ gone,¡± Percival said. ¡°Perhaps to consolidate?¡±

    ¡°Such is the business of sieges,¡± Tireliam said. ¡°Aldren¡¯s military has had little experience with it. Sometimes our first lesson is our last.¡±

    ¡°What do we do now? Have them sharpen their fangs on our walls until we are ground to dust?¡± The Faleri would never give up. Aldren¡¯s capital was the last vestige of a great beast. The breastbone of a skeleton long stripped of meat. Nothing of value to the Faleri remained here except victory, for an empire was not slain until its throne shattered.

    A sharp ticking drew close from the staircase. Percival turned his head to see the arrival of a robed woman. Her face was veiled, and her scale-armor robes were purple rather than scarlet, but she was no doubt another caster. The increasing itch on Percival¡¯s neck confirmed it. Like Tireliam¡¯s own, her panoply followed her every minute movement, seemingly more skin than armor. Violet garb imitated her form, tapering narrowly at the waist before expanding again below into a skirt reaching the ankles. The fabric followed the inertia of her legs as she moved, accentuating the grace with which she glided across the floor.

    Percival stood properly and extended a hand. The woman¡¯s robe slid to reveal a gauntleted hand, her fingers ended in claw tips. The armor was so thin it resembled lustered cloth. They exchanged a greeting shake, his cold metal glove to her strangely warm grips.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°Malidy,¡± she said.

    ¡°Percival Mason.¡±

    ¡°I am aware.¡±

    Tireliam clicked his tongue. ¡°I don¡¯t remember calling for you.¡±

    ¡°My stroll took me here,¡± Malidy said. ¡°How fortunate it is that I happen upon a conversation between the Highcaster and the last Hero of Aldren.¡±

    Tireliam sprung from his desk, his robes following the sudden burst of movement out of the chamber to the terrace. Under her veil, Malidy grinned momentarily.

    So many revelations had made themselves known as of late. Percival¡¯s curiosity drove him to ask.

    ¡°So you know our future?¡±

    ¡°I divine the fates, and in my awareness of them I can nudge their direction,¡± Malidy answered. The plate of breakfast levitated to her. She held it questioningly to Percival, who raised a hand against it. The Divinator pulled back her veil and began eating, pinching the food between her claw tips. Percival had never seen someone so happy at such a small pleasure.

    ¡°You just came here because you saw breakfast, didn¡¯t you?¡± Tireliam said.

    ¡°Your true talents lie in cooking, my Lord,¡± Malidy replied.

    ¡°Oh please.¡±

    Percival saw his chance to leave while they were engaged in their colleague¡¯s spat. Coming here had been a poor decision. A lot of men had died under his watch this night. Those that just barely survived he had to finish off himself. He wore the heavy burden of their memory on his shoulders. The notion of betrayal and pure rage had driven him to challenge the Highcaster, who in the end saw it as nothing more than an act of petulance.

    Ignorant, emotional decision making. Percival began to see the folly of his whole career in this world since he had been transported here. More and more he had begun directing the anger at himself.

    ¡°Stay a while, Hero,¡± Malidy said.

    Percival stopped in his tracks. As naturally as he breathed, his palm rested on the pommel of his sword. But that was just instinct. He had never been Compelled before. Malidy¡¯s voice was laced with the essence of yearning, obeisance in pure form, layered on his will like hot honey. For a second he was a prisoner inside his own skull.

    ¡°Stop it,¡± Tireliam said in a disapproving drawl.

    The feeling cleared. Percival drew quick breaths in his release. He clasped his chest with a hand.

    ¡°That was most unkind, madam,¡± he said.

    ¡°But you¡¯d want to hear this,¡± Malidy said sweetly, ¡°You are curious as to why his plans involve you, are you not?¡±

    ¡°Divinator!¡± Tireliam said. His armor was brightening.

    ¡°Oh please Liam, he hasn¡¯t the power to refuse. You can¡¯t hold him in suspense until Vulkachires eventually wins.¡±

    ¡°The necromancer?¡± Percival said, ¡°We pushed him back, did we not? His biggest works have failed to breach our walls! There must be hope.¡±

    ¡°Oh my Hero, necromancers use the enemy''s dead because they¡¯re lazy. Our friend has yet to begin summoning.¡±

    Percival had never seen anything larger from the enemy during the entirety of the war. This habit of restraint was not unique to Aldren¡¯s mages.

    ¡°Then why are we here? Why prolong our suffering like this?¡±

    Tireliam spoke. ¡°We know what you are, Percival Mason.¡±

    ¡°Pardon?¡± Percival¡¯s feet moved on their own, taking him a step back.

    The Divinator drew closer. ¡°It never ceases to amaze my eyes¡­¡± Her voice trailed, ¡°Your world lines don¡¯t begin here. Or anywhere in this universe.¡±

    ¡°I must insist I haven¡¯t the faintest idea what you¡¯re both talking about.¡±

    Tireliam hovered mere feet away from Percival. ¡°Don¡¯t disappoint me again, my boy, there¡¯s no use in playing dumb now. Unless¡­¡±

    ¡°You know the deal, Percy. Your fun is up.¡±

    A current ran through Percival¡¯s chest. It felt like the white hot end of an intangible poker struck deep into his heart. Time stalled and the world seized. The floor rose to greet his head as he fell in a glacial motion. His skull bounced off the floor in the impact, droplets of sweat glistening like snowfall.

    ¡°You lasted much longer than the last two Wayfarers. I¡¯ll remember you well. Thank you for the entertainment. Oh, and-¡± The voice stopped. ¡°Wait. How? No- no mortal should be able to- NO!¡±

    Percival felt the voice''s ethereal strangulation leave his body even as his life ebbed away. He exhaled a satisfied breath. Lying there cheek first against the stone floor he finally felt peace: utter silence. For a moment at least. Only an instant later his heart surged with life again and he sucked air like a drowning man. Blurry stars and muddied voices wavered in his vicinity. Unconsciousness was returning.

    ¡°¡­never seen this before. How fascinating.¡±

    ¡°¡­sight as well¡­?¡±

    ¡°¡­was not of this world line either¡­¡±

    ¡°Most intriguing. We¡¯ll deal with this¡­¡±

    Percival felt the barest tickle of warm breath near his ear.

    ¡°Sleep tight, Hero.

 6 â€“ Two Weeks Purgatory

    The estimate had been wrong, if being right was what Tireliam cared about. A fortnight had passed and they were nearing exhaustion, both of Mind and resources. Greaves and undead miasma had raked the land dry of potential. Little point existed for him and his mages to remain in this carcass of an empire. To the eyes of history Aldren was never all that special. Why, even he had seen better.

    From his tower balcony he watched the last Aldrenites mourn. The vast breadth of his vision sweeping over the waning embers. A thousand voices washed over his ears. His sight caught countless tears as they welled and drew ashen lines down their dirty faces. Their proximity to the Gerlapos Ridge usually brought them relief in the form of cool foehns. But the air was too dense with fire and death, and the wind felt like a moving mass, a heavy reminder that the citizens of Aldren will not survive.

    In a removed corner of the citadel once reserved for young elites to come wet their youthful urges away from the judgmental eyes of propriety, an old woman sat on a couch, alone, in the dark. She stared at nothing. Her eyes were unfocused. A thumb and a finger absentmindedly rubbed a plain, metal loop around one of her other fingers. She had taken off every other piece of jewelry. She wasn¡¯t sure why. The last time she had spoken a word was months ago.

    On the fifteenth floor of the citadel¡¯s noble condominiums, a trio of factory workers banged relentlessly on the locked door of a statesman¡¯s room. The statesman¡¯s skin looked ragged, not just from recent events, but from the massive amount of weight he had shed over a short period of time. He huddled with his arms around a woman he thought had married for power. Now he resolved to stand in front of the three angry workers when they eventually broke through, so his wife might escape with the swaddled bundle she kept close to her chest.

    In one of the citadel¡¯s many gardens a young boy withheld tears. He hugged a stuffed Berthen bird tightly, not caring if he was aggravating the seams that had broken long ago, spilling the cotton out in cloudy growths. Beside him was his butler, a wizened man whose decades of service had made him thin but mobile in his old age. He recalled when the boy¡¯s parents gave him a chance to leave when war started. It had been an easy choice then and in retrospect. The boy stayed close to him as they walked the garden paths. Above them, dark clouds threatened to pour.

    Tireliam leaned on the merlons overlooking his city. He watched it all, as if he had a duty to at least observe. Behind him, Divinator Malidy turned the pages of an old arcane tome she had already read before.

    ¡°We¡¯ll need to Embark soon,¡± she said in a singsong tone. ¡°Every day we stay increases our risk. The strings are at their limit.¡±

    When she did not receive a reply she slammed the book shut, a move that could damage the book, and usually roused Tireliam from his distractions. The Highcaster paid her no mind. She approached him from behind, hands tucked behind her back.

    Tireliam raised a hand off the merlon. A thin, precise spark of power coalesced around his fingers as he pinched the air. Then he pulled, as if plucking a feather. The spark was spent, a Spell had cast, and he rested his hand on the merlon again.

    ¡°Hello¡­?¡± Malidy pushed.

    ¡°Hm? What do you want, woman?¡±

    ¡°Why do we stay here?¡±

    ¡°The third line has kept them back for now.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t treat me like an imbecile.¡±

    Tireliam sighed. ¡°Perhaps¡­ Vulkachires is not as impressive as we once thought.¡±

    Malidy¡¯s eyes widened with glee. ¡°Oh my gods don¡¯t tell me you believe our Hero¡¯s good intentions!¡±

    ¡°I have quite a few Spells left in my arcanery Faleria has not yet seen.¡±

    ¡°So it¡¯s an ego thing. That¡¯s more like the Liam I know.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t test me.¡±

    Malidy returned to the table to continue skimming the tome. She twirled a finger around a strand of hair as she did so.

    ¡°The cadres are getting restless as well,¡± she said. ¡°They expected an exodus days ago, but are too afraid to inquire you about it.¡±

    ¡°Let them. Their nervousness would humanize them. We¡¯ve always had a poor reputation in Aldren.¡±Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    ¡°But that doesn¡¯t matter anymore.¡±

    ¡°No. But we can learn from it.¡±

    Malidy chuckled, as she often did at many of the things Tireliam said. The Highcaster had long assessed the Divinator as someone who found humor wherever people placed too much heart. For that alone she was indispensable. Plans that could not stand being mocked were likely to be full of holes. The same could be said of character. He could never tell her this of course, not now nor ever, for if he were to tell her in the future she might notice in the now.

    For now there was still work to be done. Percival¡¯s eccentricities had rubbed off on him; there was a chance Faleria might call for retreat. They had already taken the land and the people. Fighting further was wasteful. Yes, the Aldrenites just might live.

    --

    Percival awoke ready for battle. His plain clothes were soaked with sweat. Someone had stripped him of his armor. He felt his bedside in a panic, and felt cool relief when he found the hilt of his sword.

    The citadel¡¯s medical ward was home to rows and rows of beds. Doctors and nurses rushed about, straining what little supplies remained. A few mages were there as well working alongside the medical staff. Their palms were outstretched. Warm energies materialized through their fingertips to mend wounds and alleviate pain. Percival placed a hand on his neck. The rash had gone. He no longer felt the itch near casters. In fact he hadn¡¯t felt better in years.

    He heard Barathon approach from the side, recognizing the unique clinking of armor from the man¡¯s nonchalant gait.

    ¡°How are you feeling my Lord?¡± He asked.

    ¡°Shut up you old cunt.¡±

    Barathon laughed. He sat on an adjacent bed. His normally devil-may-care expression hardened.

    ¡°What happened to you?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Percival replied honestly. ¡°Must have been the fatigue. We¡¯ve been fighting for weeks with a handful of hours of sleep every other night.¡±

    ¡°I mean in the beginning. Of your life.¡± Barathon¡¯s brow narrowed. ¡°Something happened to you. You said you became sensitive to casters, now you¡¯re not itching away. People who are sensitive in that way are born like that, and are usually mages themselves. And they certainly don¡¯t recover.¡±

    Percival turned his head away from the healing mages to fully face the Captain. Barathon was a man who liked to slick his hair back into blond braids, but didn¡¯t so much care about scars or dirt on his face. His beard grew like wildfire and had the color of it. Only his moustache had seen a trimming blade. His fingers were home to rings from old marriages. And for fifteen years Percival had known him to be the most forthcoming person a soldier can be. But he did lie if the alternative was a black truth.

    It was difficult to hide things from a man who used dishonesty practically.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter anymore,¡± Percival said.

    ¡°For us, perhaps. But the Highcaster has always had an eye on you. You might survive this.¡±

    ¡°If that was true, would it not bother you?¡±

    ¡°Maybe I also have a way off this rotten continent.¡±

    ¡°The Faleri likely have us surrounded. The Ridge might be the only path of escape.¡±

    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s my plan.¡±

    Percival smiled. He drew a deep breath. ¡°I think I have been dreaming.¡±

    ¡°Of what?¡± Barathon asked.

    ¡°I came from another world, Barathon. A land farther away than distance can describe. I was brought here to play a lonely god¡¯s game. An impatient god, for he filled my head with this world¡¯s language and basic contexts, traditions, the general zeitgeist of existence here, so I wouldn¡¯t delay in forging a destiny. All for his curious consumption.

    ¡°The price was silence. If I revealed these origins to anyone here I would die.¡±

    ¡°You look right talkative to me.¡±

    ¡°Whatever Tireliam did, I don¡¯t feel the god¡¯s grip around my heart anymore. I am free. And it¡¯s true, Tireliam did offer to take me away when the Faleri finally breach our citadel. But I don¡¯t plan on taking the offer.¡±

    Barathon raised a single eyebrow. ¡°You wish to die here?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t wish to die. But I have been dreaming. We¡¯ve conquered many lands to fuel Aldren¡¯s progress. We¡¯ve trampled many a lesser tribe and bathed in their blood. And when we come back, we were hailed as heroes. I am hailed as a hero, and I have been more than happy to play the role. The truth is¡­¡± Percival grasped the scabbard of his sword and held it close to him. The ice within whispered to him as it had since he acquired it. The message hadn¡¯t changed in content since he first heard its voice. Sleep, sleep forever¡­ I shall bind you in eternal frost¡­ I shall immerse you in the faces of my people¡­ so you may dream forever of their anguish when your kind¡­

    ¡°¡­We¡¯re carnivores,¡± Percival said. ¡°We eat each other. That was the way in my old world, and it is the way here. Predators don¡¯t get to be called heroes.¡±

    ¡°They do say old men grow guilty near the end of their lives and beg for admission into heaven.¡±

    ¡°There is no heaven where I¡¯m from,¡± Percival said. ¡°Funnily enough, I do believe there is one here, and I don¡¯t want to go.¡±

    ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Barathon scratched his beard in thought.

    ¡°You don¡¯t seem skeptical of such an insane story.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t a reason to disbelieve,¡± the Captain said with a shrug.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been a good friend, Barathon.¡±

    ¡°Ha. I¡¯m your only friend.¡±

    They recalled previous battles together, and Percival talked of their similarity to the wars of his world. It gave him an inappropriate sense of pride to see how intrigued the man was to hear of another world¡¯s weapons and tactics. There was less bureaucracy in warmaking when one¡¯s fingertips manipulated power, rather than having to go through several chains of command just to move armies.

    In the midst of their talk a disturbance entered through the medical ward¡¯s entrance. Nurses escorted three men to the nearest available beds. They were bleeding from their eyes, mouth, ears.

    ¡°What the hell happened to them?¡± Barathon wondered out loud.

    ¡°Looks like Loshire district attire. Workers? But the industries haven¡¯t been worked in months.¡±

    ¡°Ah who cares. Keep talking about those¡­ flying machines? With the spinning blades and stationary wings.¡±

    Percival relished this moment. It was a memory he¡¯d keep close to him for the rest of his life. But the memory would have to be incomplete. He never got a chance to finish his story.

 7 â€“ Aldrens End

    ¡°Why are we still here?¡± Calein Emeris asked no one in particular. The question itself bolstered him, for he felt his uncertainty reflected in his comrades. The dragon crest glowed dimly on his mentel next to a burn mark from one of his Spells. His hands were scarred. Young mages often misfired. In a panic they sometimes couldn¡¯t cast at all. He and the other Invocateers had been covering for them, and the proximity to the heat was causing fatigue injuries.

    Warm arcanery mended hands just a few meters behind him. He didn¡¯t partake; there were a lot of injured apprentices that needed tending to, and the third line would need their support. He wondered if it would be enough. Many of the mages were less than sixty years old.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± a woman was saying as her healing Spell pulled flesh together and closed the seams in a peer¡¯s skin. ¡°We will make it through this. Even the mundane are fighting. Lord Mason is with us as well. I¡¯ve seen him fight beside us. If those without arcanery can muster so much bravery, so can we.¡±

    ¡®Garela Julius¡¯, the invisible marking on her mentel read. Calein remembered the name. She was a scarcely forty year old Auxilium. Impressively young. Many would continue to be an apprentice for decades more at that age. The sight made him forget the pulsating pain of arcane burns on his own hands. A dangerous trickle of hope wormed its way into his heart.

    I can¡¯t let us end here. Calein turned his head towards the citadel¡¯s highest tower. He recalled his underlings¡¯ dense fear during the attack by the undead golems. There had been much retching and panicking, especially muttering: a dangerous thing to do as a mage. A hundred torrents of their strongest fire Spells could not fell those things. Then came the awe when a single Spell turned night into day.

    ¡°He will save us,¡± another apprentice was muttering. ¡°He will save us. He will save us¡­¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t die. I have so much learn,¡± yet another said to themself.

    Foolishness and idolatry. Calein scowled, eyes narrowing at the speck of a balcony.

    ¡°You. Yeah I know you can hear me,¡± Calein whispered. ¡°Insubordination be damned. Our relationship with them has always been transactional, and now they¡¯re done with us. They have been since before the war. We owe them nothing. Save us. Embark your students out. Please.¡±

    A low moan swept across the scattered remnants of the city. Calein¡¯s gaze snapped from the tower to beyond the city¡¯s ruined walls. The other Invocateers maneuvered themselves to the front of line. Static energies popped in the air as Minds warped translucent barriers into existence. Calein thought the bridge to Hrimner¡¯s plane and formed his own barrier, a curved wall of faint crimson. He peered through the arcane glyphs dancing across the energy lattices of the shield, perusing the developing battlefield.

    A rising plume of miasma was crawling over the rubble of the city. Taller than any house, it boiled and frothed, an impenetrable wall of death.

    Calein reinforced his voice and shouted, ¡°Wind!¡±

    His command travelled throughout the line. His Mind heard the twisting whistle of opening planes. Berthen, Kalla, Jaffray, all planes of infinite turbulence. The air became thick with the murmurs of the Mind. A hundred mages recited arcane script, hammering the energy into shape. Together they casted, and a tide of air rushed towards the incoming miasma. Calein reached his vision into the sky to monitor the results.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Black fog slammed into silver wind. From high above, the city appeared to have been draped with a black and white blanket, tilting upwards at the two waves¡¯ meeting points. Like the intertwining fingers of lovers. The miasma halted.

    Calein extended his vision further. A disturbance in the miasma. He saw it before he heard it. There, rising above the black, a mighty roar parted the deadly fog. The atmosphere relented to the double beats of wings. Ragged, hole-ridden expanses of membrane bolted by bone to its back, the whole thing resembling an enormous bat¡¯s. Spikes grew like a mountain range on the creature, modest at first at its swaying tail, gradually lengthening until its apex at the torso where its spines were veritable hills. Twin horns grew out of its head, one shattered, the other full, forming a crown above red eyes. Calein could taste the energies of Gate from here. Gate, the forbidden plane of ever-motion, undeath.

    ¡°Wyvern!¡± He shouted. Just as he dreaded, the panic among the apprentices rose.

    ¡°How? Where was the necromancer hiding the body?¡±

    ¡°Where did he get it from?¡±

    ¡°How are we expected to survive with such horrid intel?¡±

    Calein reached out with his voice. ¡°Prepare your Spells! Don¡¯t bother with fire!¡±

    More planes opened. The sound of cracking ice and chilling wind filled the mage¡¯s ears. He heard Spells being spun behind him laboriously, stutteringly. The apprentices could barely remember processes they had spent years reciting. Some looked to him for guidance. Others seemed to plead. For what exactly, Calein didn¡¯t know, nor would he have the power to grant it to them. The dead were coming, and mages must cast.

    He tore into his own selection of planes and prepared the most potent cold Spells he knew. Emptiness was gnawing on his Mind; he had been casting all night and ignoring the advice of the other Invocateers. The apprentices weren¡¯t ready, and he needed to cover for them. But the whispers were growing louder, cackling, promising failure with every Spell. His sight of the heavens blurred and sharpened, split into double and rejoined.

    Streams of blue bolts froze trails in the air and struck the underbelly of the undead wyvern. The monster flapped its wings to remain afloat, apparently encumbered by the cold, but more annoyed then wounded. Annoyance would become anger, and anger had a threshold. It drew breath deeply and screamed. The air rushing through the rotted orifices in its throat split into a thousand voices. Each mage heard their own doom. And all casting stopped.

    Calein only heard the muffled impacts of shattering ice. The glyphs fled his fingers before he finished his cast. The planes left his Mind. He found himself with his knees on the mud-slick streets, diving in and out of lucidity. He was spent.

    The reflection in the shallow, dirty pools of water warbled before him. A shriveled man stared back while wrestling to stay awake, his mouth ajar. Mist was billowing from his nostrils. He raised his hands, horrified at how they shook, and cupped the visible breath as it escaped him. Why had it gotten so cold?

    The earth¡¯s pull brought the horizon to a vertical. Hands grasped his shoulders before his head impacted the pavestones.

    ¡°Wy¡­wyvern¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s alright sir.¡± The young Auxilium¡¯s voice. What was her name? Calein¡¯s eyes were so heavy.

    ¡°No¡­ it¡¯d attack the citadel¡­ we need¡­¡± The planes won¡¯t heed his call. He searched and searched, digging through his Mind, but found scarcely enough power to lift a salt shaker. Sleep was coming. It was inexorable. Why was the sky so bright?

    ¡°Master Calein, we¡¯re going to be fine,¡± Garela said. ¡°Cease your recitations and rest.¡±

    A mending touch warmed Calein¡¯s shoulders. With the last of his wakefulness he opened his eyes fully, and saw the Pegasi of the Moon. The sky was full of them. Beautiful horses the color of the palest stars. Manes that bled the cosmos in the wake of their prancing. Hooves of the most polished silver and wings of pure snow. Atop their backs were the Saturnine riders. Wingtip helmets held a waterfall of silver-blond hair. Lithe arms maneuvered moonlight spears the length of castles. They pierced the wyvern over and over, like wolves circling prey, each spear wound metastasized crystalline tumors. They didn¡¯t stop until the monster was entirely encased in frost. It expended the last of its breath in a pathetic cry, and fell back to earth. The muddy reflection rippled once before freezing into stillness. Calein¡¯s eyes finally slid shut.

 8 â€“ Embark

    Percival swung a wood axe, breaking the cabinet into pieces. The furniture probably once tied a room together. A more practical use laid ahead. He tucked the kindling under his arm and brought it to a bonfire in one of the citadel¡¯s many courtyards. Crisp echoes traveled from all over the citadel; the work of other groups doing the same thing.

    He tossed the material into the flames. To his sides, civilians huddled, rubbing their tremulous hands together. A group of them had formed a small gathering to protect the suckling bundle slung around the chest of a young mother. Percival heard the babe¡¯s quiet cries between the crackling of the bonfire. A good sign.

    A false optimism. The time was coming. He was sure of it. Rivers of frost had slathered the citadel. Flowing ripples of cold, translucent crystal jumped from spire to spire like winged eels frozen in an instant of time. The ice was the densest at the highest tower. It didn¡¯t take a mage to understand what had happened.

    There was an adage he had heard from the caster apprentices: ¡°A Highcaster beset by their friends is a Highcaster at their weakest¡±. It was the kinder version of the saying.

    A speck of stinging cold pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up, reaching out with an open palm. It was snowing in wine season.

    ¡°Prepare yourself.¡±

    Percival jumped. The plates of his armor chafed, drawing attention from the citizenry. He excused himself, set down the axe, and moved himself away from the bonfire.

    ¡°Tireliam?¡± He said.

    ¡°Too soon? I haven¡¯t yet identified what was possessing you, but rest assured I won¡¯t stop your heart.¡±

    ¡°What are you planning next? The people can¡¯t take much more of this.¡±

    ¡°I will soon be committing to the embarkation Spell. Expect silence till then.¡±

    ¡°¡­Listen, sir. I-¡±

    ¡°Come to the main antechamber in ten minutes. Be discreet.¡± A pause. ¡°You¡¯ve inspired me to try at the very least. But the next time Vulkachires attacks is when the last of Aldren¡¯s citizens meet their end.¡±

    ¡°Are you truly unable to stop his creatures?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not about whether I couldn¡¯t,¡± Tireliam corrected. ¡°If the late emperor wanted a chance at winning he shouldn¡¯t have recalled me to the capital.¡±

    ¡°Right¡­¡±

    ¡°Nine minutes.¡±

    ¡°Wait!¡± But the connection had gone. Percival curled his fingers into a fist. He knew where the embarkation was to happen, an antechamber within the citadel. A removed place far away from the bonfire, away from prying eyes. It would be an unceremonious farewell. He had wanted to tell Tireliam his intentions face to face. Fallen or not, the empire needed its hero. But he had to admit he was stalling the confrontation, mostly because he already knew what the answer would be.

    How long would he last out here? Even he was shivering. The effects of the Spell Tireliam had casted lingered. A group of men by one of the branches of ice attempted to melt it with torches. When that failed they tried chipping at it with pickaxes. The holes would fill in with fresh ice. Even the snowflakes that fell now hung onto its shape for countable moments when they fell into the bonfire.

    The double doors to their courtyard swung open from a low kick. Civilians jumped to their feet as a squad of soldiers marched through. Shock fell upon Percival¡¯s face.

    The leader of the group stepped up.

    ¡°Fear not, we bring hope.¡± He pointed at Percival. ¡°And this man is the key.¡±

    ¡°Barathon, what the hell are you doing?¡± Percival shouted.

    ¡°Tireliam has a way out of this city. And he has given our hero Lord Mason a place in his ark.¡±

    Murmurs among the citizenry. Those quiet exchanges were the truth-killer. Percival¡¯s heart grew cold. He needed to act quickly.

    ¡°What are you planning to do, old friend?¡± He said, his voice low.

    ¡°Like I said. Maybe I have a way out,¡± Barathon replied. ¡°I¡¯m not fixing to die yet.¡±

    ¡°You-¡±

    Percival was interrupted by a touch on his shoulder. An older man, once-farmer by the looks of the knots on his hand and sunburnt skin, wore a face twisted by pleading.

    ¡°Lord Mason, is this true?¡± The old man asked.

    ¡°¡­Yes.¡± Percival turned to face the sparse crowd. The citizens left the bonfire to gather around him. ¡°I was offered to leave with the Highcaster. But I have elected to stay with you.¡±

    ¡°Why you and not any of us?¡± A concerned citizen said. ¡°Why weren¡¯t we offered?¡±

    ¡°Fucking magekin,¡± A tanner said with a growl. He spat at the utterance of the word. ¡°They never cared about us. They¡¯re just looking out for themselves.¡±

    No different than any one of us. Percival kept that to himself.

    ¡°Like I said,¡± he said, louder. ¡°I¡¯m not going.¡±

    ¡°How do we know?¡±

    ¡°Here I stand before your eyes,¡± Percival said. He kept his stance firm, confident. The people paid little attention to his appearance of commitment. The rumor was spreading, and he already began to hear twisted versions of the story.

    Barathon¡¯s men cleared the path as they walked towards him. The soldiers flanked Percival, their hands relaxed by their sides. Their restraint was obvious. He wondered what Barathon had said to restore just an iota of decorum back to the soldiery.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Come,¡± Barathon said. He raised a hand, bending his fingers in a beckoning motion.

    Percival glanced at his citizens. He understood their emotions, perhaps he even shared them in part. Their minds were empty save for that sliver of hope allowing their escape from the city. These were his wards, the men, women, and children heroes were charged to protect. From the moment the flat of the emperor¡¯s sword laid on his shoulder to the day he breathed his last. For he was the empire¡¯s standard.

    And he was disappointed.

    He knew what Barathon wanted, so without another word he began walking to the embarkation point with the soldiers and the civilians close behind. Through winding, empty corridors he led the empire, thinking. The citizens behind him were varied. Farmers, leatherworkers, masons, wives, babes, and toddlers. The soldiers were all new recruits; the veterans have long been expended, save for the celebrated warriors like him and Barathon.

    The war had allowed him the privilege of meeting the noblest souls. The most amazing tacticians and insightful of poets were among those he fought beside. The sharpest scholars assisted the war planning. The keenest eyes and sharpest of wit gathered intelligence, so their steel would have a target. And the most empathetic men were their shields. They were all gone. Only Percival remembered them. They gave their lives so these last dregs of Aldren could clamber for the slightest chance they might live. None of the citizens had bothered to run to tell the other gatherings Tireliam was planning to leave. The why was simple; the more refugees fighting for a spot on this ¡®ark¡¯, the less chance each of them had of making it.

    These were the kind of people Percival had pledged to protect.

    They rounded the last corner and arrived at the antechamber. Even without the voice¡¯s affliction Percival could feel the heavy weight of arcanery on his skin. Aldren¡¯s mages were gathered there surrounding a tall figure at the center. Tireliam turned.

    ¡°Ah¡­ you¡¯ve brought friends,¡± the Highcaster said.

    Barathon stepped forward, hand grasped on the hilt of his sword.

    ¡°I¡¯ve nothing against your kind, mage,¡± he said loud enough for all to hear. ¡°We just want to see our sons and daughters grow, and find new soil to call home. We all deserve that much.¡±

    Tireliam wasn¡¯t paying attention. He was engaged in an inaudible disagreement with the purple-robed mage by his side. One of his students spoke up, a young-looking man in the white robe of an apprentice.

    ¡°You¡¯d come here and start making demands of us?¡± He said.

    ¡°I request to be allowed to live,¡± Barathon said. ¡°Is that so inconvenient a demand?¡±

    ¡°Oh please, before us magekin proved we had a use to sell, you mundanes made our very existence a demand on your conscience.¡±

    ¡°Young man, those-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m older than you.¡±

    ¡°Then with the benefit of your years, you must lend wisdom to your fellows.¡± Barathon beckoned a citizen to come forth from the crowd. A young boy holding tightly on a ruined bedside doll looked back at his guardian as he walked forward. An uncertain look persisted on his face. Barathon continued, ¡°These youth are free of any crime against your people. Can you forgive their forebears and let their children live?¡±

    The man had sides Percival had never known. The apprentice mage was showing hesitation; whatever motivated the confrontation ran dry. He turned to Tireliam, who seemed to have finished his quarrel with the Divinator. Malidy appeared as unsurprised as ever, perhaps even mildly amused.

    ¡°Begin,¡± Tireliam said.

    The mages were slow to start, taking moments to exchange glances. Tireliam waited with the patience of a poised lion. Under the gaze of his furrowed brow, the mages began their work. Space began to fold and tear at the edges of an invisible arena surrounding them. The citizens were panicking, talking loudly amongst themselves in outrage. Percival did not know what could be said. He remained silent.

    ¡°Why do you leave us here?¡± A mother asked. ¡°Have you no sympathy?¡±

    ¡°You magekin haven¡¯t changed. Heartless monsters,¡± the tanner barked.

    Tireliam slid past his cadres to stand in front of the chattering crowd. They were not cowed. His presence before them seemed to reinforce their anger. They even began to step forward.

    Percival grasped Barathon¡¯s pauldron.

    ¡°Stop this,¡± he said.

    The captain shook his head. ¡°I behaved as anyone should. No man should lay down and accept death. You used to have this gumption.¡±

    ¡°Barathon you-¡±

    Tireliam raised his hand. ¡°Enough.¡±

    And no more words were spoken by the crowd. The citizens entered fits of profuse coughing, hands wrapped around their throat.

    ¡°Lord Mason, step forward,¡± the Highcaster said.

    ¡°Apologies for the lateness in doing so, but I came here to refuse.¡±

    ¡°You were never in the position to do so,¡± was the instant reply. Tireliam raised his voice. It boomed in the enclosure of the antechamber. ¡°We cannot take all of you. Not won¡¯t. This is an embarkation Spell. It rips its occupants across thousands of miles in an instant. Did you think a mundane could survive that?¡±

    Barathon had been spared the sudden soreness of throat. He did not hesitate to interject.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t it worth an attempt if we would die here anyways?¡±

    ¡°You are all weight, Captain. We bring your hero because Percival is not of this universe. His success in the battlefield was not the preordained gift of God to Aldren; it comes from a preternatural strength we need to study the source of. You, Captain, survived on shrewdness, smarts, and luck. Like most survivors of this blasted war we advised the emperor not to take.

    ¡°All of you feel so much animosity towards us magekin-¡± Tireliam scowled at the word. ¡°-but none of you bothered to study the Art of Casting. Not even in theory. We recommended it to the Empirial Pedagogy. They refused because of its boredom and lack of practicality in your lives. We distributed our books, and you citizens mocked its content. Your children made our children¡¯s lives hell. Still we fought and died for you, and these numbers with me now are all that remained of us. If you had at least tried to understand us, you wouldn¡¯t be here begging for the impossible.

    ¡°I¡¯m telling you all this because you might survive. The Faleri might, just might, show mercy once they no longer feel our presence in the citadel. If you do, you will be enslaved into Faleria. You will find to your shock and horror, that mundane and mage mingle there, as they have for centuries. You might learn then why Aldren lost so handedly.¡±

    A force lifted Percival off the floor. The hero of Aldren turned his head to regard Barathon one last time. The Captain appeared nonplussed.

    ¡°It was worth a shot,¡± Barathon said. ¡°Did you know?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Percival said. ¡°I read some of their texts when we were deployed, remember? Thought I¡¯d at least get to know who we were fighting beside.¡±

    ¡°I see.¡± The Captain smiled. ¡°Good luck.¡±

    ¡°Likewise.¡±

    Percival was ferried midair into the confines of the circle, which was now rippling with power. The Spell was near completion.

    ¡°I take no pleasure from this,¡± Tireliam said as the light neared its apex.

    ¡°I believe you. Is there really no other way?¡±

    ¡°I have spent the past few months thinking, experimenting with a way to embark the mundane. It is not possible to my knowledge.¡±

    ¡°Figures.¡±

    Wails drew their attention. The mother in the crowd pushed against Barathon¡¯s corral, thrusting her bundle forward.

    ¡°Please take my daughter!¡± She was screaming. ¡°Please! Just her! Please take her!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Percival said. ¡°They don¡¯t listen.¡±

    ¡°In time, all humans learn to.¡±

    ¡°By then we¡¯d be decrepit.¡±

    ¡°It is as it has always been for all sapient races: wisdom is wasted on the elderly.¡±

    Light flashed. The crowd was pushed back by a shockwave. And the mages were gone. A plume of smoke rose from the center of a shallow crater in the floor, still burning with arcane exertion. For fleeting moments light played tricks in the room. Then space unbent and returned to normal. The embarkation was complete.

    Wordlessly, Barathon left his men and the citizens. Slow steps took him out of the antechamber and back to the winding halls. He ignored the pleas for orders and the citizens¡¯ begging. The wailing behind him dulled to a faint mumble, for he was lost in the mirage of his past, waiting patiently for his history¡¯s end.

 9 â€“ 15 Years Since

    Red clay shingles cracked under Lis?a¡¯s footfalls. Droplets of sweat whisked away like a trail of diamonds, sparkling in the noon light. In that moment, as the chill from her own momentum blew across her face, she was free. Alive.

    ¡°Stop! This is your last warning!¡±

    All good things come to an end. Lis?a laughed once, a single lungful of childish arrogance. It would make the officer angrier, more prone to mistakes. But she needed to pay attention to her own grounds. Her roof was running out. She stumbled, on purpose of course, flailing her arms about as though she was about to topple off the roof. But her momentum was lessened and thereby more controllable. Bits of shattered red clay rolled down the slanted rooftops in her wake. Heads poked out of their homes to investigate the noise.

    ¡°It¡¯s that brat again,¡± someone said.

    ¡°Catch her already what are you being paid for?¡±

    The children cheered her on from the safety of their balconies.

    ¡°Don¡¯t let him win!¡± They screamed.

    The officer had had enough. ¡°Stop and I¡¯ll make it a lot less painful, kid! I swear on Mother Faleria if you keep running- wait what are you-?!¡±

    The children cried out. The adult bystanders gasped. Lis?a had fallen into a tumble and disappeared off the side of the roof into the alleyways. In the relative darkness between domiciles a group of hissing cats called a temporary truce as a larger creature landed on all fours in the middle of their quarrel. They arched their backs and bared their fangs at the intruder instead. Lis?a bit the air at them before leaping away. Behind her, the angry voice of a lawman demanded she show herself.

    She was a worm in the dirt. Here in the city of Cadeau de Chires, alleyways were the veins in which vermin like her were undefeatable. These were infinitely twisting passages only her ilk knew. These were-

    Lis?a fell forward, definitely not on purpose this time. A knee scraped the graveled pavement. An anguished scream swelled from deep in her throat. She suppressed it into an inaudible wail. Eyes slanted with anger, she glared behind her at whatever had snared her ankle.

    A beggar in robes shook a clay cup at her. It was chipped, full of holes. A couple coins clinked inside. He swayed back and forth in place.

    ¡°Ch-change?¡± The beggar¡¯s tremulous voice spoke.

    ¡°Salopard!¡± Lis?a said under her breath. She recovered and kept running.

    The beggar¡¯s arm slacked. His head lulled back against the brick wall just as his eyes rolled back into his skull. His head resumed a swaying motion. The minutes passed like seconds. Clouds rushed by like precipitated cotton over the river banks. Until another set of footsteps entered this man¡¯s limited cognition, and time slowed back to an unbearable crawl of one second per second. His eyes faced front again, and he pointed at the reddened patch of dirt before him.

    ¡°Good work, Rat,¡± the officer knelt down and swabbed the blood into a vial.

    ¡°C-can I?¡±

    ¡°You sure you¡¯ve earned it?¡±

    ¡°P-please! I-I¡¯m so close.¡±

    ¡°Alright, I¡¯m feeling generous.¡±

    The beggar reached within his ragged clothes and pulled out a thin card with ten highlighted boxes. Eight were marked. The officer produced a stamp from his belt and made it nine. Nine round symbols depicting the Falerian hawk in red ink.

    ¡°You are close,¡± the officer remarked. ¡°How long have you been in the streets?¡±

    ¡°Twelve y-years, s-sir.¡±

    ¡°Not that much longer now, then. Good luck, criminal.¡± The officer went about his way, vial in a leather gloved hand. He stepped out onto the open road and was met with the domestic roar of a busy afternoon. Men and women moved like the wildebeest of Hildir, forced into a calm horde by the pressure of those before and those in front. His quarry had slipped through the wall of people. There was no way to see where she had gone.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    A shame he didn''t need to. The officer held the vial up to his gaze and closed his eyes. He reached into Rekesh, the plane of the endless hunt and of the eternal climb. One shallow dip into the plane, withdrawing enough energy to rush his head with blood. The world became red, black, and white. He smelled her, the recency of her presence like fresh blood to a hound. The little wench had not travelled far.

    --

    Jorge Faett knew it had been a bad idea to accept. Yet here he was, taking up an entire corner of a stranger¡¯s house with a red solo cup in hand, listening to four-chord music. He didn¡¯t recognize anyone. They had all changed so much in the years they¡¯ve gone their separate ways.

    There was Stefan Crane, a football star who bedded a new girl every couple weeks until his last year of high school, now a TA for classical literature at Lewisport Conservatory. He pulled off the Clark Kent look in green-beige sweater vests. Life must have been difficult trying to teach wealthy liberal arts majors while fighting off the advances of college girls who see analyses of Dante as an irresistible serenade.

    Rachel Seydoux, who used to be the talk of the school with a personality like warm rays of sunshine and pollen dense spring air, surrounded by a horde of erstwhile classmates listening to her stories about traveling abroad. Were they really interested or were they wondering how she maintained her track-and-field body while the rest of them aged horribly?

    Then there was Benjamin Lin, pursuing a doctorate in a field he could talk to no one about. How else was an academic supposed to make a living if not to teach electives to kids looking to fill credit quotas? He wore thick, rimmed glasses and carried himself with the confidence of someone itching to correct people on what honorific to use with regards to his name.

    ¡°Horrendous sight, isn¡¯t it?¡± Said Najam Dupak, sitting on the floor beside Jorge. ¡°Look at them, trying so hard to impress each other.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t imagine what life must be like, embellishing their own lives just for appearances,¡± Edeard Lumens added.

    The three ne¡¯er do wells took a sip from their red cups. Claire Daniels seemingly appeared next to them as she always did, blazing quip already prepared. As Jorge expected, the woman¡¯s tattoo collection had only grown since graduation.

    ¡°Better to try living up to expectations than letting yourselves sink like this, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± Claire poked Najam¡¯s belly with the tip of her foot. Najam swung his arm in retaliation, only to add momentum to the jostling that his overweight body now underwent. He fell onto the floorboards, spilling alcoholic punch everywhere.

    ¡°Go be a cunt somewhere else, Claire,¡± Edeard said.

    ¡°How¡¯s working part-time to fund your WoW Classic subscription and MTX addiction after dropping out, Eddy? Far more interesting than traveling in Europe.¡±

    ¡°How do you know about that- you whor-¡±

    ¡°And you, Jorge, still generating your own gravity, I see.¡±

    Jorge placed a hand on his own ample stomach, as though stemming blood loss from a well-aimed spear thrust.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t even say anything,¡± he said.

    ¡°You were thinking it. Break it up boys, before the house tips in that direction.¡±

    ¡°But here you are, hanging out with celestial objects like us,¡± Jorge said. He finished his drink. ¡°Why not go ¡®ooh¡¯ and ¡®aah¡¯ at Seydoux¡¯s tennis-toned ass and her life changing experiences at culturally sterilized tourist traps?¡±

    ¡°Because I¡¯d rather die,¡± Claire said.

    ¡°Yup,¡± Najam agreed as he recovered what remained of his drink.

    ¡°Yup,¡± Edeard said.

    The lights flickered.

    ¡°So what are you doing nowadays, Jorge?¡± Claire asked.

    Najam interjected, ¡°Don¡¯t do it man, the she-witch will use it against you.¡±

    ¡°I mine coin in my parents¡¯ basement,¡± Jorge replied.

    ¡°Goddamnit,¡± Najam said.

    Claire laughed, a long drawl of air from deep in her lungs. The whole party quieted to see what had caused the commotion.

    ¡°I don¡¯t¡­¡± She couldn¡¯t quite get enough air. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ haha! I don¡¯t even have to¡­ come up with anything!¡±

    ¡°Feel free to put me in my place with your career successes, Daniels,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°Well¡­¡±

    ¡°Legend has it you gain a new Kanji on your skin for every overpriced coffee you serve.¡±

    The music snared to a stop like a record on brakes. Claire made an inscrutable face before storming away, a forearm over her eyes.

    ¡°Come on, man,¡± Najam said.

    ¡°What?¡±

    Edeard shook his head. ¡°Too far, dude.¡±

    Jorge turned to the rest of the party. He was met with over a dozen despondent looks.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to say anything to begin with,¡± he muttered. He buried his nose in his cup, only to find it empty.

    ¡°Hey can someone help me with the speakers?¡± Someone called out. The lights were dimming, shuddering.

    ¡°The hell¡¯s going on?¡± Another asked.

    ¡°I¡¯ll check the breaker room.¡±

    The light came back, but not from the fluorescents. It was everywhere, ambient. Ghostly energy inundated the room. Jorge glanced at his arm. His hairs were raised. Sparks leapt from them. His skin felt prickly.

    ¡°What is this?¡± Benjamin shouted. He wasn''t the only one making outbursts.

    ¡°It¡¯s the government! The CIA did-¡±

    ¡°Oh god what is hap-?¡±

    It was July the twentieth. An entire suburban lot would be found empty, leaving behind a round crater filling with water from exposed piping. The mystery of its occupants'' disappearance would be unsolved.

 10 â€“ The â€œThief Lordâ€

    In a summer day¡¯s last hours of light, tradesmen found leisure in their labor knowing they were moments before dinner. The thought of family, of the baths, or of the next instalment at the local theatre slowed their hands and their minds. For others, perhaps the pleasure of scroll reading by the prismlight was more enticing. With these thoughts like warm molasses on their minds, no one noticed the emergence of a young woman from the alleyways. She would only be visible for a second. Blink, and one had missed her enter the Lily Vine Chalet.

    Lis?a wore plain clothes under her travel robe: brown overalls, a white button shirt. She had a copper ring around her right middle finger; it was in fashion for girls her age and its position told onlookers, ¡®Not taken, but unavailable¡¯. With that, she appeared no different than any tradesman.

    ¡°Well, look who it is,¡± Madam Licelle remarked almost immediately upon Lis?a¡¯s entrance. The woman¡¯s blue dress followed the sashay of her hips as she approached, bearing all the authoritative flair of a peacock.

    Lis?a pulled off her robe and folded it in her arms.

    ¡°What do you want, Licelle?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re in a whole world of trouble, young lady. How many times have you been told?¡±

    Lis?a wasn¡¯t in the mood. She started for the stairs. Madam Licelle, being mostly made of legs, had no problem keeping up beside her. The clop of her heels against the hardwood floors was enough to drive Lis?a insane. She might have gone mad a long time ago.

    ¡°Have a little shame for once,¡± Licelle continued.

    ¡°Oh please, give it a rest you old hag.¡±

    ¡°Where have you been for the whole day? Your mother¡¯s worried sick!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s none of your business.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯ll eat you alive.¡±

    ¡°Oh gods I don¡¯t want to hear those words come out of your mouth.¡±

    Madam Licelle stopped her pursuit, but not without a final remonstration.

    ¡°You can¡¯t keep doing this to her, Lis?a.¡±

    Lis?a picked up the pace. She climbed the stairs, trying to ignore Licelle¡¯s stare boring a hole in the back of her head. The door to the attic slammed shut behind her. She plopped on the bed, waiting for her heart to calm. Minutes passed, but the pain was still there. A voice within echoed what the Madam had said. She punched her pillow until she couldn¡¯t hear it anymore.

    She was exhausted now. The spoils she had hid in her robe seemed insignificant, a waste of emotional investment. A few Faleri halycite coins, an old silver pocket watch, and a small packet of tuskbeast bone powder. She slipped the money into the compartment hidden inside the slanted roof next to her bed. A meager sum glinted back. A hundred halycite and two silver coins. Lis?a sighed and closed it back up.

    The door to her room opened. Lis?a¡¯s heart stopped for a moment. She avoided turning her head to greet her guest. Another weight depressed her bed behind her.

    ¡°What are you doing, Lissy.¡±

    The sheer softness of her mother¡¯s voice was enough to make Lis?a melt. It was never by loudness that Lis?a was chastised; that was never necessary. She held herself together through sheer will.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°Just living my life, Valdren,¡± she said.

    ¡°We¡¯ve had this talk before, so I¡¯ll be brief. An officer came by earlier.¡±

    Lis?a whipped around, horror etched in her furrowed brow.

    ¡°What?! What did he-¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s waiting for you by the Davrosine Fountain. He has agreed to keep this quiet and modify his reports accordingly.¡±

    ¡°¡­For what?¡±

    ¡°A discount.¡±

    Valdren stood and left for the door, trailing essence of lily and haemadril. She stopped amidst the ray of orange-yellow sun streaming through the attic window. Her voluminous hair, living waves bound by a masterwork arrangement of pins and needles, shone a bright copper in the light. The other girls often fought over who got to fix it in the mornings. Her matching dress glinted like smooth metal.

    Lis?a turned away.

    Before she left, Valdren said, ¡°Go deal with the lawman.¡±

    The door clicked shut. Lis?a was alone with her thoughts and racing heart. She was hot with anger, condemned with shame. Hate and regret like a maelstrom in her mind. It was all so difficult to sort through. She couldn¡¯t move in this state. She spent a few minutes breathing slowly, inhaling deep the scent her mother had left.

    --

    Jorge fell out of the sky.

    He remembered the flash. He felt the house leave its foundations. The party had been at night. Then it was day. What¡¯s more, they were wrapped in an invisible force dragging them through the air. Glass was shattering, furniture sliding, snacks and drinks spilling. A section of wall was sheared off from a stress. The same one Jorge had fallen into.

    As Jorge plummeted he wondered if the wind had torn the wall or if the impact from his bulk was what had done it. Only a small part of him wondered that though. Most of his thoughts was filled with crushing vertigo. He screamed like an overfed seagull. Hot tears drew rapidly cooling streaks from his eyes.

    He swallowed his own voice; all the air was suddenly knocked out of his lungs. His fall had been diverted. He went into an uncontrollable tumble before falling into yet another indiscriminate object, which turned his tumble the other way. Shades of dark was flipping past his vision. Leaves rustled, branches shattered. He was flipped several more times over the course of his fall in an inhumane game of pinball. With a final, wet slap his fall ended.

    It was in the late afternoon in the worst summer he had ever experienced. His ears rang and buzzed. The ringing came from his fall. The buzzing from all around him, reminiscent of a rusty fan. Or a thousand mosquitos. But as Jorge¡¯s vision sharpened and he slowly recovered from a groggy haze, he saw that the buzzing was coming from only one insect.

    He flailed his limbs and freed himself from the soft, velvet surface he was lying on. In his panicking he slipped off, falling flat on the dirt. He sprung to his feet, saw the insect again, bent over and immediately emptied the contents of his stomach.

    ¡°Wha¡­what the hell?¡± He blurted out. His mouth was still thick with saliva and the taste of acidic punch. Hovering just a few feet before him was a mess of thoraxes and ganglia, seemingly melted together into a vaguely symmetrical segmented body. Limbs fell from its sides, long and many-jointed, reminiscent of a Portuguese man o¡¯ war. Four clusters of compound eyes bulged in and out of their sockets. The veins in its wings, of which it had no less than eight, strobed with bluish-green color. Jorge found himself calming as he stared at the bluish-green hologram vibrating towards him. The buzzing became as loud as several powered razors held next to the ears.

    Jorge was reminded of the curtains of beads Najam¡¯s folk liked to hang from their doorways. He remembered the chilling sensation of walking through them in the summer. How refreshing it had been to feel the beads drag across his face.

    When he came to his senses he realized it wasn¡¯t quite the same as having six feet long rope-like insect legs lovingly lick the contours of his cheeks, his shoulders, ruffling through his hair like a comb.

    Jorge stumbled away and hurled for a second time. His stomach had nothing to offer except pain. The creature was uninterested in him. It was headed for the bedding Jorge had fallen on. With his senses returned he began to notice the world around him. Trees more prodigious than redwoods sprouted high into the sky. He could make out leaves peeling away from the sides, each as wide as a bedroom. Those must have broken his fall. The mattress at the bottom that likely saved his life was a single, massive flower with six petals. It was pinkish-blue and oozed a sweet-smelling scent. The insect was dragging its limbs across the nectar, then drawing those up like a bunch of fishing lines into its complex mouth parts.

    ¡°This is not Earth,¡± he said.

    He began to panic. Between the meandering maze of larger-than-possible foliage he was hearing a chorus of buzzing growing louder by the second.

 11 â€“ Compromise

    The Davrosine Fountain was a beautiful piece of marble imported from deep within Faleria. It depicted a muscular man draped in flowing robes, round shield and spear in hand, piercing a four-armed monster through its ribs. The stonework looked soft on the eyes. Even the robes seemed to reflect the momentum of the strike. Marble blood spouted from the monster¡¯s wound.

    Beneath one of the monster¡¯s arms, the officer sat, taking shallow draws from his pipe. Lis?a approached through the moving lines of pedestrians and carts, curled fist tucked in the small of her back. Her chin was lowered. She hated how sheepish she looked. The officer stood when she was in range of conversation.

    ¡°Our little thief,¡± he said, ¡°Have anything to say for yourself?¡±

    ¡°What do you want? My mother not enough for you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not into infants.¡± He let out a puff of smoke. ¡°I am here to do my job.¡±

    ¡°Accepting bribes?¡±

    ¡°Following the spirit of the law. Look. Sit down.¡± The officer took a seat and patiently waited for Lis?a to do the same. She did so, but left plenty of room between them. They listened to the gentle patter of water behind them for a few heartbeats.

    ¡°You stole from an herb merchant,¡± the officer broke the silence. ¡°A bit under four silver vancs worth of money and goods. The discount given to me was about five vancs. I¡¯m going to return the money you stole. You keep the coin you took.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t understand.¡±

    ¡°Lawmen do not attend five years at the Gendarmia to read the law like gospel. Your crime¡¯s damage was about four vancs. It can be repaired quietly. You don¡¯t have to ruin your future with this stain on your record you made as an infantile delinquent. And I don¡¯t need to break your poor mother¡¯s heart by dragging you into youth detention.¡±

    Was that sarcastic? Either way, Lis?a fumed. A stranger speaking like this to her, after what he had done.

    ¡°Is that what you¡¯d call a virtuous solution?¡± Lis?a snapped.

    ¡°As close to one as you deserve.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t help but notice you come out with a net gain. That the reward for virtue?¡±

    ¡°This was your first real offense, delinquent. Would you like to know what happens if your record is tainted? Being what you are?¡± The officer produced a clipboard and a steelfeather quill from his coat. He set it between him and Lis?a. The quill jumped to work, drawing lines back and forth on the page. The depth of the lines varied, coalescing into features, changing color when needed. In seconds, the ink depicted messy russet hair, furrowed brows, narrowed green eyes, and lips pinched in a scowl.

    ¡°I¡¯ll know if you do this again. Don¡¯t waste this.¡± The officer collected the finished portrait.

    ¡°Hmph. You people own our fates and call it a kindness when you soften your blows.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± The officer stood and took a step closer to Lis?a. She wasn¡¯t intimidated, and glared straight into his eyes.

    ¡°You took our land, subverted our ways with yours, and expect us to fall in line like good little conquered.¡±

    ¡°Girl, you were still shitting your blanket when ¡®your ways¡¯ were still alive. And they have brought your people to ruin and defeat. What do you know of Aldren? Hm? What about it did you remember that was so much better than Faleria¡¯s rule?¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°¡­I know that your people killed mine in droves.¡±

    ¡°Who started the war?¡±

    ¡°¡­I¡­¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know.¡±

    Lis?a sprung to her feet and shouted, ¡°I know yours fired the first shot!¡± But no one paid attention to her outburst; it was drowned out in the busyness of the square.

    ¡°Did nothing before that happen?¡± The officer replied. ¡°To use a youngling¡¯s vernacular, if one of your schoolmates harassed you relentlessly short of hitting you, is your fist the only thing that matters if it flew first?¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°Look kid. You remember nothing about Aldren. You¡¯re acting out for all the reasons related to being a premature brat and you¡¯re taking out your frustrations on the world around you. I¡¯d know, I used to be young too. Even if you cared about Aldren, is robbing a medicine man going to change anything?

    ¡°Stop skipping your classes. Go home.¡±

    With that, the officer roughly adjusted his uniform and marched away, disappearing into the crowds of people returning home from a long day. Lis?a was left alone by the fountain. Her fists were white with fury. Her jaws creaked under pressure.

    The officer was wrong. He knew nothing about her. She needed the money to leave Cadeau. She wasn¡¯t just another frustrated kid without a plan. She¡¯d show him. Somehow.

    Still reeling and with her head lowered, Lis?a returned to the bright lights, tobacco smoke, and exotic performances of the Lily Vine Chalet. Home. She holed herself up in her attic and stuffed her ears with cotton to block out the music, then fell into restless sleep.

    --

    Jorge left the flower before more of the creatures came. There was a river nearby; he heard the flowing waters. He barreled towards it and frantically splashed the water onto himself. The massive flower¡¯s scent washed away. Jorge took deep breaths. It wasn¡¯t good for him to be this excited. He could feel something ready to burst in his chest.

    When he had calmed he saw his own reflection in the water. The image could only be described as a generous pear shape warbling in the stream. His mother¡¯s words rang through his head.

    ¡°One day you¡¯re going to have to leave the basement and get a life. Are you going to spend the rest of your years getting stuck in doorways?¡±

    Jorge looked down and met stomach. His ¡®big-boned¡¯ rotundness ticked well over three hundred pounds. Round and clumsy, he shambled through his life. He had one saving grace: his height at least stretched out his mass. Now his generous stores may be the reason he won¡¯t starve so easily.

    He spent the dwindling daylight searching along the river, gathering information about the land. All the while he asked questions. What had brought them here? What about the others in the party? He vaguely recalled seeing no one else follow him out the hole in the house. Where were they now?

    Dark fell quickly once the sun neared the horizon, the rays waylaid by the dense branches and leaves of the forest. He needed shelter. Somewhere near the river would be a good idea. Jorge began to gather branches. Long ones without too many protrusions seemed to make sense. After what felt like an eternity of grueling work, Jorge stopped to breathe. Hot streaks of sweat lined his face. His clothes were covered in dark spots, particularly around the armpits and neckline. His work laid before him. There was enough branches to make a teepee for someone a quarter his size.

    ¡°God damn it.¡±

    Why did this have to happen? The irony sickened him. The wave of new age ennui had rolled through his generation. In a fit of trendy soul searching people his age had decided alternative ways of living were the cure. But Jorge was different. Unchanged. He was fine with his life the way it was. Sure he didn¡¯t get any love from his parents, but being happy meant being who you were. Right?

    Jorge hated camping. He knew several people off the top of his head who¡¯d have loved to be in his position. Living off the land and the like. The longer he worked, the worse he felt. He was wearing cargo shorts and his exposed calves were beginning to redden from rashes. Every breath brought fire into his lungs.

    Maybe he ought to have at least tried to lose weight over the years. When he entered middle school he vowed to not be the largest child in the class. When he entered high school he made a solemn promise to at least be able to finish one lap around the track without slowing to a walk. When he entered college he had all but stopped caring.

    Inexorably, the sun set, and his camp was finished. It was a wall of twigs tied together with a bunch of old vines that smelled like lilies. Suspended at an angle against a tree, it could fit him if he curled in a fetal position. He couldn¡¯t work any longer. Not just because of his fatigue.

    Leaves rustled. Twigs snapped. The wind whistled. The language of the forest had been deafening since he arrived, and it was only growing louder in the night. Jorge didn¡¯t dare make any more noise. He crawled under the flimsy shelter he had copied poorly off of Discovery channel. Small cuts and bumps covered his hands. All of his joints hurt. At twenty-six years old, Jorge wanted to cry.

 12 â€“ A Friend of God

    When Lis?a woke up she was met with a single demand and a pile of clothes made with tough fabric.

    ¡°Dress. I¡¯ll be waiting in the carriage.¡±

    She wiped the dried trails from her eyes and cheeks and did as she was told. The clothing was constricting, exuding officiality. She stuffed herself into the formal wear and rushed downstairs, nearly running into Madam Licelle.

    ¡°Already causing trouble?¡± Licelle called after her.

    Lis?a ignored her and went outside. Valdren¡¯s palanquin had a door opened, waiting. Lis?a climbed in and closed it behind her.

    ¡°Drive.¡±

    And they were off. From behind the carriage¡¯s walls Lis?a heard the usual morning cacophony. Boots lifting off stone and unintelligible chattering. People preparing for work. On week¡¯s end too. It had been busy here for a long time, so much so people worked even on the day of rest. This carriage ride promised to be as uncomfortable as possible.

    Formal wear seemed to find every itch on her body. It was difficult enough worming her fingers into the tight spots of her long jacket to reach the itches. Lis?a tried to relieve it as discreetly as she could.

    ¡°Stop.¡±

    She pulled her fingers out and set her hands by her sides. Bored, she let her head turn to the side to look out the window shawl. At the center of the city a church rose over the rooftop horizons. The building¡¯s spires towered over Cadeau de Chires. Impressive, even when seen through the shawl¡¯s fabric. Lis?a realized why they were going there.

    ¡°Vald- mother, I¡­¡±

    ¡°What.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think we need to do this.¡±

    ¡°We do.¡±

    ¡°Okay¡­¡±

    The horses stopped. A valet ran up, awaiting their exit. Lis?a sighed and opened the palanquin¡¯s door. The valet extended a hand. Lis?a swatted it away and stepped down onto the paved stone.

    The stairs to the basilica¡¯s grand entrance numbered over a hundred steps. Intricate marble statues were carved into the entablature above the entrance. The same level of detail went into the colonnades which supported it. When she was little Lis?a wondered in amazement how artisans could animate stone. She was too possessed by dread to care now.

    The valet took the carriage to the stables. Valdren had started walking up the stairs without her. Lis?a skipped two steps at a time to catch up to her mother¡¯s side.

    ¡°Mind your gait,¡± Valdren said.

    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡±

    ¡°Your button¡¯s been undone.¡±

    ¡°I was finding it hard to breathe.¡±

    Valdren seemed to consider it. Was Lis?a truly uncomfortable? Or was she searching for the slightest opportunity to rebel?

    ¡°Fine,¡± Valdren said.

    Lis?a smiled, relieved. The long jacket wasn¡¯t the only thing strangling her. White trousers complemented her attire, tailored for her a year ago with the expectation she¡¯d lengthen into it. The tailor had not anticipated her practice of rooftop acrobatics. A lady, exercising, and for hooliganism too.

    They left the summer heat and entered the chill interior of the basilica. Lis?a squinted. Radiant rays of sun, as solid in the dust as to appear like pillars, rained from the roof¡¯s panes. Rows and rows of wooden pews shrunk towards the hall¡¯s end. An enormous tabernacle plated with gold stood tall. At its feet a man in pure white robes turned and smiled.

    ¡°Go to him,¡± Valdren said.

    ¡°But mother-¡±

    A priest arrived from one of hall¡¯s alcoves. He bowed briefly and extended a hand.

    ¡°My lady?¡± He beckoned.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Valdren glanced one last time at Lis?a, said nothing, and walked with the priest into one of the connecting halls. The tail of her mother¡¯s jacket disappeared around the corner. Lis?a resisted the urge to run after her. The man beneath the tabernacle waited patiently, his hands formed a basket by his stomach.

    Lis?a took her time to approach. Every step she made echoed. She looked to the pews by her side. The seats were loosely filled. No one seemed to notice her; they were all engaged in silent prayer. She stopped at the feet of the preacher¡¯s platform where the man stood. It was raised by two steps.

    He was thin. Up close his pure white robes were revealed to have many subtle patterns and distinctions. A pendant hung from his neck: a platinum mold of the Falerian hawk. But that wasn¡¯t what Lis?a noticed first. The sun¡¯s rays didn¡¯t seem worthy of the man¡¯s presence. He exuded a welcoming lightness, magnified by a genuine smile.

    ¡°Ms Crescent,¡± he said.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°I am an Archbishop of the Order.¡± He extended a hand. ¡°But since your family is not of the faith you can just call me Vulka.¡±

    ¡°Why was I told to come here?¡±

    ¡°Come. Walk with me.¡±

    Before Lis?a could say anything, he had already descended to the steps, hands tucked behind his back. Lis?a followed a couple meters behind. They went through one of the basilica¡¯s many branching corridors. Tall windows lined the inward facing sides. The complex arrangements of flowering plants and fruiting trees just behind the glass panes were entrancing.

    ¡°Do you like them?¡± Vulka asked. ¡°We ventured into the Heldrasi woodlands to harvest them.¡±

    ¡°Just for flowers?¡±

    ¡°The forest isn¡¯t so dangerous nowadays. Aldren did a number on the natives there before we arrived.¡±

    ¡°Look, why am I following you?¡±

    Vulka stopped. ¡°Your mother asked me to talk some sense into you,¡± he admitted. ¡°We can cut to the chase if you prefer.¡±

    ¡°I would. I don¡¯t see why some fancy believer has to listen to my mother about anything though.¡±

    ¡°Your mother¡¯s kind provide an essential service to Faleria. We¡¯ve much¡­ state work to get through and-¡±

    ¡°My kind?¡±

    ¡°Stow your venom, child. I meant the Chalet¡¯s occupation, not your nation of origin.¡±

    ¡°Pleasing dirty, unfaithful men?¡±

    ¡°Relieving the mounting stresses from labor. Integrating new lands into the empire is a volatile and busy time. Morale among the laborers is paramount. Your mother and her ilk¡¯s work is to be respected.¡±

    ¡°I guess it¡¯s not a big deal then to help out the district¡¯s most beautiful whore with her problem child then, huh.¡±

    Vulka¡¯s smile pursed, shifting from welcoming to amused.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to enjoy our discussions.¡±

    --

    Jorge cried out at the top of his lungs. He had awoken covered in squirming tubes of colored flesh. They pulsating forward along his exposed skin and clothes, dozens of tiny legs dragging their bodies along. In frantic movements he brushed them off. His elbows knocked into his shelter, and the whole thing nearly fell apart.

    ¡°This can¡¯t be real,¡± he muttered to himself. He was too exhausted to continue his panicking. His sleep had not been restful. And he was parched. Jorge left his shelter carefully and stumbled to the stream where he began shoveling handfuls of water into his mouth.

    Motion made him freeze. His ears picked up the sound of slurping water. His head slowly turned. Only several meters away, a familiar yet uncanny creature drank next to him. It looked like a deer. Black nose, sleek body, four long legs, two heads. Each head had one half of a full set of antlers on the outward side. On the sides of its head facing inward, a small crystal grew instead.

    One head lifted to regard Jorge, then returned to its drinking. When Jorge stood he realized why it wasn¡¯t afraid of him. He was not a short man, and by inspection he guessed the top of his head just barely reached the base of the deer¡¯s neck. In this world, he was the small one.

    His heart began to race. What were the predators like in this place?

    He decided if there ever was a time in life he needed to suck it up, it was then. He didn¡¯t want to die. He was going to prove to himself that his parents were wrong about him and find a way back to his world with air conditioning and real food. What was the most important tool they always talked about on those survival shows? A knife. Jorge began to search for a sharp stone along the river.

    Too round. Too oblique. Too smooth. Where were those perfectly tear-shaped flint edges forest natives always had? Maybe he had been going about this the wrong way. Jorge picked out a stone that was at least shaped like a knife. He ran a finger along the edge. Dull and pointless. But maybe¡­

    He picked up a round stone and set the slim one upright. Gritting his teeth, he brought the makeshift hammer down onto the slim stone¡¯s side. The whole thing broke.

    ¡°What am I doing?!¡± Jorge began swinging at the water, splashing it everywhere. The tantrum lasted only seconds. He was out of breath. ¡°What the hell are you looking at?!¡±

    The deer tilted its heads. Then it began to walk towards him. Jorge forgot his anger. He stumbled backwards. A jutting stone caught his heel and he fell onto his rear. Pain shot up his spine. He covered his mouth before he cried out.

    It stopped in the middle of the river. The water was split by four hooves, lapping against elegant legs. The deer lowered its heads to examine Jorge. He could feel the heat from its breath and see the wetness on its noses. Then it raised a leg and struck a stone beside Jorge. He jumped to the other side. The rock split cleanly in half, revealing its dark, smooth interior. With that, the deer left the riverside and walked back into the dense veil of flora.

    Still breathing heavily, Jorge crawled over and examined the halves. Understanding grew like a hungry spark in his mind. He began to pick up more stones along the river, raising them in the air and throwing them down. Some shattered. And of those that did, most did not break as cleanly. Jorge spent the whole day dropping stones on each other until his efforts yielded a single, lucky splinter. A smooth piece of dark rock, sharp on one uneven side. Using the lily vines he tied it to a stick as tightly as he could.

    Hours of work sat on his lap. His arms were numb. Dots were forming in his vision. But there it was: a hatchet. Jorge wasn¡¯t dead in the water just yet.

 13 â€“ Is a Friend of Yours

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t say those things about your mother,¡± Archbishop Vulka said in a singsong tone.

    ¡°I¡¯ll say whatever I damn well please.¡±

    ¡°Because she isn¡¯t here?¡±

    When no retort was made, Vulka let out a chuckle. He resumed walking. And for reasons Lis?a didn¡¯t know, she continued following.

    ¡°Your mother is remarkable to have attained the status she possesses, being once a citizen of the Aldren Empire. Those deep in the interior of Faleria have a disdain for your late culture. Your forefathers fought the hardest out of all our conquests, and it shames our nobles to acknowledge how close we were to losing that war.¡± Vulka shook his head. ¡°But alas. Your people made several mistakes too many over the course of the conflict. And once the scales tip even the powers of a Highcaster were inadequate to bring it back.¡±

    ¡°Your gloating is doing wonders to admonish me from rebellion,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°So much pride in what your generals¡¯ did too. Is it normal to congratulate yourself for winning a war you didn¡¯t fight in, holy man?¡±

    Vulka regarded her with a thoughtful gaze.

    ¡°A sharp, self-aware tongue. I had a routine planned to convince you to behave. Now I¡¯m curious.¡± He turned around to face her fully. Nothing about his appearance changed, but Lis?a took a step back. She hadn¡¯t felt like this even when she stood before an officer of the law. Vulka asked, ¡°What do you want?¡±

    ¡°Why on Etrylis would I ever tell-¡±

    ¡°Help me help you,¡± Vulka said, every syllable lower and deeper than the last. Or did Lis?a hear it wrong? She felt shaky. Similar to the time Licelle let her try firegrape schnapps. She felt as though she needed to speak.

    ¡°I¡­ want to leave this city. Make a life away from here.¡± Tears were forming in her eyes. ¡°So mother won¡¯t have to do th-this kind of work f-for me anymore.¡±

    Lis?a gritted her teeth and shook her head once. Her senses returned.

    ¡°What?¡± She glared at Vulka. ¡°Why did I just¡­ I don¡¯t know why I told you that.¡±

    ¡°Because, dear child, such a burden is heavy on someone so young so you trusted a man of high faith to bear it with you,¡± Vulka said. ¡°And you were right to. I won¡¯t tell a soul what you¡¯ve said. Tell you what. I¡¯ll do something for you. Have you heard of the Karavane Hawks?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a sub-military squadron for guarding transports right?¡± Lis?a recalled. ¡°What of it?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a special division in the Hawks, guarding not transports but expeditions. Would you like to be submitted?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Lis?a¡¯s eyes began to dart. The possibilities were availing. Experience away from the city, merits in the military, travel. Independence. Self-sufficiency.

    ¡°The minimum age for enrollment is sixteen. But they make exceptions for younger recruits if they show promise in some field. Swordplay, arcanery perhaps, physical adroitness.¡±

    ¡°Would they accept someone of Aldren descent?¡±

    ¡°Faleria has always been meritocratic,¡± Vulka said. He made a thoughtful face. ¡°But if I were to send a word or two to the Commander I can guarantee a lack of prejudice.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Why would you do this for me?¡±

    Vulka smiled warmly once more.

    ¡°Well your mother was the one who wanted me to talk to you,¡± he said. He put his hands together. ¡°And I have done so. Your destiny is your own. Good luck, child.¡±

    --

    Jorge¡¯s arms were still numb from a day ago. When he woke up he discovered he had chipped a nail. He spent the first minutes of morning filing it down to a stub with an abrasive stone. Hunger hadn¡¯t settled in yet. He had sprung awake several times the night before from bumps in the dark. The constant looking over one¡¯s shoulder was not an appetizing routine.

    The forest was changing him as well. He caught himself feeling proud for having the sense to relieve himself far away from his makeshift shed. The camp itself had been improved with a bedding of fresh fern leaves. Or what looked like ferns. A single stalk had dozens of flanking leaflets that could swallow a child.

    With his shelter no longer being the most uncomfortable place in existence, he spent the next few hours exploring the area around the camp. The forest floor was uneven and home to many exposed roots spidering about. The roots could be anywhere from as thin as a pinky to as wide as Jorge. Large caps, white frills on the underside and red on the roof, sometimes lined the sides of trees like abstract stairs. The living steps sometimes climbed all the way up the tree, spiraling along the way. Jorge made a note to avoid them. Best not to be too close to fungi that colorful.

    The vines were another matter of difficulty. Networks of green rope connected tree branches at every level. There was no end in sight. Jorge quickly found walls of the vines that were impenetrable. His hatchet barely made a dent in the ropes. If he were lighter he might have been able to climb them.

    In his exploration Jorge nearly fell several times. The forest floor was uneven. Dunes and valleys riddled the earth, etching a chaotic maze into the world. Drop-offs and steep climbs were a staple of the geography. He left the impenetrable wall of vines and tried to retrace his steps, but found himself in unrecognizable terrain. He was in a sunken path flanked by dirt walls. Somehow, the saner mind prevailed. He was too tired to panic, too thirsty to feel sorry for himself. Only a cold logic remained in his overheated brain. He ran a finger along the earth as he walked, hoping it served as a marker.

    Daylight constantly shifted. The canopies were a fierce competition by the green lords of the forest. Ancient, glacial rivalries fought for surfaces exposed to the sun. The scraps of light that made it through were sparse. The whims of the wind ruffled the branches above and in turn shook the shadows below. It made him dizzy. Jorge had been walking for hours.

    The earth maze deposited him in a clearing he had never been before. A pool of water was in front of him. Even in his state, dazed and exerted, he knew better. Sweat stung his eyes, but he could see that the water was brown and stagnant. He was beginning to feel faint. The world was spinning.

    ¡®What the hell are you doing son?¡¯

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    ¡®At your age I was doing laps with fifty pounds on my back! Come on fatso!¡¯

    ¡°Dad, I just can¡¯t¡­¡±

    ¡®I didn¡¯t spend my twenties eating IEDs to see my flesh and blood fail Phys Ed!¡¯

    A shred of sense remained in Jorge to know he wasn¡¯t actually talking to his father.

    ¡°Dad I¡¯m not like you,¡± he said anyways. The words were a long time coming. ¡°I should have stood up to you and told you. I¡¯m not you. Stop forcing me to become you. Stop trying to make me into something I¡¯m not¡­¡±

    ¡®The hell you mean?¡¯

    ¡°What?¡± Jorge looked up. He squinted. A gargantuan man stood in front of him with his back to the sun. Gustavo Faett bent over with his palms on his knees, lording over Jorge. His father¡¯s face was covered in shadow. The sun peeked over the rim of his short hair, too blinding to look at directly.

    ¡®Son, why do you think we¡¯re doing this?¡¯

    ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ remember this.¡±

    ¡®You need discipline. You need self-control.¡¯

    ¡°No. I¡¯m not like you. I don¡¯t need-¡±

    ¡®I never wanted you to be me. You need discipline for your own health. And you need control to protect the kids around you from yourself.¡¯

    Jorge¡¯s eyes opened. He pushed himself off the wet dirt to a kneeling position. The walls of the clearing were still around him. His thirst was tremendous, his lips felt like hard husks. A rustling came from his side, something large.

    This is it. I¡¯m done.

    The leaves above the clearing pushed aside, and out poked two heads and branching antlers. The deer spared him an aloof glance before walking away. Jorge dragged himself upright. Without another thought he followed the animal.

 14 â€“ The Recruit

    It was pure chaos in the Lily Vine Chalet. Lis?a had turned away as politely as she knew how at least a dozen girls all trying a different argument on her. None were convincing, not that Lis?a was looking to change her mind. It had been a month since they returned from the Order¡¯s basilica. Lis?a had been preparing ever since.

    She held the letter of acceptance in her hands, reading it for the umpteenth time. A thumb felt the contours of the melted seal on the envelope. The wax sign of the Falerian Hawk with the Karavane distinction. She tucked the envelope inside her duffel bag, slung it over her shoulder and left her attic, pausing on the doorway. She hated this place. But in as she was leaving, she only felt nostalgia.

    Madam Licelle stood by the bottom of the staircase with her arms crossed. As usual, the woman wore a split leg dress with a daring d¨¦colletage. Lis?a paused next to her, neither facing Licelle nor leaving just yet.

    ¡°Come on,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°You¡¯re never this silent.¡±

    ¡°I used to change your diapers you know.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t need to know that.¡±

    ¡°Now you¡¯re leaving the nest.¡± Licelle sighed. ¡°She wouldn¡¯t want me to say this but¡­ This is going to be the hardest on her.¡±

    ¡°Valdren will be fine without me.¡±

    ¡°You think she worked here for herself?¡±

    ¡°¡­No.¡± Lis?a nodded, reminding herself why she was doing this to begin with. ¡°I know. I understand. I¡¯m working for myself now. Besides I hate it here.¡±

    Licelle laughed. ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± she said with a snort.

    ¡°I hate you,¡± Lis?a said.

    ¡°That¡¯s not true either.¡±

    Lis?a smiled, then continued out the main doors. Where Valdren waited on the sidewalk. Her mother stood there facing Lis?a as the doors swung shut. They met eye to eye for a silent moment. Lis?a¡¯s mind raced, not in the search of something to say but in the inability to choose what to say. She had so much she wanted to give voice. She took a breath.

    But Valdren spoke first.

    ¡°Good luck.¡±

    The lily and haemadril scent swept past Lis?a, then the doors opened and closed. And Lis?a was alone in the sidewalk.

    ¡°Thanks.¡±

    Lis?a walked away from the Chalet. Each step taking her somewhere colder, alien, towards an unfamiliar world where new flames awaited fresh meat.

    ---

    It had been a month since Jorge made it out of the woods, near death from thirst. He had followed the two-headed deer, who didn¡¯t seem to mind this little round creature tailing it the entire time. And within an hour he was back to the river. He realized he had been walking in circles. A new respect for woodland creatures grew within him.

    Jorge had not learned much about this world in the time he had spent here. He had learned which fungi were safe to eat and which took him out of commission for days from a single nibble, when he spent all day writhing in pain and all night in troubled sleep. Some berries were edible. Others made him lose weight in a very, very quick manner. He tried once to start a fire. He had gathered kindling and a pyramid of sticks together and tried to create an ember using the bow-and-stick method. Before a spark was allowed to live however, a hoof as wide as a dinner plate smashed into it, snuffing its potential. The deer then regarded him sternly with both pairs of eyes, then walked away.

    Jorge didn¡¯t know what to think of the animal. It was hard to call it a simple beast when it looked so aware of its surroundings. The thing made a moose look childish. He reckoned the tip of its antlers scraped past twelve feet in height. Occasionally the antler stubs on the inner side of its heads glowed. When that happened, it sprang away faster than what ought to be possible for a creature of such a size.

    Whatever it was, Jorge understood it was the reason he was alive. Whether it was on purpose or not its habits had taught him much. He sat on the shoreline, binding his third hatchet in a new knot he had figured out. This one was unbreakable. He had used his old hatchet to carve out the new blade edge. Instead of using any old twig as a handle, he found that the fallen branches of the ¡®super redwoods¡¯ made for a much stronger base. Putting it together had taken him days. As a joke he had set the pieces in front of him and said, ¡°Craft,¡± out loud. Despite being alone it made him redden in embarrassment.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    There, the last knot. The new tool was a shiny black and as sharp as he could get it without a whetstone. The rocks here seemed volcanic in origin. Jorge looked around, wondering if there was a mountain nearby, but it was impossible to tell on the ground. He went to work trimming new branches for his shelter instead of wasting his time with idle speculation.

    An eerie cry caught his attention. It wasn¡¯t human in the slightest. He grabbed his hatchet and waded across the river. There, again, the cry sounded. He quickened his pace. Vines covered the path. He swung his hatchet, cleaving them out of the way. The sky was darkening. He was moving into the deep woods, where flora fought their slow wars for sunlight much harder than anywhere else. Something drew him to move forward.

    Another cry. Longer, drawn-out, out of breath. It was desperate. Jorge felt his heart pound. What was it? I shouldn¡¯t be approaching. But he towards it nonetheless. Two ferns blocked his path. He pushed them out of the way and sprung onto a clearing at the base of a tree between two roots. The deer was on its side. The grass soaked red. It was surrounded by wolves. One on a lifted root several feet in the air. Three on the ground, circling. They turned their heads in his direction.

    They looked like wolves, but Jorge had never known wolves to have six legs. Gunmetal steel fur lined their backs, infested with greenish vegetative growth. Open mouths revealed two rows of teeth. Each was larger than any canine on Earth. Jorge couldn¡¯t move. Tears blurred his vision. If he hadn¡¯t relieved himself earlier in the morning, he would have then and there. Images of being drawn and quartered filled his head, followed by memories long ago. When he was young and far stupider.

    A fourteen year old Jorge stood before his broken bike.

    They laughed and laughed. Why? Numbers. They were three and he was one.

    Jorge didn¡¯t remember their faces. He was too steeped in grief.

    The bike was new. His parents had gifted it to him officially because of good grades, but he knew what it was meant to do.

    He didn¡¯t care. He didn¡¯t care that his parents¡¯ every move passively pointed at his belly. He didn¡¯t care about the unoriginal jokes the other kids made at his expense. He didn¡¯t care that he was out of breath after a minute of pedaling.

    That bike was his. And it was broken.

    He stopped seeing human faces. Just for a minute.

    And when he was done the asphalt was black-red. He saw one of the kids shaking, unsteadily picking up molars off the tarmac. The other pulled their third along, who had gone limp. He saw their bloodied faces and felt their fear. Jorge thought about offering help. But it felt inappropriate.

    He thought he had forgotten.

    Jorge was screaming. He had never seen so much blood at one time before. It made him want to hurl. But he held on and pulled the hatchet out of the wolf¡¯s skull. Spurts of it spread on the grass. The other wolves hesitated for a moment, mostly out of surprise that their pack member was defeated, but their instincts returned quickly.

    The one on the root jumped down and joined the others in a circling motion. They barked at him at random. A part of him, a genetic memory from mankind¡¯s prehistory perhaps, warned him. Distraction. Jorge forced himself to not look in the direction of the barking. He took slow steps back, keeping them all in his line of sight, until his back met tree bark.

    The wolves stopped circling. The one on the left snarled and howled. The one on the right attacked immediately after. But Jorge was ready. He swung his hatchet with the entire arc of his right arm, catching the lunging wolf in the cheek. The other two joined just as their third fell away, whining.

    Jorge leapt away. Claws caught his shoulder. He felt warmth spread in his shirt and smelled iron. Adrenaline snipped the pain in the bud. His position had changed, and the wolves were forced to reposition. They attacked again. He tried to dodge. He was simply too big. They were shaving at his flesh, never quite catching on. But the wolves had smelled blood. They chased him through between the vines and the trees. This was their turf; they knew it better than any creature. Little did their prey know he was being corralled into a wall of earth. Impossible to climb and with nowhere to go.

    They saw him there now, trapped, unable to run any longer, back against the wall. And they attacked. Snarls and biting filled the air, following by whines. It didn¡¯t make sense. A pack member was sent to the side by a large stone to the skull. Their already wounded member was split across the face by the black weapon in the prey¡¯s hands. The leader was all who remained. It attacked, biting down on the weapon and tearing it away from the prey. Now the prey was finished. The wolf leapt forward again, jaws snapping. But its teeth bit air. The prey was restraining it somehow. With what? It howled and roared in confusion. Then it became short on breath. The world was going dark.

    Jorge ignored the wolf¡¯s kicking at his chest and stomach. He added another ring of vines around the wolf¡¯s neck and tightened even harder. The seconds ticked past. One. Two.

    Jorge was beginning to feel numb.

    Five.

    The paws were aggravating the swipe wounds on his body. His shirt was wet and stained red.

    Ten.

    The wolf convulsed. Jorge didn¡¯t let go. Every bit of give the animal allowed he returned with a tightening of the vines, like a python¡¯s vice.

    Twenty.

    The wolf stopped moving. Jorge didn¡¯t let go.

    Thirty.

    Jorge¡¯s heart felt as though it would burst.

    A minute had passed before Jorge let go, panting. The wolf¡¯s neck looked mangled and constricted to a thin tube. Eventually, he picked himself up, piloting his body to pick up his weapon. Then he brought the edge down on each of their necks. Just in case.

    Dazed, reeling, he returned to the clearing. The last wolf had been the first to attack. Its head was open, its brains exposed. It trembled on the spot, but its eyes focused when it saw Jorge emerge. Then it saw a slash of black. Its eyes rolled back and its body became still.

 15 â€“ Prejudice

    ¡°Next.¡±

    Lis?a approached and handed her acceptance letter. The recruiter grabbed it, crinkling the paper in his hand as he read. He was a man with a deep set brow, producing a permanent glare. Lis?a swallowed. The recruiter jotted something down on his big leather book. The paper was handed back along with an assignment ticket.

    ¡°Don¡¯t hide who you are,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯ll help.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡± Lis?a didn¡¯t know what that entailed. She tucked the letter back in her bag and followed the cordon into the temporary barracks. When she was freed from the line of fresh blood entering the encampment, she took in her surroundings.

    Tent flaps waved in the wind here on the hill. She welcomed the brief chill after climbing all this way. Below her, marred by distance, the city stretched out into the horizon. The streets were a mash of overlapping, circular grids. Buildings were reduced to tiny, red-roofed blocks. Near the horizon, the basilica of the Order jutted into the heavens, a pure white standard imposed into the city¡¯s center. But it was too far away. She could only see a blurry white.

    Lis?a checked her assignment ticket. West wing, column sixteen, number twenty-three. She began walking. The tents formed long, spaced corridors. Hundreds of people walked between them. Young men and women in all manner of attire. Soon they¡¯d all amalgamate and shed whatever customary garb they had come with, exchanging it with Falerian uniform. A shadow fell over her vision and when she raised her head she had already bumped into the sudden obstruction in front of her. She fell onto her rear. The contents of her bag jostled as it fell onto the ground.

    ¡°Sorry about that, my lady,¡± the man said. He quickly extended a hand and pulled her back to her feet. ¡°I should have been looking where I was going.¡±

    ¡°No worries,¡± Lis?a replied. She slung her bag back over her shoulder.

    The man was about her age, but it was impossible to be precise. Sharp, violet eyes. Tall stature. His clothes were half a size too small, accentuating the toned musculature underneath. Swept back, blonde hair covered the top of his head, whose sides were shaven. All in all, a good looking man if she were inclined to notice such things.

    ¡°Where are you headed?¡± He asked.

    ¡°West wing.¡±

    ¡°Well, of course, that¡¯s the ladies¡¯ side.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Yes it is.¡±

    ¡°Then I look forward to meeting you in the field. Good day.¡±

    ¡°Likewise,¡± She said with a wide smile.

    The moment her expression wasn¡¯t visible she returned to utter neutrality. That man took her for a fool. His friends were close by, waiting cross-armed around a corner pretending to be unaffiliated. But she had caught their subtle peering. The man had walked into her deliberately. She waited until she had found her column before turning the corner. In the area between tents, she patted herself down. Something foreign rested inside her jacket¡¯s left pocket. She clasped it between two fingers.

    It was a small, folded up packet. Unfolding it revealed grounded up leaves. She dropped it immediately.

    ¡°Goddamn cunts,¡± she said through her teeth.

    She hurried to her tent.

    Its occupants stopped chatting at her entry. Twenty pairs of eyes fell upon her. Lis?a smiled briefly and walked to her personal bed. The mattress was just wide enough for one, and barely fit Lis?a head to toe. She wasn¡¯t much taller than average. She did appreciate the thin veil separating each bed from another. An iota of privacy was better than none.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    As she unpacked, someone swept the veil aside and entered her space on the other side of the bed. Lis?a looked up. The stranger had brown, pixieish hair, unbefitting of a face one might find transcribed onto canvas and hung on a foyer. A round face, but worn tightly without the inertia of fat. Eyes like amethysts pronounced mild annoyance as the stranger crossed her arms.

    ¡°Your jacket,¡± she said.

    ¡°Pardon?¡± Lis?a asked.

    The stranger walked around the bed and swept flecks of plant dust off Lis?a¡¯s jacket.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t bring tetralichen into the pre-assessment camp, even if you¡¯re just planning on joining the Karavane and not the military.¡±

    ¡°No- no! It¡¯s not mine. It¡¯s- There were these dumb boys. They-¡±

    She rolled her eyes. ¡°The Celeris brothers.¡±

    ¡°Who?¡± Lis?a asked.

    ¡°Avoid them. It¡¯d do you good. Anyways, I¡¯m Chessie Peruliana.¡± The woman extended her hand.

    Lis?a shook it. ¡°Lis?a.¡±

    ¡°Well, Lis?a Aldrenborn. Looks like you owe me.¡±

    ¡°How do you figure? And how do you know-¡±

    ¡°If the groundskeeper or the sergeant or anyone with authority finds leaf on you, you¡¯re screwed. And there goes all that money you probably spent years saving up to get in here. I¡¯d also keep your head down. Those two innocent little jades in your skull out you as an Aldrenite.¡± Chessie started to leave. ¡°I like them though. They¡¯re pretty.¡±

    The veil closed.

    Lis?a was oddly pleased. When she was finished unpacking she laid on her bed, thinking. After a while she realized the reason she was happy was because she had just made a friend, even if it was in a weird Falerian way. Something did bother her, however. She did not realize submitting to recruitment took money. That explained the number of rich-looking kids with well-to-do family names. She had not paid a single halycite. It didn¡¯t make sense. Did that nosy archbishop pay it for her? But sponsorships would come with an announcement.

    When night came, Lis?a couldn¡¯t sleep. Her fortune didn¡¯t seem to add up, and she dreaded the idea of owing someone she couldn¡¯t face.

    --

    Jorge was bleeding out. The darkness was encroaching. He had never known a feeling so real, visceral, as if his emptying blood vessels were replaced with the essence of dark. As if death itself could breathe, and as he neared it, he could hear its whispers growing louder and more clearly. He wandered closer, and the darkness was banished. Death was a being of pure light. It sat next to his Soul and sang to him, bearing in its hands four sparks shaped like dogs curled into a ball. Flames leapt from those idle embers.

    ¡°The wolves?¡±

    Death nodded. Its palm closed around the sparks, forming a fist. Before Jorge could react, the fist slammed into his chest. He screamed.

    Jorge sat upright, sputtering. His hands gripped the earth by his sides, clutching handfuls of grass. He looked around him frantically. The clearing surrounded him. Insects of all sizes buzzed around the wolf¡¯s corpse several feet away. The sight of the rotting body reminded him to check his own. His stomach and chest was covered in fresh scars. He felt the wounds threaten to tear at the slightest wrong movement.

    The flora wall parted to the entrance of the deer. Its wounds had been sealed as well. It plodded towards him and nudged his head. A green glow emanated from its inner antlers. Jorge felt something grip his insides, as though his flesh were drapes that were too far apart for the day. His wounds felt better.

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ magic,¡± he breathed. ¡°You can do magic?¡±

    The deer finished the session and turned away. It looked spent. Jorge pulled himself upright.

    ¡°You don¡¯t need to do whatever that was anymore. I¡¯m fine now.¡± He felt fine, if a little hungry. Better than fine, actually. He picked up his hatchet and made his way back to the camp. There, he ate his entire reserve of edible berries and mushrooms and drank what must have been a gallon of water. It wasn¡¯t enough.

    Protein. He hadn¡¯t eaten meat in days. His instincts have been very pushy about adding it to his menu. But where? The wolves did not look appetizing, or edible, crawling with bugs. Who knew what those things secreted on the carcass. If he wanted meat he needed to hunt and he needed to prepare it quickly.

    Jorge needed a way to store water. He couldn¡¯t run back to the river every time he got thirsty if he were to hunt. Perhaps there was a use for the wolves.

    He walked back to the site where a wolf corpse laid. It was teaming with life. Maggot looking worms and flies and ants he had mistaken for small mice from a distance. Cringing, he hacked into its lower stomach. He held his breath as he worked. Eventually he found the bladder and tore it out. It was rank. Then he worked on the skin. It took quite a few attempts before he could cleanly remove the hide without ruining it.

    He bound the organs together with a bit of vine and returned to his home. The sun was past its prime. He covered the bundle with dirt to cover up the smell and decided to deal with it in the morning. Sleep evaded him until deep into the night. He had seen something while he was bleeding out. It wasn¡¯t a near-death experience; it was real. And he couldn¡¯t remember what.

 16 â€“ Conspiracy

    Nondescript yelling dragged Lis?a from sleep at the crack of dawn. Her vision was blurry, her eyes sluggish from the usual morning crust. She was slow to pick up the noise did not come from an enthused sergeant. The yelling came with the attitude of warning, danger, panic. A hand reached into her veil and around her wrist, pulling her up. It belonged to Chessie, her yesterday acquaintance.

    ¡°Get up!¡± She hissed. ¡°And don¡¯t look afraid.¡±

    ¡°What, why?¡± Lis?a was fully awake now.

    The other girls were already partially dressed. Lis?a hurried to have some semblance of presentability.

    ¡°Someone¡¯s been murdered,¡± Chessie said.

    Another girl leaned over, saying, ¡°Watch yourself.¡±

    The gears clicked. How many citizens of Aldren descent were in this cohort? How many of what remained of her kind would join the military that defeated her people? And it just so happened that someone died before training officially began while she was there.

    ¡°I¡¯ll owe you another favor if you confirm my alibi,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°We¡¯re neighbors and you woke before me.¡±

    Chessie scoffed. ¡°Don¡¯t be so eager to prove your innocence. Not a good look.¡±

    The other girl laughed. ¡°This is already a lot more fun than my brother promised.¡±

    Lis?a eyed her with distaste. The girl pulled lithe arms through sleeves as smoothly as light butter and donned tight pants up to the waist. So lean as to be mistaken as thin, if it were possible to miss the dancer¡¯s physique even her idle movements seemed to insinuate.

    ¡°Dolores LeCheur,¡± she introduced, hand offered.

    Lis?a shook it to satisfy etiquette, if nothing else. Dolores appeared pleased.

    ¡°Let¡¯s take care of each other,¡± she said, ¡°Aldrenite.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Lis?a. Ciroqe, not Aldrenite or Aldrenborn.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Dolores said most sincerely.

    The tent¡¯s flaps burst open, and in entered an excitable member of their cohort. She waved them beckoningly.

    ¡°Come on! Come on!¡±

    They exchanged glances and rushed to follow. Just outside the columns of tents were the encampment¡¯s necessities. Training grounds, lavatories, warehouses, cookeries. Uninteresting, brown buildings. A splash of red tied the place together, snaring the attention of a thousand recruits. There, high above the ground a hoisting pole jutted from the side of a stable. A body hung, tied by rope.

    Lacerations covered the body. Deep gashes rich with passion, parted the skin into valleys revealing the measure of all men: meat, sinew, and bone. The ground beneath the victim was stained dark red, but not pooled; enough time had passed for the blood to seep fully into the dirt. It had been a violent death. She barely recognized it was a man. Her stomach churned, threatening to relieve its contents. Murmurs were traveling. Imaginative voices speculated what had happened.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    Lis?a heard many things. The victim¡¯s name was Nathen Laplace. A young heir from one of the Northern provinces. His family had been feuding with another for the past century. An investigation by word of mouth revealed that, indeed, a member of that feuding family was a recruit here as well. The discussion seemed to derail from there.

    ¡°Alright everybody scatter!¡± A uniformed man shouted. He had an entourage behind him whose presence quickly established a space between the recruits and the body. Cleaners and caretakers and some other military personnel. Lis?a recognized their ranks. The man shouting was a sergeant. There was a captain as well, who remained silent, observing.

    Many of the recruits were eager to leave. They had only stayed because of some morbid curiosity. Some had to be helped back to the tents, knees weakened by the sight. Lis?a turned to leave as well. She was abruptly stopped by a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see a stern man bearing over her. It was the captain. The tail of his long coat had lifted from his movement, settling down as he came to a stop within arm¡¯s reach of her. A single, soundless step that crossed over twenty feet of distance. Lis?a felt chills on her shoulder.

    ¡°You¡¯re the one,¡± he said quietly.

    ¡°I beg your pardon, sir?¡± Lis?a just managed to keep her voice steady.

    ¡°The one who was recommended in. No familial weight. No blood history. Interesting.¡± He let go and walked away.

    Lis?a could breathe again. She didn¡¯t know what that was about, but as she looked around, she realized the attention that had just drawn towards her. The other recruits were looking straight into her eyes, those green gems to which Licelle once professed envy. The scrutiny that fell upon her now had nothing to do with envy. Lis?a hurried away, heart skipping.

    --

    Jorge didn¡¯t realize up until then how boring survival really was. Those shows he used to absentmindedly watch edited out all the parts were all one could do was wait. He had cleaned and dried the skins and the bladder. Now came the task of determining what kind of sealant was durable and indelible. The flora in this forest were constantly dripping in waxes, nectars, and excretions. He slathered samples of them on the skins and waited for them to dry. There were a lot of steps in making a waterskin. He remembered only a small handful off the top of his head. That had to be good enough.

    Meanwhile he dealt with his building hunger as best he could, sitting cross legged inside his shelter taking slow and deep breaths. People could survive quite a while on just water. Especially people his size. No one said it would be pleasant for anyone to fast like this. He went from eating enough for a small family to barely anything at all. And he was sure he was on the verge of insanity.

    He could have sworn there was a strange heat running through his veins. Last night he found himself oddly soothed by the moon. He also had an easier time navigating the woods, and his stamina did not run out nearly as quickly. Jorge checked the tick marks he made on the bark of a tree. He had been there a few days over a month. Far too little time for his physiology to change overmuch.

    When he had finished resting, he went off to forage for berries and mushrooms. He shouldn¡¯t waste energy doing anything else for now. He had wandered the woods so much he no longer felt estranged from it. Being here dusted off ancestral instincts he didn¡¯t know he had.

    Eventually he found himself facing the wall of vines again. Before, it had put a complete halt on his exploration. Too dense to cut, too strong to move aside. But when he tested his strength on it now, it budged. Centimeter by centimeter it relented until he could open a child-sized hole in the wall.

    The sound of an impact made him jolt. A spear wobbled in place inches away, anchored several inches deep into the vines. The tip was made of metal, beautifully carved with flowing glyphs and securely fastened into place on the end of a bronze pole. No, it was wood, polished so well it shone like metal. He whipped around and saw man in leathers perched on a branch, eyeing him from behind a layer of face paint.

    Jorge set down his hatchet and gingerly raised his hands. The man jumped down. His landing was silent, and he did not seem to mind the sticks and rocks on the ground despite being barefoot. He picked up Jorge¡¯s hatchet and felt the black stone with a finger. His lips pursed, making a curved expression, the universal sign for ¡®not bad¡¯. He retrieved his spear and tossed the hatchet back. Jorge caught it and pinned it back to his belt. The tribal looking man waved for him to come.

    ¡°I-I guess,¡± Jorge said.

    Jorge followed the man over increasingly treacherous terrain, further and further from the river. Soon he couldn¡¯t remember how to get back, and there was yet more distance to go.

 17 â€“ Frustration

    Training began the next day. The girls were woken before the sun peeked above the horizon. Breakfast was bread, milk, and a slice of ham, set to the romantic visage of rising orange piercing through the fabric of the tents. Forks clinked against plates. The soft sounds of chewing stood vigil over conversation. As if talk was to be dreaded.

    There was nothing to say anyhow. The murder had happened. A man was dead. And training must begin. The camp commanders quickly established that any talk intended to speculate about the cause, the perpetrator, or the motivation, was subject to swift and merciless penalization. Not that she was prone to gossip. Lis?a couldn¡¯t stop seeing the victim¡¯s face, covered in blood and cuts. He looked eerily peaceful.

    After breakfast came the jogging. The ring road around the camps was a good couple miles. It only took one lap before people began slowing down. Just a few steps to her side, Lis?a saw a girl branch off the road and onto the grass, relinquishing her breakfast. She looked away, only to see yet another one fall to nausea. The sergeants cracked their whips and yelled. All the lines and insults Lis?a expected.

    ¡°Mommy and daddy can¡¯t pay your way out of this.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s all you have? We barely started!¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t even protect your family¡¯s honor, let alone Faleria¡¯s interests.¡±

    Unsurprisingly, Dolores managed to maintain a pace even three laps in. Lis?a kept up, but didn¡¯t push herself. She didn¡¯t want to seem ill-performed, but neither did she want to impress. Less than ten percent of the male and female cohorts were left. Among them was Lis?a, Dolores, and Chessie. But Chessie was near the end of her rope. Soon she fell back and received an earful from the sergeants.

    ¡°Where¡¯d you get that stamina, Ciroqe?¡± Dolores asked cutely. ¡°Very impressive.¡±

    Lis?a regarded the girl through narrowed eyes. A couple thin trails of sweat marked Dolores¡¯s forehead. She continued to breathe deeply, steadily, and slowly, and had room left in her lungs to speak. The girl had barely begun. Meanwhile, Lis?a didn¡¯t know how much longer she could keep going. Another half a lap? If she bowed out now, would she garner less attention? She was too hot to think. Sweat had drenched the chaffy uniform they gave to all recruits. The longer she ran, the more she seemed to weigh. But something annoyed her about the way such a thin-looking girl like Dolores could last so long.

    Lis?a decided to set her pride aside and leave the track.

    ¡°I expected more from a working class looking ruffian like you!¡±

    ¡°Come on that was barely three laps!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re worth less than the shit off my shoe!¡±

    The ire from the sergeants washed over her like a rite of passage. It was obvious that it was a test, a gauge to see how best to implement the instructors¡¯ training based on the cohort¡¯s capabilities. In fact she regretted holding on this long. She just didn¡¯t want to lose to Dolores. Pride. One of her many weaknesses.

    She sat on the grass beside the track away from the others who had dropped out. There were tears and sniffling, and a lot of bonding over resentment for their families for sending them here. Why were there so many wealthy children here? That archbishop¡¯s words echoed in her memory. ¡®Faleria has always been meritocratic.¡¯ A smile surfaced on her lips.

    Meritocratic my ass.

    Perhaps she had a different definition in mind.

    ¡°What the hell is so funny, huh?¡±

    The smile disappeared. Lis?a turned her head to see the approach of some of the ¡®bigger¡¯ girls. She vaguely remembered them; they had dropped out quite early.

    ¡°Nothing,¡± she said.

    ¡°Because it looks like you¡¯re thinking something humorous is going on here,¡± the leader said. She had curled hair and a face flushed red.

    ¡°No, nothing is funny about the situation we¡¯re in,¡± Lis?a said.

    ¡°Don¡¯t get too confident just because you lasted that long,¡± the girl next to the leader said, a rounder, shorter woman.

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it.¡± Lis?a knew she mustn¡¯t attract any more attention to herself. If all it took was humility and verbal prostration, she¡¯d do it to get them to leave.

    ¡°Fucking Aldren pute. They should¡¯ve finished your species off when they took the capital.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Lis?a leapt to her feet. Hardening her grip, she slammed the joints of her fingers into the leader¡¯s throat. The girl was sent rasping, choking, grasping her neck with shaky hands as she stumbled back. The round one reached for her. She blocked a grab with her elbow, and transferred the assailant¡¯s momentum behind her with a hard slap in the back. The third, the largest one of the three, went for the restraining hug, arms outstretched. Lis?a ducked and slammed her fist into that soft triangle of flesh beneath the sternum, sending the girl gasping for air. The round one recovered and charged at her again. Using the flexibility she had taught herself in her rooftop jaunts, she kicked high, the sole of her right foot thrust a spurt of blood out of her nose. The round one fell onto a kneeling position, clutching her face, screaming, crying. Lis?a kicked her down, then kicked her again. And again, and again. Until the girl couldn¡¯t gather enough breath to cry for help.

    Lis?a blinked.

    She turned away.

    ¡°Useless individual,¡± the leader of the three said as a final word. The three turned away and left her alone, joining the other members of noble families to gripe about their own circumstances. Lis?a gathered her knees closer, hugging herself in silence.

    Chessie plopped herself down on the grass next to her.

    ¡°You¡¯re just going to let them say those things?¡± She asked.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t a safe place to err on,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°I¡¯m a nobody.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a lot more patient than I would have been.¡±

    ¡°My mother taught me that there was no such thing as cruel people, just people capable of cruelty. They give what they¡¯ve learned to those around them in the unconscious hope that someone breaks that echo and shows them how to be different.¡±

    ¡°How kind of you to be so considerate.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not. Whatever hell you nobles are in, I couldn¡¯t care less. What they need is an outreached hand, and I¡¯m not going to be the one to give it to them.¡±

    --

    Jorge followed the native man deep into the forest. At first he hacked the ferns and vines out of the way. Then he noticed that the man had no difficulty navigating the flora, and he began to mimic his movements. It was difficult for Jorge because of his bulk, but soon he realized in his mimicry that the plants all around him were alive.

    Not in the obvious way. They were alive in a way gardeners would kill to understand. Voices travelled through the stems and the leaves. Through the roots and up the trunks of great trees. He didn¡¯t hear relatable words, nor was the forest communicating in any real language. He heard the desires of life. The ferns wanted water, it wanted sun, it wanted creatures to die at its feet so it may sup from its nutrition. And if he quieted his mind, ignoring his own earthly troubles and insecurities, he can exude similar wishes. Jorge wanted to move through the forest, he didn¡¯t want to kill, he didn¡¯t want to cut. He voiced these desires silently, and the leaves, vines, and roots seemed to move away to accommodate his steps. He couldn¡¯t see them physically move, but his passage was suddenly easier, and far more paths opened before him.

    His guide observed and seemed pleased. They had been travelling for hours. Jorge didn¡¯t understand why he was still following the man either, but he didn¡¯t refuse the gift of knowledge. When the guide was thirsty, he¡¯d find a repository of water on a leaf and he¡¯d tilt it into his mouth. Jorge did the same. There was water everywhere in this forest. Clean, fresh, safe water. But the sources didn¡¯t reveal themselves to him if he went around chopping everything in sight. No forest on Earth was so hospitable. Jorge had no doubt if he were in any Earthly woodland, he¡¯d have died long ago.

    That was not to say this place was much easier than an Earthly forest. Giant snails crawled along the ground and alongside tree trunks. They were the size of footballs, slimy bodies encased in swirled shells. When Jorge reached for them out of curiosity, the guide held his wrist, shaking his head. To demonstrate, he plucked a leaf and touched the shell. The leaf browned almost immediately. When the afternoon came they found one of the great flowers that Jorge had fallen in when he first arrived. Rich, nectary odor wafted towards him. His guide pulled him away before he started walking towards it. They watched from behind a bush as those monstrous pulsating insects Jorge had encountered before floated towards it. A great tree nearby rustled. A large lizard as prodigiously gifted in appendages as a centipede crawled down the trunk and began eating the insects that came close to the flower. Judging by its size Jorge could easily imagine the lizard tearing apart a school bus. He had been lucky that his was the one flower that hadn¡¯t been stalked by one of these predators.

    Night fell, and Jorge was reaching the end of his rope. But this night didn¡¯t come with impermeable black over his eyes. He was seeing light. Glowing caps grew on the sides of trees, growing in brightness and size as they neared their destination. The guide began walking on the living stairs, travelling higher and higher into the middle of the trees.

    Jorge didn¡¯t follow. He was too heavy. But the guide waved. Jorge took tentative steps to which the native found amusement. The caps showed no signs of straining under his weight. So they travelled up the trunk with Jorge panting, spiraling up towards the dense forest layer of branches and leaves. The gentle mass of vegetation pushed against him. He held back his frustration and pushed through calmly, keeping his mind away from thinking about his hatchet. His mouth went agape.

    Vine bridges connected hundreds of huts made of sticks and leaves. The village stretched all the way up to the canopy of the forest, and so far laterally Jorge couldn¡¯t see where the end was. From the ground this place would have been invisible. Jorge wondered how many villages were suspended just away from sight near the river. He did not get a chance to ponder. His guide was pulling him to come along.

    They arrived at a hut that did not appear special in any particular away. The entrance was narrow and had no door. Jorge squeezed through and met an old man seated in a cross-legged position. His eyes widened. The old man bearded and covered in greying hair. Lean muscle rippled under his tanned skin. Jorge could tell the skin did not used to be as dark, but most of all, he could sense the familiarity.

    The old man spoke. Jorge didn¡¯t understand, but he recognized the language: Russian. Noticing the excited confusion, the old man switched.

    ¡°English?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I speak English!¡± Jorge said. He couldn¡¯t resist smiling ear to ear, sputtering nervous laughter. The old man quickly matched him and they embraced each other, hollering in happiness.

 18 â€“ The Lay of the Land

    Eighty. Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Lis?a blinked away the sweat. Droplets fell from her face, darkening the sand. In her focus she didn¡¯t hear the approach of heavy greaves grinding pebbles and dirt outside the tent. The other girls stopped their card games and idle chatter. Chessie gave her ribs a nudge with the tip of her shoe.

    Lis?a sprung up from the ground, annoyed.

    ¡°What do you-?¡± She began.

    Chessie pointed at the tent entrance. Soldiers burst through the flaps. In their escort was a woman in a scholar¡¯s garb. Red lacing stitched on black robes, bound by glistening aiguillettes. A gold hawk pin sat visibly against her chest. Spectacled eyes peered from recruit to recruit before resting on Lis?a.

    The woman pointed. ¡°You, come here.¡±

    Lis?a followed the instruction. She ignored the murmurs from the others. The soldiers closed the entrance behind them. She walked with the escort in silence while the morning bustle sounded all around them. The camp was alive with recruits peeling tubers, washing clothes, shoveling latrines. None of the tasks were necessary in the modern Falerian military; it was all tradition kept for the sake of discipline. A cluster of recruits jogged in rows on the track. Some of them slowed to remark, ¡°Look they finally caught her.¡± Then came a short round of laughter. Sergeants whistled and cracked their whips inches away from their faces, silencing them quickly.

    They entered an administrative tent. The soldiers stood by the doorway, while the woman hung her garb and took a seat behind the desk.

    ¡°I apologize in advance,¡± she said. With a raised finger she adjusted her gold-rimmed spectacles.

    ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± Lis?a acknowledged.

    ¡°I¡¯m an Empirial Investigator. Just here to clear names for the murder of Nathen Laplace. Where were you the morning two weeks ago?¡±

    ¡°Sleeping.¡±

    ¡°Can that be confirmed?¡±

    ¡°I was woken by a tentmate by the commotion after someone discovered the body.¡±

    ¡°Who?¡±

    ¡°Chessie Peruliana.¡±

    ¡°Is it possible you killed Nathen in the night and then went to bed?¡±

    ¡°I have no way of refuting that narrative. But the truth is I haven¡¯t the faintest relation to the man. I did not do it.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± The investigator sighed. A finger and thumb lifted the spectacles as she rubbed her eyes. ¡°The only reason you are here right now, Lis?a, is because the Laplace have become aware someone of Aldren descent is among this cohort. They don¡¯t know your name, rest assured. But the Laplace took especially higher losses against your people in the war.¡±

    ¡°Only makes sense they¡¯d suspect me, ma¡¯am.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t sass me. I¡¯m telling you this because the war is over. We¡¯ve won. Whatever quarrel Faleria had with Aldren should¡¯ve ended the moment the throne was smashed and the citadel felled. But like all noblefolk¡­ well, they wouldn¡¯t be able to shoulder the Falerian ideal if they weren¡¯t so high-strung.¡± The investigator rested her chin on tented fingers, leaning forward on the desk. ¡°You are in danger, Aldrenite. If we don¡¯t find definitively who did this to Nathen soon, the Laplace are going to start looking to save face. Your reputation won¡¯t survive in the nobility if people can get away with murdering your heirs. And you, you¡¯re the perfect lamb.¡±

    Lis?a blinked more rapidly. Her heart was racing.

    ¡°What are you saying?¡± She asked.

    ¡°I think you know perfectly well.¡± The woman stood. ¡°You need to prove yourself exceptional, indispensable. Marry the Falerian ideal into your Mind, Form, and Soul. Make it an absolute shame to paint you as the culprit.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    ¡°But¡­ you said you knew it wasn¡¯t me.¡±

    ¡°Lawkeepers don¡¯t exist to enforce the laws, girl. Their work is ultimately to keep the peace. The ire of a noble family is not to be trifled with.¡± She paused, thinking of the words, but could only add, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Then help me,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°What could I do to- to be useful? I¡¯m only here because I wanted to be independent. I don¡¯t know-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m on a schedule. I¡¯m running out of time.¡±

    ¡°But-¡±

    ¡°If you made it into this place, you must be excellent at something. Make yourself unbeatable. Escort her out.¡±

    The guards were by Lis?a¡¯s side in an instant. Without another word, Lis?a followed the corral back to her tent. Chessie ran over when she entered, with Dolores walking closely behind.

    ¡°Well?¡± Chessie asked, eyes wide.

    ¡°I might be a dead woman,¡± Lis?a answered.

    --

    The verdant monitor scoured the forest floor in a feverish search for food. Occasionally it stopped. It was a small creature, and the pyramid of life was steep here. Pitted eyes swiveled in its skull, absorbing its surroundings once every few meters travelled. Keen ears and a forked tongue tasted the air for sounds and scents. Just for a moment it relaxed; a fresh kill nearby had attracted a swarm of carrion insects. While the six-legged creatures feasted on the dead, the lizard feasted on them. The kill was but a piece of the original body, but that was enough for most of the humble organisms near the forest floor.

    The monitor snapped its mouth around¡­ nothing. It had aimed for a bug and missed. It tried to move closer to the kill, but something had pinned it to a nearby root. A single shaft, tipped with metal, had pierced through its sides. In its last moments it squirmed, confused, wondering why it couldn¡¯t reach its meal.

    Jorge tore the arrow free from the corpse and picked it up by the tail. He bled it there before slinging it over his shoulder to bring back to his camp. Later he considered visiting the village to give some of the meat as a gift. They had taught him much in short amount of time.

    The old man, who was named Lyosha, had told him a lot about the world.

    ¡°I came here in¡­ in nineteen seventy,¡± he had said. ¡°Oh it has been long time. Three decades.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s odd, I was pulled here from twenty twenty-five.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± He made a spaghetti motion with his fingers. ¡°Time wibbly weird between worlds.¡±

    ¡°I see¡­¡±

    ¡°Tell me. Young man. What happened?¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°The conflict! The only one matters. Between my people and yours and world.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Well we¡¯ve stopped fighting.¡± Jorge thought about it for a moment. ¡°Kind of.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s good. Good. Better than nukes ah? Hahaha!¡±

    But here things were different and familiar at the same time. Lyosha had travelled far before settling in the Heldrazi forest. On Etrylis, one was hard-pressed to find a decade without a war happening. Everyone wanted to rule. All it took was an ambitious lord, a warband, and a half-decent mage and one could start with the many scattered villages throughout the continent. Nations rose and fell like chaff.

    Only ten great powers stood the test of time. Nine since Aldren fell, consumed by Faleria like an amoeba. And now Faleria was safe from the other eight, which were allegedly even more prodigious in power.

    Collateral fell like ashen rain from the hellish, violent engines driving those economies. The Heldrazi forest once had a hundred tribes. Sometimes they feuded, but never close to the catastrophic scale under the watch of a goddess. She had been missing for years. The Heldrazi mountaintops melted as a result, and had recently had begun billowing black smoke. The tribes there had no idea when it might erupt, and nowhere to go if it did.

    It didn¡¯t concern him; he was no hero. Most of the people that found their way on Etrylis weren¡¯t. He was no different. A mediocre nerd who could only dream of mattering in escapist literature. Jorge was content to sit in his shed by the river. He rebound the twine on the bow the villagers had given him, and began gutting the lizard with his hatchet. Next he skinned it. He cooked the meat over a fire he hid far away from his camp. It was on a small, dry hill, producing little smoke. When he was finished he snuffed it out and came back.

    Jorge didn¡¯t eat much. But when he did it felt satisfying in a way he had never known back on Earth. Watching television gave him that itch, a subliminal thought that said, ¡®Go! Buy this high caloric slop and you¡¯d feel good.¡¯ And that had been true. For the moments it took to consume. Like an intense hit of cocaine, each subsequent sniff weaker than the last. Before he knew it he was shoveling down five to six thousand calories a day. Often more. He ate so he could forget how his parents and society in general judged him for his size, and his size grew from his eating.

    After nearly two months on Etrylis, he didn¡¯t want to eat anymore; he needed to eat. And that made every berry he had to work for taste sweeter than diet Coke. Life felt right. And then he heard tree boughs break close by. Branches as thick as he was tall were being strained past their limit. He did not see, but he heard it. The bushes nearby rustled and the two-headed deer galloped out. It stopped by his camp and lowered its back. Without thinking, Jorge grabbed his bow and a handful of arrows, and climbed onto the animal¡¯s back. It took off. Jorge nearly fell backward in surprise from the acceleration. He dared to look behind him and saw a rising shadow cloaking a set of mountainous jaws. The shadow was brown fur. The monster was a bear. When it roared, it sent tremors through his skull. On its hind legs it was as tall as a house. And when it broke into a run it shattered everything in its path.

 19 â€“ (Lis?a) Challenge

    Do birds fear the height upon which they live? Or find shortness of breath in the clouds? When your hands and feet become wings, so should your fear disappear and your breath strong.

    -Excerpt from Assassinora Magique

    Lis?a breathed in and out. Slow, steady, draws of air enriched her muscles. The world around her became a muted place. When the sergeant yelled, ¡°Go!¡± she sprung. Her feet found purchase on the raised logs planted in the obstacle course. She strode upwards, skipping a step if she had the momentum. Impetus was a resource she had spent her childhood honing on the rooftops of Cadeau. And here there were no shingles ready to break if she took a wrong step.

    In seconds she was two storeys high. At least two others were immediately behind her, but she hadn¡¯t noticed. She had blinded herself to everything but the path ahead. At the top of the logs was a wall, followed by nothing. A straight ten meter drop onto gravel. Lis?a threw herself across and aligned herself to the flow of the fall. Her legs bent, her every muscle braced, she rolled into the momentum and lunged forward with it in the grasp of her aching bones. The pain was nothing. She kept moving.

    Ahead, wood platforms swung on pendulums tied with vines. The vines were covered in half-inch spikes. The pendulums each began at a different stage of their oscillation. She jumped on the first and felt it wobble beneath her, bucking like an ill-behaved horse. The panic tempted her to grab hold of the vines for support as her foundation shook. It was every runner¡¯s nightmare: to be beholden to the fears of gravity. Instead of submitting to that fear she replaced it with another. The fear of being pinned for a murder she did not commit.

    She used the swing of the pendulum and jumped into the arrival of another platform. One had to stop thinking. Thoughts slowed the feet; those were fleeting moments when the pendulums were close to each other. Lis?a stepped from platform to platform, swinging from one to another in instinctual leaps of faith. All while she kept an eye on what laid ahead.

    The final challenge.

    Three walls formed an open square, almost fully sheer except for round studs jutting but a few inches out of the cement. Nearly four storeys in totality. At the top was a balcony with a metal railing surrounded by bells. Some were the kind one might find on a house pet, others to call your children home for dinner. Lis?a didn¡¯t think about why, she only knew she mustn¡¯t slow down. The last platform led straight into the hollow formed by the three walls; there was nowhere to take a break. Below was a humiliating safety net that mocked whoever would need it.

    Lis?a landed on the last platform as it was moving towards her and felt something in her ankle twist. Stopping was failure. She switched to her other leg and jumped, reaching for the studs. Her palms closed around one as the tips of her shoes scraped against the sides of the wall to a dead stop. Brief elation erased the throbbing in her ankle. The next stud upwards was about six feet; far too high to jump to. But the wall to her right had studs that were low enough. She jumped from wall to wall, thrusting with her legs. She could no longer stop by grabbing onto the studs, not while she had the power of her legs behind her movement. Lis?a followed the spiral pattern of studs, using them as stepping stones. Each complete rotation forced her to jump between the parallel surfaces. The lack of a fourth wall completing the square made matters much more difficult.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    She felt at least two nails splinter. Her fingertips were red. Only two more rotations around the square to go. Her thighs burned, her calves felt as though they might split. One more to go. She swore she felt a toe break when she kicked off the last stud. It didn¡¯t matter anymore.

    Bloodied fingers closed around the bars of the balcony. She pulled herself up and jumped over. The tips of her feet landed first, then the rest of her soles, silencing her final step. And her body had missed every bell. A strange pitch rang in her ears. Her hands and feet were numb. Sweat stung her eyes. Her ankle was reminding her vigorously. But when she looked over the balcony, she saw that the only two participants close to her had fallen into the net. The others were even farther behind.

    The test was done. She took the stairs leading back down to the ground. Chessie was waiting for her, barely suppressing a smile.

    ¡°Think you made it?¡± She asked.

    ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t think right now,¡± Lis?a said, panting heavily. Her whole body began to feel like a swarm of bees.

    All around the camp, other similar courses had been set up. Some were just like the one she had just completed. She watched a participant topple off a platform and sprawled out, hands first on the gravel. Hollering ensued. In another field, recruits were assessed by levitating objects, or peering into a strange prism. In another, thin blades clinked against each other as sergeant sparred with amateur.

    ¡°How did you do?¡± Lis?a said. Her throat was hoarse. They walked to the watering stations together. Tables of prepared water canteens waited.

    Three pebbles lifted off the ground and suspended above Chessie¡¯s palm. She then began to juggle them without contact.

    ¡°Runs in the family,¡± Chessie said. ¡°As was expected. What is interesting is where you learned to do all¡­ that.¡±

    Lis?a took a long drink from a canteen and clumsily set it back down on the table. Her hands were shaking.

    ¡°I stole things,¡± she said. ¡°A small number of us did. It was either run or get caught by the lawmen. I was the last one.¡±

    ¡°You were that good, huh?¡± Chessie remarked.

    ¡°No, no no,¡± Lis?a replied with a chuckle. ¡°They all grew up.¡±

    They sat on a boulder, watching the other recruits struggle, fail, and succeed. Now that she had passed her course, she felt a brief calm. The ordeal became just a memory.

    ¡°They all went to work,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°Building cartwheels and steam machines, selling wares, cutting wood, tending kitchens or stables.¡± Lis?a wiped her eyes with her forearm. ¡°Valdren, my mother, had enough money to put me through the Academia, and I skipped half the classes. And now I¡¯m here, hoping I don¡¯t get sacrificed so a noble family could save face.¡±

    Chessie thought for a moment and prepared to speak, but a shadow fell over them. Lis?a looked up and saw a man in an overcoat. The captain. She hadn¡¯t seen him since his abrupt approach weeks ago. Lis?a leapt to her feet despite how much her joints protested.

    ¡°Were you taught what I just saw?¡± The captain¡¯s voice was low, and very nearly drowned out by the noise all around them.

    ¡°No, sir,¡± she said.

    ¡°Hm¡­¡± He turned to leave.

    ¡°Wait! I¡­ sir. If I may ask what specialization are you?¡±

    ¡°Scoutrunner. Karavane Hawks.¡±

    ¡°Do you think there¡¯s potential in me? To become a valuable member of the Karavane?¡±

    The captain glared through her.

    ¡°Not with those eyes,¡± he said.

    ¡°What does that mean?¡± Lis?a exclaimed. ¡°Sir.¡±

    ¡°You think you¡¯re already dead.¡±

    The captain left. Lis?a ran after him, shouting, ¡°Wait!¡± But in a single movement he had gone, as though slipped through the cracks in the world.

 20 â€“ (Jorge) Unbearable

    Jorge counted his arrows. Five in total. Five chances to slow the mountain of bone, meat, and fur barreling through the forest. The only reason it hadn¡¯t caught up yet was because of its weight. Every step it took buried its paws in a few feet of dirt and mud. He could barely see straight with the amount of bobbing and weaving the deer was doing to avoid the rises and eddies of the forest floor. Jorge could smell the bear, feel the heat of its maw. He had to make a decision. He nocked an arrow and brought the fletching to his cheek. The sight wavered. He let go prematurely.

    The arrow ricocheted off the bone plates on the bear¡¯s neck. Jorge could barely hit a still target from ten feet away. Now he had four chances to hit something vital on a moving one. He nocked another and aimed. A blurry, brown mass grew towards him, snarling, panting, the scent of viscera wafting from its slobbering teeth. The canines were as long as his arm.

    He fired again. The arrow bounced off its teeth. That seemed to annoy it, and it fell a couple steps behind.

    Jorge cursed. He apologized under his breath and clamped harder on the deer¡¯s sides with his feet. He pulled the bowstring for a third time. The trajectories of the previous two arrows replayed in his mind. He breathed in, and out, and squinted. The fletching feathers tickled his cheek. Lyosha¡¯s tutelage reared from his memories.

    ¡°You are really bad, friend. But is to be expected. Look at that stomach. You didn¡¯t much hunting back home da? Good thing distance not matter here in the dense woods. It is misconception among cityboys that bow and arrow excel at range. The best weapon is one that hits.¡±

    The bear was so close Jorge could see its uvula. Its vocal cords pronounced hellish notes with a cavernously deep, phlegm-filled vibrato. Jorge and the bear met eye to eye. And then he fired. Blood and vitreous fluid squirted out of the impact wound. The bear stopped running, frantically pawing its face and swinging its body. Rocks shattered beneath its panic. Branches fell from the canopy as its sides slammed into tree trunks.

    The deer stopped running as well and circled back.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Jorge exclaimed.

    Its inner antlers began to glow. It stood on its hind legs and stamped on the dirt. Vines began to grow out of the earth. Ropes of green crawled down tree bark. Roots climbed out of the ground. The plant appendages grasped each of the bear¡¯s paws, holding it down. Lengths of vine gripped its torso and neck.

    Jorge got the message. He wanted to run, but for how long would they have been able to evade this monster? If they didn¡¯t kill it, there would be no peace in this part of the forest. Jorge walked as close as he dared to the struggling creature, steadying his aim against the tremors in the ground, and fired another arrow into its other eye. Its anguished cries redoubled. Jorge circled over to the bear¡¯s side by its collar. He retrieved his hatchet from his belt, feeling the weight of it in his grip. There was no blunt force in the world he could summon to kill this thing. Only one way came to mind. Jorge brought the hatchet high over his head and slammed it into the bear¡¯s neck. It barely broke skin. He did it again, harder. The hide was just too thick. Jorge simply did it again. He inhaled deep and shouted with each swing. He leaned the entirety of his weight into it as well. The ground was beginning to redden. The vines as well. Or was the red everywhere all along? Jorge couldn¡¯t tell if he was making those noises or the bear. He couldn¡¯t feel his own arms. He swung and swung. Blood was seeping underneath the vines; the bear was beginning to slip out of its restraints. Jorge didn¡¯t notice. The handle of his own hatchet was spotted with blood. Splinters were digging into his palms. A piece of black stone chipped off his hatchet, bouncing off his cheek. Jorge didn¡¯t notice that either. He chopped until he saw something pulse beneath the gaping pink gash he had created. Jorge clenched his teeth and jumped into the air, bringing the hatchet into the vein. A fountain of hot, viscous fluid showered him, stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth with the taste of metal. He stumbled back, coughing. The bear tore free of the vines and swung its paw. It was a like a fur covered sledgehammer. Jorge was thrown a dozen meters, crashing onto a tree trunk. He could feel loose splinters of something in his own chest, digging into his lungs. The bear bit through the rest of the vines even as a river of its own life stained its side. It rushed forward, sniffing for him, jaws primed and ready to spring, and collapsed inches away from Jorge, quivering.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    It was night. Or perhaps it wasn¡¯t. The figure clad in light walked towards Jorge as he laid there helpless. In Death¡¯s palm was a spark, fuzzy and clawed, like a hibernating animal. Once more Death closed his fist and struck Jorge straight into the depths of his self.

    Jorge woke covered in bandages. He blinked, his eyes hurt to roll in their sockets. He laid on the floor of Lyosha¡¯s hut. Dim rays of light made it through the leafy thatching straight into his eyes. He lifted himself upright in spite of the pain.

    A hand pressed against his shoulder.

    ¡°My friend, you have more balls than I took you for,¡± Lyosha said with a toothy grin. ¡°The Bedazi people generally avoid the arctursid. They are too heavy to climb you see.¡± He made an upward pointing motion.

    ¡°Thank you for saving my life,¡± Jorge said hoarsely.

    Lyosha fetched him a waterskin.

    ¡°I did little. Your friend over there did.¡± Lyosha held open the entrance beads to his hut. Two familiar heads grazed on a small pile of flora a few feet away, surrounded by young villagers. It allowed them to climb all over its back, even to hang from its antlers.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Jorge asked. He set down the waterskin and wiped his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s been helping me since I got here.¡±

    ¡°The faelk. Ancient, immortal creatures, according to elders here. Don¡¯t presume altruism on their part. It probably want you to kill arctursid for its own sake.¡±

    ¡°Well whatever its intentions are, it¡¯s the only reason I¡¯m alive.¡± Jorge stood and began to unravel his bandages.

    ¡°Wait! What are you doing?!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Jorge said. ¡°In fact, I feel incredibly strong. It¡¯s¡­ uncanny.¡± The wisp of a memory remained of when he was asleep. He could almost remember what that thing looked like. The being of light. Why was it helping him? For now, Jorge had other concerns. He needed a new hatchet.

 21 â€“ (Lis?a) Raison DÃªtre

    The tests would continue for the next few days. The taxed recruits only had that much longer before they knew which specialization they placed in. Meals were had in near silence. There was much less talk and any conversation to be had was under one¡¯s breath. Lis?a had seen two boys get into a fight during lunch from a disagreement about the role of their noble families. A sergeant had to come and break them apart. They were both placed in solitary for the day.

    Lis?a could almost cut the atmosphere. It wasn¡¯t about passing the tests, it was about making the standard. Each division only had so much room to accept recruits from each specialization. Her eyes wandered over to her bed neighbor Chessie. Chessie Peruliana, a well-fed noble from a family of mages, a luxurious occupation. The girl had no need to be as athletic as the other families, but maintained an enviable figure through an intrinsic understanding of the planes of power. The mage cadres almost never filled their quotas for recruits. Such was the privilege of being a rare commodity.

    Her other neighbor hummed the melodies to songs about flowergirls and springtime. Dolores LaCheur absentmindedly bounced a ball off a tent support and back to her hand as she laid in her bed. She wasn¡¯t even looking at the ball¡¯s trajectory. Dolores obviously made it into a specialization. Scoutrunner? Bladedancer?

    Lis?a didn¡¯t know. She had spent a full day in the infirmary being tended to by healers to fix the long list of injuries she had accrued completing the scoutrunner course. Dolores did the same one without chipping a single nail, and she had done it faster. Her one mistake was accidentally touching a bell when she vaulted the railing onto the balcony.

    The acrobatic girl must have noticed Lis?a¡¯s concern. Dolores turned on her belly, her chin rested on her fingers as she swung her calves.

    ¡°You¡¯re going to make it through, Lis?a,¡± she said sweetly.

    ¡°I¡¯m not concerned about making the standard,¡± Lis?a replied.

    ¡°You aren¡¯t actually taking that investigator¡¯s word so seriously, are you?¡±

    ¡°Who knows about you noblefolk. You have much more to lose than what my life is worth.¡± Lis?a wrapped her arms around her legs. She had done well to conceal her emotions since she arrived, but now a downcast mien hung about her.

    Chessie left her book and brightened the oil lamp beside her bed with a snap of her fingers.

    ¡°Words can carry a lot of harm, can¡¯t they, Lis?a?¡± She said.

    ¡°Words are heavier depending on who says them. People, mean a lot of harm,¡± Lis?a said.

    ¡°And people are all different.¡±

    ¡°What are you trying to say?¡±

    ¡°From what I know of you, Lis?a, you have it in your mind that your life¡¯s difficulties come from being born a conquered subject. Everyone around you is a Falerian except you. You think you¡¯ve been downtrodden and judged. But Faleria has existed as long as Aldren. We¡¯ve integrated countless smaller cultures. There¡¯s a limit to how much you can blame prejudice as the cause of your frustrations.¡±Stolen novel; please report.

    Lis?a frowned and shifted her legs.

    ¡°What do you know of prejudice? You haven¡¯t been picked on all throughout childhood just because of your eye color.¡±

    ¡°No, instead, my family tolerates talk of our cowardice in wartimes simply because we tend to stay behind our allies, as is the role of the caster.¡±

    ¡°Oh big deal, rich people denigrating their own.¡±

    Chessie narrowed her eyes. ¡°But the noble families subsist on good relations, especially through the word of mouth. We are affected by the attitudes of our peers, just like you, just like anyone who lives in any society, no matter the status. Look how easily you trivialized a woe you couldn¡¯t relate to. I could easily do the same: your life is but an example of peons bullying peons. Not very fair is it?¡±

    ¡°Uh girls?¡± Dolores said nervously.

    ¡°You want me to just forget my heritage?¡± Lis?a said hotly. ¡°To just deal with the fact that one command from the Laplace and I just might be skewered and left on a spit to preserve their honor?¡±

    ¡°How do you know that for sure?¡± Chessie returned. ¡°Do you know the Laplace family? Did you know Nathen Laplace?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡­ It¡­¡±

    ¡°It just seems typical of the nobility to tread on people like you,¡± Chessie finished for her.

    ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant. I¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Lis?a, no matter from which caste you were born, which family you had at your back, you will be surrounded by actors outside your control. The only person you have volition over is yourself, for better or for worse.¡± Chessie picked up her book again and flipped to find her page. ¡°God knows I didn¡¯t come to a glorified daycare because I wanted to. I¡¯m the youngest. My brothers and sisters are lending their strength to the main force. The submilitary is where the nobility sends children they don¡¯t see the need to invest too much in while maintaining prestige. We¡¯re all equals here.¡±

    Dolores raised her hand.

    ¡°I joined ¡®cuz I wanted to travel,¡± she said.

    There was a moment of silence. Then Lis?a began to chuckle, and Chessie smiled. The air seemed clear again.

    ¡°I just have to keep trying then,¡± Lis?a said, ¡°and live as though I¡¯ve got a hundred years left.¡±

    ¡°Atta girl,¡± Dolores quipped.

    ¡°Oh, and I don¡¯t think mages are cowards, Chessie,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°No matter where in the formation someone belongs, a soldier is a soldier.¡±

    ¡°I know. Winning the war took all of us,¡± Chessie said quietly. She had found her page, and was sinking back in. The lamp beside her dimmed to a comfortable level.

    ¡°Well, except for the last couple of years anyway,¡± Lis?a said listlessly. She yawned and prepared for bed, but was swiftly interrupted.

    ¡°What did you say?¡± Chessie said sharply.

    Lis?a frowned, confused. ¡°The last couple of years of the Falerian-Aldren war. It was almost won entirely by one mage, right? A Falerian necromancer.¡±

    ¡°Necromancy is illegal,¡± Chessie hissed under her breath. She looked around to make sure their tent mates were occupied with their own conversations or asleep. ¡°It¡¯s powered by Gate, the plane of ever-motion. It¡¯s a prohibited plane. Most mages don¡¯t even know it exists, let alone how to access it.¡±

    ¡°Wait. I don¡¯t understand,¡± Lis?a said, stammering. ¡°My mother told me-¡±

    ¡°I think we¡¯re all tired and should stop fighting,¡± Dolores said. She jumped over to Chessie¡¯s bed and jabbed the flame in the lamp, putting it out instantly. A silvery wisp of smoke diffused away from the wick.

    ¡°I was reading, you cunt,¡± Chessie said, the corner of her lips lifted just a degree.

    ¡°No more reading or talking,¡± Dolores said.

    And that was that. Perhaps Dolores was right. Lis?a did feel particularly exhausted after the day¡¯s routines. The three of them laid on their bed in the quiet dark, waiting for the sandman. He came for Lis?a last; something she couldn¡¯t quite put her finger on bothered her well into the night.

 22 â€“ (Jorge) Awakening

    The Bedazi took Jorge on a hike that took several days and nights to one of the Heldrazi mountaintops. It was said that the best tools are made from the black volcanic stone from the source. Along the way Jorge was taught the basics of their language. It was a soft tongue, and often combined signage into its intricacies. Oftentimes, signage was the only thing they¡¯d talk with since speaking out loud might scare off prey. Jorge had taken sign language before as an elective to impress a deaf girl. He stopped when he had learned enough to see the girl tell him in nervous gestures that she was afraid he might crush her.

    But enough of the past. Jorge looked forward to the nights. It used be that he couldn¡¯t sleep until it was technically morning. Surrounded by the locals, he slept well, and they let him sleep. They didn¡¯t seem disgusted to look at him. And if they did, they did not make it obvious. They let him carry all the heavy baggage and it made him feel useful on their journey. He noticed how their attitudes and body language changed when speaking to different members of their tribe. Soft and reassuring for the young ones. Firm for their peers. And relaxed when with him. Jorge thought about it long and hard.

    Why was this primitive tribe so emotionally intelligent? The civilized realms of Earth where he grew up were ruthless in their judgment. Whether it be the real world or online, he met a constant deluge of hate and admonishment for impropriety. But there were a thousand times a thousand definitions for what is ¡®proper¡¯ and what is ¡®just¡¯. And everyone thought they were right.

    ¡°My friend, the chief told me he feels sorry for you.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because where you are from, food is clearly very plenty. But when the Bedazi have plenty food, they eat enough. They don¡¯t eat like you. He thinks the only reason you ate like that is because you were in pain. Pain they do not understand, but can feel the immensity of.¡±

    ¡°What? No! No, I¡¯m fine¡­¡±

    The stars were bright in this universe. So bright they formed the most vivid constellations even underneath thin clouds. If Jorge relaxed, he could almost see them blur as the planet spun and feel the blanket around the world slip over him in cool streaks. Was this world where he truly belonged? Or was it simply that anything better than Earth? The question floated in his dreams as he fell asleep.

    The days passed quickly. They had made it to the mountaintop. The village smith brought Jorge to the edge and pointed at the basin of hot magma in the crater. Using slow gestures the smith explained that the best stones were the smoothest ones, heavy, and of the deepest black.

    Jorge began to climb down the crater. The villagers began to cry out in alarm, pointing at his feet. He looked down and shrugged. The rock here should be near boiling, and yet Jorge felt fine. It only began to feel uncomfortable when he neared the reddish-black mud. The hot sludge was constantly renewing, growing like slime mold. Near this hellish shore, he could see a beach of the black stones. When he touched them, the sweat instantly evaporated off his fingers. He tapped the stones tentatively, experimenting, before he gained the confidence to grasp them tight and begin to roll them up the crater. The heat was finally getting to him. His skin was beginning to blister.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    It took nearly half an hour for him to move the first of the stones back up to the edge of the crater. He was met with excited cheering. He glanced around in confusion. In poor signage he expressed the question, ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Look at what you¡¯ve brought!¡± The smith said to him in rapid Bedazi speak.

    Jorge looked at the stone. It didn¡¯t seem that remarkable. Upon closer inspection however he noticed that it was the size of a stack of car tires. No human would have had the strength to budge such a thing, let alone move it uphill. Hell, a human would have been baked being so close to magma.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Jorge said out loud. But the villagers were already busy, chipping the stone with special picks to divide it into smaller chunks. The Bedazi moved quickly, and didn¡¯t dwell on questions. Jorge was beginning to see the value behind such a philosophy.

    The trip back to the village took a day longer than the going. Although Jorge carried the largest chunk of the stone, he still walked slower than what he could maintain so they weren¡¯t exhausted. The night they came back home, a feast was prepared. A large pit made in the driest part of their canopy village housed a raging flame. The villagers formed rings created by interlocked fingers and danced around the bonfire. Nearby, smiths worked on the stone. Their foreheads were slick with sweat from their labor and their concentration was absolute. They had been working since they returned.

    Jorge satisfied himself with a small trout-like fish baked within leaves and a nest of herbs and tubers. Then he joined Lyosha, who sat near the outskirts of the light.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know this was a cause for celebration,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°Any journey taking this long is cause for festivities,¡± Lyosha said. ¡°But my friend, you don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve done for them.¡±

    ¡°I brought them a large rock.¡±

    ¡°Heldrazite, Jorge. When this land was watched over by a goddess of ice before that Aldren cyka took her and razed her favorite tribe, the mountaintop was frozen over and no one could get the pure stuff. It¡¯s better than most steels. It¡¯s not even really stone, I don¡¯t have the English to explain what it is.¡±

    ¡°A ceramic? Alloy?¡±

    ¡°Ehh no. No word in Earth language for it. This is not Earth anyhow.¡±

    ¡°Wait, what are you saying?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve changed the balance of power here in the forest, Jorge. You¡¯ve decreased the chances of survival for the other tribes.¡±

    ¡°I thought you said these were peaceful people?¡±

    Lyosha laughed, holding his chest in his hands.

    ¡°Jorge, my friend, the noble savage is a lie. Do you read history books back on Earth? Documentaries? Aboriginals killed and enslaved each other all the time! The Bedazi are one of the better ones. They do less of that kind of thing. But now who knows.¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°You what, my na?ve boy?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care. I¡¯m just some city boy remember? If this is their way, then so be it.¡±

    ¡°Ho ho! Better men would have felt bad, maybe even judged.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not going to judge,¡± Jorge enunciated. ¡°I¡¯m never going to judge.¡±

    When morning came, Jorge was roused awake by the smiths. They all stood before him with their backs straightened. Two of the seniors presented Jorge with a large axe. The edge was curved and colored a midnight black. Its head was wrapped around a handle made of a dark wood Jorge had never seen before, a rich and solid structure that curved ever so subtly at its belly into a strapping made of fine leather.

    The oldest smith said out loud, in understandable English, ¡°Thank you.¡±

    Jorge accepted the gift, feeling its weight in his hand. It felt¡­ right. He smiled wide, his cheeks straining at the unfamiliar command, and said, ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±

 23 â€“ (Lis?a) The Measure of Merit

    The training resumed as normal. Gradually, the constant exhaustion and fear of failure became the new normal. And just when the recruits had gotten used to the feeling, the sergeants would add something new. An extra lap, another exercise, longer chores, or a creative unannounced torture. Meanwhile if one was observant enough, one might catch glimpses of black robes disappearing behind the corners of tents and buildings, watching them interact.

    Lis?a saw them as clear as day: the garb of empirial investigators. There were more every week; the Laplace must be getting desperate. How easily everyone else seemed to have forgotten that there was a murderer amidst the thousand or so recruits and staff onsite. And she was still in danger of being wrongfully persecuted in addition to being gutted by this unknown killer.

    Officially, she was a Scoutrunner now, and early in the mornings she¡¯d say good bye to her tentmates and leave for a designated section of the camp with the other Scoutrunners. They were an advance stealth unit meant to clear the path ahead for caravan companies through the treacherous lands betwixt nations. Dolores became, unsurprisingly, a Bladedancer. Their techniques were designed to be impregnable versus four enemies at a time, the maximum number they would realistically be exposed to at a time. Lis?a had seen them train before. Their movements hardly seemed human, every step designed to evade, defend, and attack all at once. Chessie was the only one who came back to the tents every night bored and only mildly tired. She seemed more emotionally exhausted than anything. Spellpower had little to do with physical acuity, and she had been training her Mind since she could speak. Lis?a had to contend with the overwhelming rigor of scaling walls and buildings without so much as dislodging a shingle. Just for a moment, Lis?a found herself envious, and then she realized why people hated casters so much. If even a friend could feel envy at such a minor thing, she could hardly imagine the hate someone could muster if they were inclined. What if a miscast from the backline killed a friend? How easy would it be to hate a mage?

    ¡°How are you feeling,¡± Lis?a asked her when they came back one night.

    ¡°Same old, same old,¡± Chessie replied, ¡°They¡¯re giving me more advanced material to practice since I¡¯m making a joke out of what they give to the beginner casters.¡±

    ¡°Is that so?¡±

    ¡°I learned a wide radius eavesdropping Spell the other day. Draws from Hirul, the plane of vast echoes. Amplifies all sound around you.¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°You hear the same shit. ¡®She¡¯s had lucky genes¡¯. ¡®Her family spoonfed her¡¯. ¡®She hasn¡¯t had it rough¡¯. Yadda yadda anything to not own up to your own mediocrity.¡±

    ¡°Must be rough.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not good at this. Why do you care all of a sudden?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Lis?a said honestly. ¡°I didn¡¯t have many friends back in Cadeau. Are these feelings normal?¡±

    ¡°Yeah... Yeah they are. How are you feeling?¡±

    ¡°Tired. Just tired.¡± Lis?a stared at her hands. They were covered in little scars. Scratches from metal, splinters from wood. Her nails had broken countless times and have been mended over and over. There were so many sores they blended together.

    ¡°That nasty captain bother you anymore?¡±

    ¡°He watches me a lot during the courses. They all do. I¡¯m not the fastest, or the most agile, or the most accurate at knife throwing, but they seem really interested in me. Maybe they¡¯re finally thinking about pinning the murder on me.¡±

    ¡°Still defeatist? What are your results for the tests?¡±

    ¡°Well I¡¯m usually between 11<sup>th</sup> and 3<sup>rd</sup> for most of them.¡±

    ¡°Most of them. You¡¯re top ten at everything they test you on.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t peeked at the sergeants¡¯ clipboards. I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Can you perhaps see why they might be interested in you? Cuz I don¡¯t think it¡¯s those two pretty emeralds in your skull.¡±

    Lis?a looked down at her lap. ¡°Is this a good thing though? I¡¯ve been trying so hard. I have to excel or they might kill me. And it¡¯s only been a few weeks but everyone¡¯s already forgotten about the killer. I don¡¯t know how long I can keep this up.¡±

    Chessie moved uncertainly, not quite knowing how to express sympathy. She looked over to the other bed, but Dolores hadn¡¯t come back yet. Their tent was mostly empty. She sat beside Lis?a and wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder. Chessie said nothing. They shared a minute of silence. Gradually, Lis?a seemed to brighten up.

    ¡°You¡¯re really bad at this too,¡± Lis?a remarked meekly.

    ¡°My siblings didn¡¯t¡­ do this sort of thing, not for me or each other. A noble house is clean to the point of sterility.¡±

    ¡°So was my mother. If she cared she did it in the coldest way possible.¡±

    ¡°I guess we both have damaged childhoods.¡±

    ¡°Why do we keep going like this?¡±

    Chessie didn¡¯t respond. They went to bed earlier than usual, unsatisfied and regretful.

    There wasn¡¯t a sensible answer. Lis?a laid on her side, dreaming of a world where she hadn¡¯t left the Chalet. Maybe she would have become an entertainer like her mother. Or attended school properly and became independent slowly, following the system like everyone else. That was how more than ninety-nine percent of human beings lived. Provide a utility for society and hope the collateral from its imperfections didn¡¯t swallow you whole. Why did she fear that life so much she ran all the way to the military?

    Did Chessie have pride in her family? Did the cold iron of emotional isolation and the pressure of duty really breed noblesse oblige? Lis?a had so many simpler notions before she came here: her life was miserable, and it must be the fault of those above. But she had never once shown sympathy to a beggar beyond a spare copper. Hypocrisy. Her fist gripped her pillow.

    Maybe this was the right path. She had left the Chalet because she didn¡¯t like being beholden to Valdren. She had trained so hard because she feared someone far away might call for her death. Maybe it was time she fought for something she wanted. She didn¡¯t have much time left to prepare. The cumulative test was coming.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    The days passed quickly. The camp became quieter and quieter with every sunrise. Not just from the sense of impending finality, no doubt. Even Dolores barely spoke. There were fewer recruits than before. She caught one being sent home on the back of a carriage one day. Until then, she had never seen a noble cry, let alone so profusely. The tents felt lonelier. On one overcast night, Lis?a was awoken by the sounds of a bedframe creaking and soft moaning. No one spoke of it the next morning.

    And then everyone¡¯s time was up.

    They were brought before an artificial town hidden in a valley in the hill. The architecture wasn¡¯t Falerian. Waterproof plaster was painted over large bricks. Steeper rooftops rose into sharp points unlike the slanted red roofs in Cadeau. Those would be much harder to traverse on. The roads were paved with smaller, darker stones rather than the light, wide tiles more common to Falerian design. It was hard to believe they did all this just for a test.

    Lis?a stood at the entrance beside nine other recruits. Only two others were girls. She was probably one of the smallest. Two flanks of guards stood close by. Everyone straightened at the arrival of the captain. The man walked without sound. It was uncanny.

    His eyes went from left to right, lingering for a moment on Lis?a. Then he stopped before them. His heels clicked together.

    ¡°Five prisoners of war have been released in this town,¡± he said. ¡°Each will be carrying one of these.¡± His cape parted to reveal what was in his hand: a thin card with a distinct symbol of a hawk carved on both sides. ¡°Bring these cards back to where I am standing. You have six hours.¡±

    The recruits looked at each other, then at themselves. They were not armed. They only had the standard uniform of a Scoutrunner: a thin, black full body suit designed not to chafe when they moved. Without another word, one of the recruits leapt into action, followed quickly by the others. Lis?a was the last to leave the starting line.

    She sprinted up onto the first rooftop and absorbed her surroundings. The others had already disappeared. She tried to think as she moved from building to building, hopping through open windows and alongside rain gutters.

    The instructions were so unclear. Was that on purpose? What was stopping these prisoners from dropping the cards? Unless-

    She nearly slipped. Her show slipping caused a splash of water to fall onto the street below. She quickly ducked indoors. Her heart felt ready to leap out of her chest. Notions ran wild in her skull. The captain had said prisoners of war. So these were real enemies. Were they armed? Lis?a had to find a weapon. There must be a smith in this fake town. She moved slower, more methodically, from house to house. Under the gentle pitter patter of the rain, Lis?a gradually calmed, and skills she was already proficient at before coming to the camp resurfaced. She slipped between the alleyways, sticking to the damp shadows. The walls she leaned on felt cold. She found it relaxing. Eventually she could hear again, no longer distracted by her own heartbeat.

    Her ears perked up. Regular patterns in the running water. That meant footsteps. A Scoutrunner wouldn¡¯t make that kind of mistake. She crossed the street and leaned against the wall, peering at the source. She saw a figure in a tattered robe trip and fall onto the road. Chains clinked at their feet. Their hands were similarly clasped. Out of reach and dangling from a bit of cable was one of the Hawk cards. Lis?a almost stepped out.

    Two males landed on the street behind the figure, clad in a familiar black. Lis?a was late. She turned to leave.

    ¡°No! No please!¡±

    There was a meaty sound, the kind one might hear in a busy dinner hall. Then a cry echoed throughout the streets. Lis?a¡¯s skin chilled. She felt bumps push against her clothes on her arms. The two recruits began arguing. Lis?a heard fists meet wet skin and animalistic grunting.

    She realized then that there were ten recruits in the test and only five cards. Were they competing for them? That didn¡¯t make sense; Scoutrunners rarely needed to meet each other in the field other than to give information. But then again, in the field their instructions would be very specific. She took off. Stepping in to stop them would have been a bad idea.

    The ground descended beneath her as she returned to the safety of the upper floors. She nearly slipped when an explosion rattled the buildings. A plume of black smoke rose in the distance. She made her way there. People were yelling.

    ¡°What the hell are we supposed to do against her?¡± A male recruit was yelling. He was one of the tall ones, muscular and unseemly for this kind of work. There were several others there, surrounding two prisoners. One was cowering behind the other. Lis?a could smell the tearing of the planes. A mage POW.

    ¡°Do we have any weapons?¡± A female recruit asked. She was a girl with auburn hair clipped into a professional bun. Lis?a simply kept her hair short. She noticed this tendency of the other recruits, a refusal to give certain things up. Meanwhile the mage was warning them all with raised hands, glyphs pulsating by her fingers.

    ¡°Stay back!¡± She yelled.

    ¡°She has to be running low, right?¡± Another recruit said.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got enough for all of you!¡±

    Lis?a assessed the surroundings while they were stuck in this static impasse. Her compatriots had the two targets pressed against the wall of a house. She noticed the mage¡¯s back was towards a window. Lis?a left her vantage point and took the long way around to the other side. When she entered the house, the argument was still going on. The recruits had resorted to threatening the mage, citing all manner of nasty ways they¡¯d hurt her if she didn¡¯t give them the cards.

    Lis?a found a skillet in the house and approached the window with it in hand. As the yelling escalated, she simply opened the panes and swung the underside of the pan against the mage¡¯s head. With a wet sound, the mage fell flat on the street. The one she had been protecting fell backwards, shuffling away. Panicked noises came out of his mouth. She looked at the prisoners¡¯ faces. They were covered in scars. Baggy eyes betrayed years of abuse.

    The other recruits were already disentangling the card from the unconscious mage.

    ¡°Good work, runner,¡± a male recruit with an exotic haircut said. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

    ¡°Wait,¡± Lis?a said. She turned to the prisoner on the ground. ¡°Why don¡¯t you just let us have these?¡±

    ¡°They said they¡¯d let us go if we held onto the cards for six hours,¡± the man on the ground sputtered. ¡°Please, I¡¯m going to die. You can¡¯t.¡±

    Lis?a looked him eye to eye. His were green. A dizzying feeling immobilized her. The male recruit pushed her out of the way.

    ¡°You too tired?¡± He quipped. ¡°Let me do it.¡± He tore the card free, ignoring the prisoner¡¯s desperate cries.

    ¡°Alright then,¡± Lis?a said, her voice barely audible.

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± The prisoner began crawling towards Lis?a. ¡°Please help me! I¡¯ll do anything! I¡¯ll integrate like you have!¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡± Lis?a stumbled backwards.

    ¡°They¡¯ll kill me if I don¡¯t have that card at the end of this!¡±

    Lis?a shoved the man away with her foot, spending his emaciated form sprawling.

    ¡°You¡¯ve made an error in assumption,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°I haven¡¯t faintest idea how to help you, nor do I care to.¡±

    The other recruits glanced at each other.

    ¡°I heard about you from rumors around the camp,¡± the tall, muscled one said. ¡°Seems like the rumors aren¡¯t entirely accurate.¡±

    ¡°Like windborne words matter to me,¡± Lis?a spat. ¡°I saw a third card in the hands of two idiots further back. I¡¯m going to find the other two cards. I doubt it matters who brings them to the examiner.¡±

    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t make sense for Captain Yavi to intend for five of us to pass,¡± the auburn haired girl said. ¡°They¡¯re probably watching us right now, assessing us individually.¡±

    So that was his name. ¡°We¡¯re probably meant to work together, so come if you want,¡± Lis?a said.

    ¡°I¡¯m not missing out on action,¡± the exotic-haired one said, brushing the strands out of his eyes. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    ¡°Go where?¡±

    A body fell in front of their feet. The recruits jumped back. The tall one cried out in surprise. The body was still alive, barely holding form as though it had been flayed by a poor butcher, connected still by arteries and sinew and bone. Exposed muscles twitched uselessly. The face was unrecognizable. The throat was laid bare and the cords severed. Only small whimpers could be heard escaping the body. What was unmistakable on the victim was the black Scoutrunner uniform.

    The killer jumped down from the rooftop, dragging bits of disconnected chain by his ankles. A man with metallic fingernails an inch long, eyes red with blood vessels, and an eager disposition. His skin was exposed to the rain from the shredded holes in his prisoner¡¯s clothes. Crossed patterns of gashes both healed and fresh covered his face.

    ¡°What? They put you in those cages for so looong,¡± he said. ¡°I could only do it to myself.¡±

    He spread his arms, making a display of the dangling, broken chains on his wrists. Tied around both wrists was a Hawk card, one distinctly cleaner than the other. Lis?a¡¯s blood froze as she realized what the recruits were supposed to do.

 24 â€“ Trial by Blood

    There was a creature with a splendid panoply of scales and rows of razor sharp teeth residing beneath a waterfall. Its pond was one of many, fed by a vicious tributary ferrying water and minerals all throughout the forest. Fish fed and bred in these waters, and many found themselves coming to a sudden drop into a kingdom with but one resident. One monarch.

    The water in that pond was hot. It was close to a vein of geothermal power. The fish would panic as they desperately swam, searching for a cold spot in this wet hell. Their search ended when a shadow enclosed around them from above and below, imprisoning them behind jagged bars. A conclusion to a tale as old as time: there was always a bigger fish.

    The blackrock sturgeon was a solitary animal. They left their ponds once every decade to mate. So once every ten years, the wolves stayed in their dens, the faelk gathered upon hills to better see the land, and the arctursid bears tried not to leave their caves. The Bedazi would pack their belongings. Just in case.

    Jorge broke out of the forest onto a clearing. The space was about as wide as a two lane highway, and probably just as long. The forest¡¯s own temporary road. Uprooted trees made the safety railing, and compressed vegetation the asphalt. He could make out some unfortunate animals amidst the paving. Jorge rested the back of his axe on his shoulder and began to follow the arrows formed by the fallen trees. In the distance he heard tremors. Flocks of birds fled the green canopy, followed by the sounds of snapping trunks.

    He walked along the road, whistling absentmindedly to himself. Fresh sprouts were already germinating amidst the destruction. Small, squirrely mammals rummaged at his feet, seemingly uncaring of his presence. There were cones of seeds split into pieces being ransacked by the furry creatures. Once the animals had stuffed their cheeks with the seeds they were off, spilling some along the way. Thus spun the circle of life. He had seen the tanhu cones before in his foraging. They had always been too difficult to break open, so he never bothered with them.

    Scavenging cats and dogs fought each other for the road kill pressed into the earth. They stopped to stare at the strange two-legged thing walk past them, but lost interest when it was apparent the thing wasn¡¯t another rival. Jorge retrieved a piece of what he called mash from his travel pouch. It was a mix of smoked meat and dried berries, reminiscent of pemmican. Then he took a swig from his wolf waterskin. The road was long. The sky was still dark when he had set out. It was high noon.

    The heat used to bother him. In the summer, his shirts would stick to his skin. His feet would feel submerged. And something much more severe would happen around his pelvic region. They used to call him Swamp Canyon.

    Jorge chuckled to himself. Distracted by woolgathering, he didn¡¯t notice the loose tree fall towards him from the side of the forest road. His grip on his axe tightened. He swung off his shoulder, shattering the wood before it made it to his head. Splinters bounced off his exposed skin and stuck to the pelt he had draped on his back. He casually brushed the wood chips off.

    The sun had lowered close to the treetops. Afternoon. He saw translucent plumes of steam in the distance. A large pond appeared around the corner. It looked like a hot spring. The surface of the water like a mercury mirror. Jorge felt the urge to dive in. A smooth wake moving deeper in the pond reminded him it was a bad idea. He let his axe drop, tightening his grip again when the strapping slid into his palm. He put one foot in the water. The wave diffracted outward towards the center of the pond.

    Then all was still again. But only for a moment.

    The sharp wave headed straight towards Jorge. The body displacing the water slowly rose. Its scales were black, enriched with the minerals of the land. Streamlined dorsal ridges bisected the water. The fish rose and lunged, its maw wide open. Jorge leapt out of the way as the jaws snapped shut.

    The blackrock sturgeon was every bit as huge as he had been told. Eight pectoral fins with hooks in the end gave it considerable motive power, even on land. Lyosha warned that it could even outpace an arctursid for a few seconds. And it was easily several times as massive as one of those bears. Unlike the fur and hide that protected most forest mammals, the sturgeon relied on its mineralized scales, which almost nothing native to the Heldrazi Forest could cut.

    Jorge gripped his axe with both hands and swung. The edge impacted squarely on the monster¡¯s side. He might as well have been swinging at a semi-truck. The sturgeon recoiled to the side, then quickly reoriented to lunge again. It was too fast to evade to the side again. Jorge jumped above, lending the momentum of his fall into his axe swing. He struck like a guillotine on the sturgeon¡¯s skull. The fish¡¯s chin impacted the earth, splitting the ground. Within a second, it shook him off, sending him sprawling a dozen meters away.

    Attrition was a battle for Jorge to lose. The fish could spend days on land traveling to its breeding grounds. This one had just come back, and was presumably exhausted after the round trip. The sturgeon pushed itself higher on its fins and made a hollow, bubbly sound, like a submerged ghoul. Jorge shouted back. They gathered tension into their muscles and leapt forward again, eager teeth versus raised axe.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    --

    Lis?a watched as a cherry-red fountain gushed from her peer¡¯s neck as the prisoner¡¯s claws evacuated it. A trail of viscera and blood flew like ribbons, splattering on the ground. The prisoner cackled, licking his sharp nails.

    ¡°Run!¡± The tall recruit said.

    Lis?a didn¡¯t need to be told. She scaled a wall and jumped onto a length of gutters headed deeper into the winding parts of the neighborhood. She¡¯d lose the maniac there. The little mechanisms in her ears cringed in pain at another curdling scream. She recognized the voice of the tall recruit, his bulk no doubt too encumbering to evade the killer. Across the street, she saw the auburn haired girl. She didn¡¯t spare Lis?a a glance as she struggled to maintain her footing on the steep rooftops slick with rain. The clawed prisoner moved on all fours, scaling sideways up walls and onto the roofs. His claws met her abdomen. She screamed, and she fell. The prisoner¡¯s eyes turned to meet Lis?a.

    Lis?a continued running. Her footfalls left a trail of tapping sounds as she went from roof to roof. Soon she heard a set of four taps behind her, growing louder. Her mind raced. She descended from the roof, clenching her left arm over her face as she barreled through a second-storey window. Bits of glass cut through her uniform, slashing her forearm and shoulder. She sprinted down the stairs. She looked over her shoulder just for an instant to see the prisoner follow her without difficulty, running alongside the wall like an insect. Her eyes lingered on those claws for a fraction of a second.

    Instead of jumping through the first-storey window, she opened it and vaulted.

    ¡°Mistake!¡± The prisoner screeched behind her. The delay her action took had allowed him to catch up. He reached for her back, claws extended. Lis?a slammed the window behind her. The clawed arm struck through the glass with ease. She spun around and grabbed onto the arm with all her strength, then jumped to the side, dragged the elbow into the window frame and forcing the arm into a perpendicular angle. The resistance she felt while pushing was heart wrenching. The prisoner was screaming in pain. But she didn¡¯t stop. She heard the pop and the many cracks that followed, then let go, falling onto her back. The prisoner crashed through the window, shattering the rest of it. One of his arms dangled uselessly. His eyes only appeared wilder than ever.

    He jumped on top of her, yelling incomprehensibly. While on her back, Lis?a placed his head in a pincer lock with her legs. She had neglected his other arm. He had struck her side. She felt warm steel wiggle beneath her ribs. The taste of iron surfaced in her mouth. Her arms grabbed his, stopping any further movement. The damage had been done. She could feel herself spill onto the pavestones as the prisoner¡¯s face grew purple. The light was fading. The curtains were lowering on her eyes. The prisoner relaxed first, but Lis?a didn¡¯t let up. With all that remained of her strength she twisted her legs and felt something break between them. Then night fell.

    Lis?a was so tired. She knew how childish it was to feel this way at scarcely sixteen of age. What did she know of the world? The delusion it took for a teenager to fancy herself world weary was laughable. Killing wasn¡¯t satisfying. It was just loss. No matter how horrible the victim was in life. She felt overwhelming guilt as much as exulting glee that she had ended that man. In that profound darkness, as her consciousness ebbed low, she didn¡¯t think about who deserved what. She only felt the intense satisfaction that came with knowing she had got him before he got her.

    So why did it take so long for her to die? She was satisfied, and death ought to get it over with. Except she was still breathing. And the night had lifted. Sitting beside her was a¡­ thing. Arms, legs, heads. More than one head. And oh so brilliant, like it was made of pure sun. It unfurled a hand and showed her a spark, a low flame. It looked like a man, curled in a fetal position. Then its fingers closed around the spark, tightening into a fist. It struck her through the chest.

    Lis?a¡¯s eyes opened in the medical tent. She sat up too quickly and pain jabbed her in the sides. Thick layers of gauze gripped her from her breasts to her stomach. She could barely breathe, but she was alive. She looked around. Everyone was alive. Even the one who had been filleted so thoroughly in the beginning of the fight. The victim was wrapped in a cocoon of bandages and tended to by a gathering of mages. Warm, green light drifted from their extended palms.

    The tent flaps flew aside. Captain Yavi stepped through. He silently judged the recruits around her, noting their health before stopping by her bedside.

    ¡°Congratulations,¡± he said.

    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Lis?a yelled. Her torn side protested. The other recruits looked in her direction, visible shock on their face. ¡°You nearly got us all killed for a test? I thought the Falerian military took care of its own!¡±

    ¡°You are being cared for as we speak,¡± Yavi said calmly.

    ¡°That-that fucking monster-!¡±

    ¡°Had been Compelled to be unable to land a killing blow. Although admittedly, he was capable of something a bit worse than death.¡± He glanced at the cocooned recruit. ¡°We¡¯ll wipe his memory of the event. His psyche will survive.¡±

    ¡°Do it to us as well, then.¡±

    Yavi leaned on his knees, as one would cajole a toddler.

    ¡°No,¡± he said simply. ¡°We need your drive, your experiences, in the Karavane. I¡¯ve had my eye on you for months.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not special. You¡¯ve wasted our suffering.¡±

    ¡°You made yourself special. Your fear drove you towards strength. You pushed yourself to the extreme to overcome what might be. This is a gift that you will see in time.¡±

    ¡°Wait.¡± It was dawning. Emotions twisted her face. The mask she had built began to break. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me. This whole time¡­¡±

    Yavi issued a couple additional commands to the healers, then began to leave. He stopped by the tent flaps.

    ¡°He had made a lock pick out of a poultry bone,¡± he said. ¡°The Laplace child was¡­ unfortunate. Since it already happened, I made use of it to see why the Archbishop recommended you in. It seems he was onto something.¡±

    Month after month of excruciating fear reached its conclusion. Lis?a covered her face with her hands. Hot tears crawled down her face. It was over, but she didn¡¯t feel any better.

 25 â€“ Fire Cares Not Which Is Thicker

    Jorge¡¯s axe slammed into the sturgeon¡¯s sparring teeth. The specialized fixtures were like retractable tusks, used not for eating but for fighting during their mating competitions. A more fundamental motivation drove the sturgeon¡¯s furious strength. It pushed and pushed, shoving the measly two-legged assailant farther and farther away from its pond. In a contest of strength, the fish had no equal. But a monarch was not satisfied with repellency; it needed to ensure its territory was never encroached upon again. It raised its head and slammed its tusks down, striking meters deep into the earth. The two-leg had evaded into the air again, slamming the black weapon into its mantle. An audible crack echoed throughout the jungle.

    The fish knew not confusion, only anger that such a small thing had such power. An unnatural enemy of the jungle. Eight pectoral fins hooked the ground. Tension built to the point of extremity. Then came the eruption. The earth shattered, dust, leaves, bark flew back while the fish lunged forward, maw at the ready.

    It fell face first into the forest. Trees and rocks exploded in countless splinters. It hadn¡¯t aimed wrong. The two-leg had struck its side again, directing its attack away. It corrected its course and prepared to try again.

    Jorge¡¯s arms tensed. His legs wound like springs. His eyes sharpened by the whetstone of survival. The sturgeon attacked the same way again. He leapt to the side and slashed with his axe.

    A fish was a fish. Its mind was not too advanced. If it happened to be too fast, he jumped in the air and attacked the same spot on its armored mantle. The cracks were already present. He was ready to do this all day. And all day and night it took. When the floor was slick with oily blood, black against the moonlit sky, the fish finally grew exhausted enough to return to its pond to breathe.

    By morning it had suffocated, and the pond was a bloody red. Jorge walked into the sauna-hot waters and slowly heaved the fish corpse out. He examined his work. The gills were a mess after the hours he had spent aiming for them. Victory through attrition; it was how his Paleolithic ancestors hunted mammoth. He sat down by a fallen log, satisfied, if not uncomfortable with the smell. When he was ready he made a funnel with his hands around his mouth and made the call. A similar call replied.

    The Bedazi villagers streamed out of the woods, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The young ones chanted excitedly. The adults nodded approvingly with big smiles on their faces. They each took the time to pat Jorge on the back; an Earth gesture he wished Lyosha hadn¡¯t taught them.

    He and Lyosha stood by the side as the villagers worked. There was meat here for years, if they had the ability to preserve it. Most of it would inevitably go to the countless inhabitants of the forest. And life went on.

    ¡°How long have you been here, my friend?¡± Lyosha asked.

    ¡°Who knows?¡± Jorge scratched the scruffy mass that covered his chin. ¡°Months? A year? Never did keep the time very far.¡±

    ¡°Probably because you think you¡¯re not going back.¡±

    ¡°I still have hope.¡±

    ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± Lyosha said, laughing quietly to himself. ¡°Remember when the chief offered you a place in the village and you chose to live by yourself? Most people go insane from being alone. You prefer it.¡±

    ¡°Then why am I risking my life helping them?¡±

    ¡°Need I say it?¡±

    Jorge grimaced. ¡°With this, I¡¯m done. I don¡¯t owe them anything anymore. The land immediate to their village is safe from all threats.¡±

    Two of the senior smiths approached Jorge and raised their hands. Jorge placed the axe handle on them. They nearly collapsed, straining for a bit before acquiring a proper grip on the weapon. They spoke rapidly, then hauled it away.

    ¡°They are going to repair and improve your weapon with the fish scale and bone,¡± Lyosha said.

    ¡°Hm.¡±

    ¡°The trust. It feels good, da?¡±

    ¡°Shut up, old man.¡±

    That only spurred Lyosha¡¯s laughter further. Jorge couldn¡¯t refute it. The old man¡¯s worldly smarts saw through him. It felt incredible to be relied upon for once, rather than looked at like a useless flab of meat. Intoxicating, really. He didn¡¯t question too deeply how his body became so strong, only that it was related to the being of light. Lyosha knew little of it, and the Bedazi language didn¡¯t have the words to accurately convey the idea of a living thing beyond death. Their brand of spiritualism was very much rooted in life itself with death as a beautiful end.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    For now, Jorge enjoyed the feasts and watched their festivals from the sidelines. When the bonfires were put out, the smiths returned from their huts with Jorge¡¯s gear. The axe had been given reinforcement along the shoulder of the handle and the belly, using the sturgeon¡¯s bones. They had also woven the scales into the bear pelt he draped over his shoulder. He felt like he was cosplaying a caveman.

    He exchanged formalities with them and left the village, returning to his own shelter by the river. Lyosha was right of course, he enjoyed being relied upon. But being alone was best. Even if he did get lonely, there weren¡¯t any volleyballs laying around.

    Sometimes the faelk would visit, but it mostly didn¡¯t as of recently. The last time was well over a month ago. He wondered if it sensed that he no longer needed help. Maybe it even feared him. So the days passed well, monotonous and routine. It seemed as though nothing would change.

    Until Jorge woke up to a blood red sky and a choking, pungent scent. It was raining slow, ashen clumps. He reached out with a shaking hand, catching a flake in his palm. He licked it. Stone, salts, and fire. He left his shelter and jumped up a tree, digging through the canopy, breaking any branches in the way with his momentum. At the top he saw everything. The volcano that was the Heldrazi Peaks had erupted.

    --

    Lis?a let go of her embrace with Chessie and Dolores. They stood facing each other, dressed in all the officiality of Faleria. Chessie in her long, armored robes, and a leather equipment satchel. Dolores in the liberal attire of a Bladedancer, where the joints were completely free from fabric, exposing her bare skin. Lis?a in the roguish tights of the Scoutrunner, no longer a recruit. They stood in silence.

    They were to deploy in moments, and yet Lis?a found nothing to say. She tried to think about their time together, but the responsibilities of the recruit left little room for socialization. Their relationship had been steeled by parallels. The acknowledgment that they each had experienced a year of something very similar. Like sisters without the obligation of blood or the expectations of some sibling ethos. Perhaps far deeper a bond than either. And yet here they were at the end of it with nothing to say.

    ¡°Wow, what a time, huh?¡± Chessie remarked.

    Lis?a couldn¡¯t hold it in anymore, and she began laughing. Dolores giggled as well in her usual, cutesy manner. A Bladedance vector was one of the most lethal things in a confrontation. Seeing someone with such a playful demeanor harbor its training was an uncanny sight. Especially someone so sensitive. Dolores sprang forward and hugged Lis?a again. Tighter this time.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened, but you seem hurt,¡± she said.

    Lis?a savored the feeling of another person¡¯s warmth wrapped around her body. It was a soothing bandage. But it wasn¡¯t a cure. She doubted there was a cure. And she didn¡¯t doubt she might suffer more wounds like this in the future.

    The time had come, so they split up. Lis?a didn¡¯t look back and hoped they didn¡¯t either. She wondered if they would meet again. The mages were all sent straight to the High Academies to prepare for when Faleria was ready to expand its borders again. Not out of hunger but out of necessity. They had subsumed Aldren, and now eight other powers remained on their continent, all much more powerful than Faleria. They needed to prepare for the worst. Where the Bladedancers went was classified. As for Lis?a, her place was in the Karavane. Supply lines through new territory were always treacherous. An empire needed time to consolidate after a conquest, like an amoeba having stretched too thin.

    Captain Yavi stood in front of a line of caravans. Tall, official, unbreakable. The Falerian ideal. Lis?a arrived with the other successful runners. About fifty or so by a rough count. A thousand recruits had been distilled. Another thousand was filing from the entrance at the start of the hill. When Lis?a had first arrived, she didn¡¯t even bother looking at where she stood now. The fresh meat looked so small from where she stood. Thus burned the militant engine.

    While the other professions received their welcome speeches for making it in (the mages being the most long-winded), when all the runners had assembled and Captain Yavi took a breath, he said, ¡°Let¡¯s see where we end up.¡± And their jobs had begun.

    The caravans were the empire¡¯s immense logistical veins. Tools, goods, resources, workers, all rode on the enormous carriages. The land that had once been Aldren was upturned and made fertile once again. An official news campaign told them all that as a last act of defiance their enemy had razed their own soil, and it had taken years from Faleria¡¯s best alchemists and geomancers to return life to the land.

    Powerful beasts of burden, the horned stallions, pulled the caravans through these lands now. As Lis?a rode alongside on the Scoutrunner¡¯s slim steed, separated from the caravans by a short distance, she looked out at the expanse of wheats they were descending into. Now when people looked out of their windows as their transports pulled into Cadeau de Chires, they would see vast, golden riches ready to be made into bread and cake and ale. The fruits of Falerian bakeries, confectioneries, and breweries. The soil, painstakingly re-cultivated by Falerian alchemic mastery. All that remained was for people like Lis?a¡¯s mother to age into oblivion. Thus finished the final act in the grand theater of conquest. The history of the loser¡¯s nation was so thoroughly incinerated that the only ashes left of the word ¡®Aldren¡¯ would be on history paper and through spoken word.

    Lis?a remembered her mother¡¯s stories of Aldren well. She knew she would have no one to tell them to.

 26 â€“ Pyroclasm

    June Jerylieu clutched her staff close to her chest. A soft, warm breeze ruffled through the seemingly endless fields of grain, filling her ears with a calming, white noise. The assortment of pistons and springs beneath their caravan ablated most of the imperfections of the road. She could still feel the bumps and pebbles. It let her know she was still on land.

    Days had passed since they gained a new wave of escorts. Newly graduated recruits from that training camp near Cadeau de Chires. She wasn¡¯t hearing great things about them. It wasn¡¯t her intention to eavesdrop, but she couldn¡¯t help it.

    ¡°Bunch of fresh boys and girls playing soldier,¡± a bald man said two cars down the line. He was a merchant, once a fighter of some kind. June¡¯s detected irregularities in his heart. High blood pressure, even higher stress.

    ¡°Ah swar ah sau wan o dem,¡± another was saying, ¡°a fokin Eldren. We trustin an enemeh to protayct os nou?¡±

    ¡°What is the emperor thinking with this youth program of his? Encouraging kids to submit service? We not had enough land? We had enough before.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the wedge ears in the Northwest woods. He¡¯s been worrying about them. Every policy for the past forty years has had our noble families running campaigns reinforcing human supremacy like them tree fuckers are going to attack at any moment. Fuckin¡¯ hell like we didn¡¯t have enough of an ego boost after the victory over Aldren.¡±

    Hours and hours of conspiracy. Was this how the common folk entertained themselves between towns? June had tried covering her ears. It never worked. Even the other casters were wary of her. She felt them pop muffling Spells whenever they saw her. She still heard them through the barriers. Nobody liked talking to someone who could hear you lie.

    No, she mustn¡¯t think this way of others. She was charged with protecting citizens; she was needed. The Archbishop¡¯s light was behind her. His Holyness believed in her, and she had never heard his heart lie. June took a deep breath and tried her best to concentrate on the sound of the wind.

    At night they left the cramped carriages make camps, cook stews, and exchange song. Despite it being prohibited, traders did business with the other carriage passengers. Somewhere farther away from camps, a group of traders rolled tubes of grounded up tetralichen, lit the end, and breathed the wisdom of ages into their lungs. Their conversations would grow increasingly nonsensical as the night progressed.

    June nursed a bowl of beef and tuber stew as she sat on a small log. In front of her, people talked and picked food off the potluck braziers. The beasts of burden were fed water and grass with berries and nuts mixed in. Mechanics meticulously checked the long line of carriages. Everyone in their place.

    The night grew cold in these parts. She contained a shiver. Out of the number of Spells coursing through the fabric of her priestess robes, protection from chill wasn¡¯t one of them. Everything had a budget. She wanted to move closer to the fire. But then she¡¯d be close to other people. And they fidgeted when they knew she was there. Their heart rate would go up. Their pores dilated.

    So there she stayed, and then inconceivable happened. Another weight settled on the log next to her. She hadn¡¯t heard the person approach.

    June recognized the black uniform. A Scoutrunner. That explained much. The suits were built to conceal. Yes, that must be why she didn¡¯t hear her come.

    ¡°You looked lonely, hope you don¡¯t mind,¡± the runner said.

    ¡°N-no! I¡¯m just- do you know about me? What I am?¡±

    ¡°June¡­I think? Vaguely remember your name on the roster we were given. Priestess right? I¡¯m Lis?a.¡± She extended a gloved hand. June grasped the fingers and moved her wrist up and down. Lis?a suppressed a chuckle.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never done this before,¡± June said. She felt her face redden.

    ¡°I figured. I¡¯ve had very few friends myself.¡±

    ¡°I used to have a lot of friends. The Order took me in when I was six.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Not the High Academies?¡±

    ¡°There are more methods to alter our world than through planes and Spells. The Order specialized in these ways. I am learned not in arcanery but in faith. My talent peels apart the shells people protect themselves with. That¡¯s why you shouldn¡¯t talk to me too long. I might invade your privacy by accident. People hate that.¡±

    ¡°What am I hiding?¡±

    June blinked, unsure of what she just heard.

    ¡°You don¡¯t care?¡± She asked. It was inevitable. They all grew uncomfortable in her presence eventually. June decided to get it over with. ¡°You¡¯re hiding¡­ a hurt. A prolonged suffering. Not physically. For a long time¡­ oh God.¡±

    Lis?a patted June on the back. ¡°You didn¡¯t reveal anything particularly insightful about me, June.¡± She gestured at the congregation of people before them. ¡°Point your finger and do a twirl, and you¡¯d land on someone who has probably lost a friend, a loved one. Or gone through something rough. Or far worse. If you worry all the time about hurting people, you¡¯re only going to hurt yourself. And no one would know to help you.¡±

    ¡°The Archbishop helps me.¡± June realized too late she had made a mistake. As soon as she finished that sentence, Lis?a tensed. She sensed anger, the motions the Mind made when remembering something terrible, and fear. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Sorry about what?¡± Lis?a asked. She finished her food and stood. ¡°Let¡¯s eat together tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°O-okay!¡± And then June was alone again. But she had the slightest smile on her lips, and the cold felt like a distant memory.

    --

    ¡°Come on!¡± Jorge yelled. He waved the villagers forward, standing beside the trail as a guard. Skin blurred past him. He kept a rough count, but lost it in the chaos. The chief was the last one, following closely behind Lyosha. The old Russian had nothing but an old skin satchel over his shoulder and the clothes off his back.

    ¡°What a day huh, my friend,¡± he said.

    ¡°What do you know about the volcano?¡± Jorge asked.

    ¡°You want to plug it with your thumb? We need to move at least a couple hundred kilometers. Likely more. The um¡­¡± He made a floaty motion with one hand beneath a flattened plank with the other hand. ¡°It¡¯s been moving. The source. I dunno what is called in English.¡±

    ¡°I get what you mean. This one is the biggest one yet, right?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°I gotta get to the front.¡± Jorge ran off, taking great strides through the shrubbery. At the front of the procession, the winding path twisted and turned like a writhing snake. Moving forward was a slow ordeal. The villagers made way for him as he raised his axe. He began hacking away, forging a straight line forward.

    Breathing was like sticking one¡¯s head into a hearth. The villagers were coughing, stumbling. Jorge wasn¡¯t too comfortable either, but his unnatural strength gave him a lot of room for tolerance. He peered behind him to check on the Bedazi people. Somewhere in the middle of the line, an older villager sat beside the path, pushing helping hands away.

    ¡°Hey!¡± Jorge stopped his chopping. He drew the attention of a young villager and clumsily formed what little sign language he knew. ¡°Why they not help?¡±

    ¡°He is at peace,¡± the young man signed back, ¡°It is painful, but respectful to let our elders go if they want. They do it so we can go forward.¡±

    ¡°Damn it,¡± Jorge said, jaws clenched. He looked at the elder, who had laid beside a tree with his eyes closed. His breaths were stuttered. Jorge looked to the front, where the foliage was too dense to simply stroll through. ¡°Fuck!¡±

    He went back to the front and resumed chopping. It was so hot. Sweat covered his skin in thin rivers. He paused to take a gulp from his waterskin every few minutes. But after hours of progress the sky was still red. He looked overhead.

    The Heldrazi Peaks had become a black demon, billowing out in ever transforming shapes. Lightning flashed among its gaseous sinews. It flexed and grew ever larger. He saw its mouth through a gap in the canopies. Hot swathes of molten flow raced down like drool. His imagination projected hunger onto it. Hunger and rage and hate and fire, covering the sky in hot blood.

    Something singed his exposed abs. A falling ember had made it to where they were. They weren¡¯t even close to safety. He continued his work. He slashed and chopped. Sometimes a rock stood in the way, and he had to heave it to the side. On occasion luck produced a clear, straight path for them to walk through, but those never lasted more than a hundred steps.

    At the back of the line, someone was shouting. The word carried all the way to the front. Fire. Fire. Forest fire. It had finally caught up.

    Jorge doubled his efforts. Exhaustion was creeping up onto him. His lungs felt scarred. The truth was he had been lying to himself; he was running on fumes. He had been swinging his axe nonstop in this choked atmosphere for so many seconds, so many breaths. It began as a subtle weight, sneaking up to him, then it pounced onto his shoulders and dizziness gripped him. His head pounded. His muscles were at their limit. His axe slipped from his grip. And he fell against a tree, collapsing on the ground. There was a veritable drum inside his chest, beating away, slowing by the second.

    The villagers were congregating around him, calling to each other in a rapid language he never did bother fully learning. A young woman knelt down to offer him water and some dried food. He took some but then shoved her away.

    ¡°Leave me,¡± he said. They didn¡¯t understand and continued trying to nurse him. ¡°Go!¡±

    Lyosha appeared in front of the crowd and silently translated what Jorge was saying. Jorge expected them to go then. Instead they stayed beside him, squatting in a circle among the shrubbery. All while the mountain roared and spat meteors of molten rock, and the winds carried the curtain of incineration.

 27 â€“ Human Solidarity

    June was awoken by a commotion. Fearful murmurs and shouts of ¡®Look there¡¯. She rubbed the residue from her eyes and grabbed her staff to see what had happened. She smelled it before she saw. To the east was a building cloud, mushroom shaped and fiery. The Heldrazi Peak had erupted. She felt its power from here; the biggest eruption to date, and ahead of schedule too. She recalled with a sting of fear that their caravans¡¯ path took them near the forest.

    She hurried to the front of the caravan, crossing the catwalks that connected each car, ignoring the strange looks she got from the other passengers. The owner stood on the roof of the foremost car with a farglass cupped against his eye. He put it down when he heard her approach.

    ¡°The geomancers were warning us it was bound to happen,¡± he said.

    ¡°We should take an alternative route,¡± June said.

    ¡°No can do. Terilein is north of Heldrazi. We¡¯d have to swing around some part of the plains. Could add weeks to our journey.¡±

    ¡°I can feel it, sir. This one is larger than the one a century ago. We don¡¯t know how far the fire could land.¡±

    ¡°Listen, madam priest-¡± He hopped down from his vantage to the open cabin where June stood and stared straight into her eyes. She shrunk away. ¡°-some of these merchants are peddling perishables. This is new, barely developed land, remember? Everyone is risking a lot investing business here. We can¡¯t take a detour.¡±

    ¡°But sir! If we underestimate the eruption, we might lose the whole caravan!¡±

    ¡°Alright, how about this. Let¡¯s vote on it.¡±

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°Call the vote tonight. Convince the merchants to take a hit on a maybe.¡±

    ¡°I-I can¡¯t speak to these people. It has to be-¡±

    ¡°The thing is, girl, even if you¡¯re right and you have a point, if you don¡¯t even have the gumption to try to convince others, you¡¯re just a falling tree in the woods.¡±

    June¡¯s grip around her staff tightened. Her jaw trembled.

    ¡°Then you¡¯re complicit,¡± she said, mustering every ounce of bravery she had, ¡°If we lose the caravan because you didn¡¯t listen to me, you¡¯re also at fault for refusing counsel from the Order.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a quill pushing scribe.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a fully-fledged Priestess of the Order.¡±

    The owner glared at her. He towered over her by a head and his thick eyebrows magnified his disapproving mien. Then he backed off, shaking his head.

    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll talk to them tonight. But you have to be the opener.¡±

    ¡°¡­If that¡¯s what it takes.¡±

    June couldn¡¯t eat that day. She stayed in her cabin curled up in the corner, reciting prayers and talking points. The minutes passed like rich molasses.

    She hated speaking to people. Most of them aren¡¯t aware of the language their bodies tell. They don¡¯t understand how apparent their anger is, how scathing their disappointment was. However, it must be done. June took a deep breath and tried her best to remember that she was being depended on. And she most certainly couldn¡¯t disappoint Archbishop Vulka.

    Night finally fell. The caravan stopped. The passengers were setting up for the evening once again. June breathed deeply alone for a few minutes. In and out, in and out, steeling her nerves. Then she stepped atop a large boulder overlooking the camp.

    ¡°Everyone!¡± She shouted.

    The clamor quieted. People turned her way. A wave of emotions struck her, and she swallowed her words. Annoyance, mainly. Murmurs like ¡®What the hell is this?¡¯ She took another deep breath.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    ¡°We need to take the long route and give the Heldrazi Forest a wide berth,¡± she said.

    ¡°The ¡®ell for?¡± Someone shouted.

    ¡°This is the largest eruption in the volcano¡¯s history. No one knows how far it might reach. It could endanger this caravan if we c-continue on our route!¡±

    ¡°Oh fack of,¡± another shouted.

    Yet another said, ¡°I timed my peaches to ripen when we get there. How long would a detour take?¡±

    The owner stepped out and stood beside the boulder.

    ¡°About three extra weeks if we take the Cadeau-Ralagast junction,¡± he said.

    June added, ¡°We could shave a few days off if we make preserved food ahead of time, so we don¡¯t have to stop every night. I know Rites that could lessen the horses¡¯ fatigue as well.¡±

    The reaction was immediate.

    ¡°Oh no fucking way.¡±

    ¡°Do we even have enough food?¡±

    ¡°I took a bank loan for this and I need profits yesterday.¡±

    Now it was anger. A lot was directed at June just for suggesting something so ridiculous. She could feel dozens of eyes piercing her accusingly.

    Finally someone asked, ¡°Listen lass, are you even sure we¡¯re in danger?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she answered. Another wave of incredulity. ¡°It¡¯s just a possibility. Like I said, this eruption is the worst yet. W-we might be able to pass through untouched, but there is a chance it is bad enough to reach the roads.¡±

    ¡°A gamble!¡± The owner said. He produced a clipboard and a steelfeather quill. ¡°That we should give everyone here a chance to choose. There are two columns on these sheets of paper. Sign your name on one. It¡¯s pretty self-explanatory. Whatever the result is, it¡¯d be your choice.¡±

    ¡°Well that¡¯s hardly fair, innit?¡± A large man said as he stood to his full height. ¡°Some of us have more valuable cargo! And yet we all get equal say as to which route to take?¡±

    ¡°Yeah! And some of us have cargo that go bad while others don¡¯t. This isn¡¯t fair at all!¡±

    ¡°Oh fuck off, idiot, your shit ain¡¯t worth nothing.¡±

    ¡°You can feel the worth of my skillet ¡®gainst your noggin, you limpdick poof!¡±

    Meanwhile the clipboard was being passed around. The signature count rose. June began to hear disturbing conversations taking place. Some of the bigger men were whispering threats to the others, making them choose the right option. June stepped down from the boulder and approached the owner.

    ¡°They¡¯re trying to rig the vote, sir.¡± She discreetly pointed at the groups involved. ¡°You have to stop them!¡±

    The owner sighed, crossing his arms.

    ¡°Look, I like that you care, but honestly¡­ how? You¡¯ve presented your points and started a ballot. It¡¯s up to them now how to proceed. If you have the power to force them to vote a certain way, why bother allowing a vote at all?¡±

    June bit her lip. Tears were beginning to well up. Why did people do this? Didn¡¯t they know she simply wanted what was best for the caravan? She looked around for another way, anything at all. Then it came to her. The escort party. The Scoutrunners usually ate separately from the passengers.

    She found their gathering close by and moved quickly.

    ¡°L- Lis?a?¡± She said loudly, panting. ¡°Is there a L-¡±

    ¡°June?¡± Lis?a left the dinner line-up. ¡°What is going on over there? We heard noises.¡±

    ¡°Can you talk to your captain for me?¡± June asked, pleading.

    --

    Jorge fell in and out of consciousness. When he was lucid he was aware that the villagers had brought their strongest to help him move along. His legs kept marching forward, but he wasn¡¯t commanding them to move. Lyosha led the way using Jorge¡¯s axe. The old man was hiding a fair amount of strength after all.

    He had had his suspicions about this world, Etrylis. They were confirmed when he dipped back into unconsciousness. It was like falling face first into the blackest pool of water matching his body¡¯s temperature, robbing him of his senses and perception. If he stayed long enough he might sink to the very bottom, where it sat cross-legged. The being of light.

    It had three heads affixed on one neck. Each one lit by a dim halo. The one on the left was a swirl of thorns. The one on the right a ring of beads. The one in the middle a crown of black fire. The flames of the center halo were like wavering nothingness. Endless, shapeless dark.

    Jorge asked, ¡°What are you?¡±

    It said, ¡°An Aspect of Death, The Merchant of Souls.¡± And then it spoke in concept, the language beyond languages, one that cannot be listened to, only understood.

    So Jorge could do nothing but understand. And he hated what he was told.

    He gasped for breath, his eyes opening wide. The men helping him let him down gently. Jorge looked around in a panic. The sky was still on fire; this was the real world. This time when he was offered water, he partook greedily, like he hadn¡¯t drunken in ages. Lyosha bent down and patted him on the shoulder.

    ¡°You pushed yourself too far, friend,¡± he said. ¡°With all this shit in the air we can only go slow else we suffocate.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. I¡¯ll take over.¡± Jorge took the axe from Lyosha¡¯s hands and returned to the front of the line.

    ¡°What happened?¡± Lyosha followed him. ¡°Are you really alright?¡±

    ¡°You lied to me,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°The Aspect. It spoke to me. You knew what it was.¡±

    Jorge didn¡¯t look back, but he imagined the surprise on Lyosha¡¯s face.

    ¡°Listen my friend, I thought it would spare you,¡± Lyosha said, ¡°the less you knew¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not angry. Just disappointed,¡± Jorge replied. ¡°Besides, one often finds their destiny on the path they take to avoid it.¡±

    ¡°Jean de la Fontaine?¡±

    ¡°Kung Fu Panda.¡±

    ¡°What is that?¡±

    ¡°The point is you got out. It¡¯s my turn. And there¡¯s nothing to be done about it.¡±

 28 â€“ Enforced Freedom

    ¡°It isn¡¯t our responsibility.¡±

    ¡°Captain Yavi, please.¡± June couldn¡¯t restrain the desperation in her tone. She felt like a doomsayer to be ignored on the side of the road and spared the odd halycite coin. ¡°You must step in.¡±

    ¡°The military protects the interests of the public. It does not inform its civil process.¡±

    ¡°B-but there is no civil process if the results are being strong-armed by a small group!¡±

    ¡°Young lady, a ballot is the will of the citizenry, not the individuals therein. To these humble merchants and travelers, and indeed any participant of a ballot, any result that isn¡¯t theirs is itself unfair. What do you want the Scoutrunners to do?¡±

    ¡°Ensure that the signatures come from each individual without duress.¡±

    ¡°Under your authority?¡±

    ¡°Under the authority of fair chances!¡±

    ¡°Spoken like a woman of God. Your Order¡¯s moralities aren¡¯t universal if the sole purveyors are its members¡¯ mouths.¡±

    ¡°Without the Order your military would be protecting selfish hordes.¡± June immediately clasped her mouth. ¡°I-I didn¡¯t mean that! I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°¡­No. You mean well.¡± Yavi looked up at the dark heavens. The night looked deeper than usual. He could smell the burning detritus of a forest ablaze in the air. ¡°I¡¯ve a compromise.¡±

    Meanwhile the clipboard was filling with scribbles of ink. It had made its rounds around the murmuring camp, and the last signer was just about to hand it back to the caravan owner. A gloved hand marked with the insignia of the Hawk intercepted.

    Captain Yavi stepped atop the boulder and cleared his throat. The talking vanished. Eyes turned once more to the makeshift podium.

    ¡°We have noticed a vote with regards to route had been called without consulting your escorts,¡± he said. ¡°If you would all be so gracious, let¡¯s begin again with our names added this time.¡±

    The uproar was instantaneous.

    ¡°Our cargo is at stake!¡±

    ¡°Our livelihoods are at the brink!¡±

    ¡°The vote is done! We¡¯ve played your stupid game!¡±

    ¡°Tell me Captain, do you have shares in this company?¡±

    ¡°Yeah! Your job is protect us, not to involve yourselves in our business!¡±

    Yavi raised a finger.

    ¡°Precisely,¡± he answered. ¡°To all your questions. Your wares are at stake. Your livelihoods are at stake. But if we were to encounter trouble on the road, whose lives do you think are literally on the line first and foremost? Your protection is our business. And we are as much passenger as you are.¡±

    The retreat was disgruntled, quiet, and full of empty frustrations. The vote was recast in the presence of the armed and uniformed Scoutrunners. June peered out with her senses, and noticed none of the forceful influences that waylaid the vote before. Relief fell upon her like a cool mist.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Lis?a bumped shoulders with her. The runner had just finished signing. June was glad of her presence.

    ¡°Thank you for letting me talk to your captain,¡± June said.

    ¡°Looks like these penny pinchers daren¡¯t force a result with us around, huh?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°You realize, in a way, we¡¯re doing the exact same thing by being here.¡± Lis?a tapped the curved dagger holstered by her collar.

    ¡°I¡­ no that cannot be¡­¡±

    ¡°Just a thought,¡± Lis?a said. She began walking back to the Scoutrunner¡¯s camp. ¡°I haven¡¯t the head for this sort of thing. And dinner is late.¡±

    --

    They were barely ahead of the fire. If it weren¡¯t for the wetness of the forest, Jorge had no doubt they¡¯d be overrun in the matter of minutes. Even so, he could feel the curtains of heat at his back as he continued to force a path ahead. And if he could feel it with his heightened strength¡­

    He looked back once, and did not dare do it again. For if he did, his mind tore through his heart with an unconscious headcount; the curse of his talent with numbers. Only the youngest and strongest remained, save for Lyosha with his Wayfarer¡¯s preternatural strength. That was what they were called. Jorge thought about what the thing said. Wayfarer. A fancy word for traveler. But a traveler goes. He was meant to stay and perform some kind of work. He was not privy to the end goal. Whatever it was, it demanded his survival.

    It definitely couldn¡¯t be the work of a hero. Jorge knew what raced through his mind during this whole ordeal. Leave. Just leave. He needn¡¯t stay at all. He was strong enough to simply outrun the fire. He also knew that if he wasn¡¯t making a road for the Bedazi, they would be consumed in hours.

    He knew this and he was tempted to go. By his observation, even with his work the fire was slowly catching up. The spew from the volcano might eventually land ahead of them, and if they were to be surrounded by flame, only he and maybe Lyosha would survive. Through chill logic, he knew he had done more than enough for these people, far more than any spectator to this situation if they were in his shoes. Here, Jorge had nothing but his strength and his axe. And when he forced himself to look behind him once more, he saw stricken faces covered in sweat and grime.

    Parents counseled children who had run dry of tears. They walked hunched over, arms wrapped around each other¡¯s shoulders, each the other¡¯s support. Their strength was running out. Even Lyosha had become taciturn.

    They walked and walked, silent save for the mountain¡¯s roars, the crackling fires looming behind them, and the taps of his axe. Jorge couldn¡¯t tell night from day anymore. And worse he was beginning to see hallucinations of his father.

    ¡°That strength of yours is worth nothing if you can¡¯t use it,¡± Gustavo Faett¡¯s specter said in a sergeant¡¯s voice as he paced back and forth, phasing through the vines and shrubbery.

    ¡°I¡¯m using it plenty good swinging this damn thing.¡±

    ¡°Strength isn¡¯t used unless it¡¯s for others, son! Only animals are self-serving!¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a limit to altruism.¡±

    ¡°Life is worth sacrificing for. I didn¡¯t join the military because-¡±

    ¡°Yeah yeah.¡±

    ¡°And when I came back, I became an officer to protect our city! To protect you!¡±

    ¡°And it only took one methhead to end that crusade, didn¡¯t it dad? Then you had to leave me with mom. Guess who she took it out on? You can hide a lot of aggression in a good cause, did you ever think of that, dad? I went home to a mother deriding my character because of my weight, putting me down after every meal. Joking that she lost one man to drugs and was about to lose another to cardiac arrest. Then I¡¯d go to school with kids telling me you had it coming because you were a cop. So tell me, ghost, why should I keep using my strength to help people?¡±

    ¡°Because by and large, son, people are good. And anger that didn¡¯t come from you isn¡¯t anger worth harboring...¡±

    They burst out of the forest onto a wide road. Panting and huffing, Jorge looked from left to right. He was dizzy as all hell. He realized he must have been working on autopilot; the last few hours were a forgettable blur. There he stood however, before a road. The fire couldn¡¯t burn dry dirt. Slowly, carefully, he began to laugh.

    ¡°We did it!¡± He said. ¡°We¡¯re out! Hey Lyosha, we¡¯re-¡±

    Thirty or so people crawled out of the path he had made. He looked around in a panic.

    ¡°Lyosha? Lyosha!¡±

    Another bout of flame erupted from the volcano. Lightning struck between the frictions of its particles. Thunder cracked.

 29 â€“ The Long Road

    Edeard LaRein prepared for the part of the day he had been dreading. He finished the last few cursive swirls of his signature on his paperwork, slowly packed away his papers and ink bottles, and stood straight as a plank. His arms spread out, putting tension on tired muscles and compressed tendons. The walk to the back of the caravan passed him through all the cars. Livestock, crates of ale, paper, grains, fruits. Then came the stateroom cars. Tight bunks squeezed behind rich, wooden doors. These were the heaviest cars. He wondered if this was why he humored that girl so easily. There was more luxury than cargo on this caravan.

    The connexions between cars wavered as he crossed them. They were a series of catwalks with rope railings forming the caravan¡¯s ligaments. Stones and pebbles littered nature¡¯s road, as did the slightest bends. The caravan moved like a long snake. While he was on a connexion he checked on the horses that flanked the catwalks. He made sure to let them roam a bit every night; staring into the back of the car ahead all day could not be have been pleasing even for creatures with simple dispositions.

    The less wealthy cars were at the back, ending with the storage area for the Scoutrunners. In that lone car was a spare cabin for the priestess. It was a seven by ten feet cupboard. The loose hinges on the door rattled. He knocked quietly. When he heard no response he knocked again, louder.

    The door creaked as it opened so gingerly he thought it drifted.

    ¡°Owner?¡± June said.

    ¡°What an awkward address. It¡¯s LaRein. I¡¯m a human being. I wanted to talk.¡±

    ¡°What about?¡±

    ¡°May I come in?¡±

    ¡°Oh shoot! Yes. Of course. I¡¯ve never received anyone before.¡±

    He sat down beside her on the slim one-person bed. The room was spartan. One porthole on the wall beside the bed revealed the road. The girl had lined the walls with rolls of brown cotton. It made gravely sound the wheels made a little quieter. He suspected that wasn¡¯t the real reason she had brought them.

    ¡°How are you doing?¡± He asked. He studied her complexion. She had the same soft mask as she did when they first set off. Prone to being revelatory to her emotions, which were oceanic in their depth. She had hair like dry hay in the sun, and eyes like the dark between two shadows. And hands that would pain him to see sustain a single callus. Why did the Order choose people like this?

    Something was wrong. She didn¡¯t look sad. Or disappointed. Like an apathetic gargoyle she stared ahead.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she finally answered.

    ¡°Do you want to tell me what¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m doing okay, sir, thank you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about the way things turned out.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t need to worry about me, sir.¡±

    ¡°You did the right thing. You advised. You let everyone know your concerns. And you created a setting where a fair vote could be cast. The Order didn¡¯t task this of you. Last night was all you.¡±

    Her countenance did not change. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

    ¡°It didn¡¯t really matter, did it?¡± She said.

    ¡°Ms. Jerylieu-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a little tired, sir. And I¡¯ve Rites to study and prepare in case things go wrong in the coming days.¡±

    She wanted him to leave. Edeard had always been slow on the uptake in that regard. This desire was obvious enough. June couldn¡¯t even say it clearly. As though it was blasphemous to even ask for such a simple thing as privacy. What did the Order do for Faleria that was worth teaching a young woman to behave this way? He didn¡¯t want to think about it. Instead he stood, bowed quickly, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    --

    Some of the villagers tried to stop him. Their attempt was a matter of course. Jorge shrugged them off like a gnat and walked back into the forest.

    ¡°Lyosha!¡± He shouted. His reply was a shroud of popping and crackling. Waves of ashen air swept past the layer of sweat he had accrued. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked.

    ¡°Lyosha!¡± Again. He swung his axe, felling a young tree so he could see behind it. Nothing. No sign of the old man. The snow-white beard would have been apparent from a long way away. Jorge recalled with a jab of pain that he hadn¡¯t heard Lyosha for hours leading up to their exit from the forest. The old Russian could be anywhere along the distance they had travelled.

    He thought about being mad at the villagers. But once again, some part of his father in him made him understand. Most of the villagers were gone. The ones that made it barely got themselves out, let alone if they were expected to drag another out with them. Jorge couldn¡¯t find it in himself to accuse them. He wanted so desperately to be angry.

    The open wound to the forest¡¯s outsides retreated behind him as he retraced his steps back inward. His head swept from side to side, robotically searching. It was getting warmer. There was the odd movement among the leaves, but it was just some animal fleeing. Sometimes the canopy rustled and blackened as something large skated across the top of the forest in frantic escape.

    He walked deeper. His eyes were reflecting amber. Waving torches of light. They grew larger and larger until he was surrounded in it. Smoke lapped his skin and stung his eyes. The green fell away, replaced by flames. It hurt. His skin was starting to blister. He was far from invulnerable.

    Jorge reemerged from the forest. His skin was reddened, but he left before any real damage had been done. The villagers waited for him on the road. They seemed elated to see him return. He shook his head and did his best to sign, ¡°You are safe now. Your path is yours. Mine is mine.¡±

    Then he rested the neck of his axe on his shoulder and walked away. The villagers did not follow him, and he did not look back. They did shout something in unison at him in a cheerful tone. He did not understand what it meant.

    The road bisected the forest. Like a preemptive surgical blade it saved the woodlands beyond. For now. Jorge could not guess when the volcano would be spent. Perhaps the fire may come for the spared woods yet. Maybe what he just did was in vain. Not to mention he had only been there for one tribe out of many in that forest. If those others burned, how would he know? How would anyone?

    He continued down the road for a time. His water was gone. His rations emptied. And he had developed a bad cough. It became the metronomic reminder that he was still alive once every minute or so. The fire continued to rage. He walked in relative quiet, alone with his thoughts.

    He had been sick before. Once. It was months after the funeral. He had gained fifty pounds too quickly. He remembered a warm day. Rays of noon sun so solid you could almost reach out and break it like a pane of candy glass, and they were littered with dust motes like sprinkles of icing sugar. He hadn¡¯t left his room in a while. Neither had he cleaned. His mother entered and his heart braced in anticipation of another fresh wound she was about to inflict with her words. Instead, she said nothing, even smiled, and left a bowl of chicken soup with the grease filtered out on a stool by his bedside. Like a madman in a sea of lunacy happening upon an island of lucidity, Dora Faett remembered how to be a mother for just one day. When he recovered her abuse resumed. But he was no longer capable of being angry at her. She abused and he ate. That was the price of being strung along by a man as pure and bright as Gustavo and then being abandoned by him.

    ¡°My life is now my own,¡± Jorge whispered to himself.

    He didn¡¯t remember how long he walked. The sound of steel parrying steel was distinct enough. He dove into the trees on the other side of the road and entered a sneaking stance. His movements became nearly imperceptible. The noise came from around a bend in the road. He approached it through the foliage. A battle was taking place.

    There were wild looking men in brown leathers with all manner of weapons. Swords, axes (none nearly as large as his), flails, and daggers. They fought men in black: orderly, uniformed people with some sort of bird insignia on their shoulders. Behind them a long train of horse drawn cars waited. Jorge moved closer, then froze.

    There were more of the wild men, whom he had quickly surmised as some kind of bandit judging by how they seemed to be perpetrating some kind of ambush. He saw them approach the caravan from behind, only to be intercepted by another squad of the black uniformed fighters. But there were more bandits than escorts.

    Voices barked behind him. Jorge whipped around. Yet another group of the highwaymen. They prepared well for whatever this was. They spoke to each other in a language that was both familiar and undecipherable. It sounded similar to French and Latin, if all of the root words had different origins.

    Ah what the hell. Jorge raised his free hand and said, ¡°Hello.¡±

    They raised their weapons and charged.

 30 â€“ Left of Penumbra

    June had spent the night tracing her book with a fingernail line by line. Her reading wasn¡¯t the mundane sort done for recreation or the record keeping of traders. When the words of the Order refracted through her eyes onto her Mind they opened doorways. Not to the planes; that was the realm of casters, sorcerers, enchantresses, et cetera. Her power was the self. The Soul. It had no capacity for evil. All manner of fae and trickster rode the millennia in the thousand upon thousand planes. The Mind may find corruption midcast.

    ¡°The Soul is incorruptible. The Soul is informed. For faith is the stronger steel with which to clad our wills. Stare into the planes long enough, and something other stares back through you. Believe in the Light.¡±

    She repeated Archbishop Vulka¡¯s teachings to herself every few minutes. It gave her comfort. It made the incessant voices of the passengers tolerable. Even now they still exchanged the most vile things about her. She had dared interrupt their business, that Order bitch. A few even speculated licentiously, violently, about how the softness between her thighs would feel if they were to break through her innocent resistance.

    They¡¯d never do that of course. It was just talk. The caravan companies would blacklist them as fast as a messenger Spell could fly if their fantasy became action. June still heard them as clearly as if she was beside them. That interrupted her studies, and she cried herself to sleep late into the night. In sleep, at least her powers were well abated, and she found some amount of peace. When she woke she was greeted by the crow of steel. Edge clashed with edge. Panic welled up and flooded her mind with past memories from before she was admitted into the Order.

    ¡°No no no no¡­¡± She grabbed her staff and stumbled out of her car. People were fighting. The Scoutrunners were exchanging blows with bandits. She immediately thought of Lis?a. She imagined the young woman gutted and used by the uncivilized hordes between nations. And she began to lose her training to the fear.

    The catwalks rattled. The owner, LaRein, rushed over with a cutlass in hand.

    ¡°We should¡¯ve taken the long road,¡± he remarked. ¡°Come, stay by me.¡±

    She wordlessly followed him off the caravan. Familiar arcs of red flew through the air. The scene clawed at her spirit viciously.

    ¡°We need help, priestess, use your Rites,¡± LaRein said. He engaged a bandit, disarming the ruffian easily. Then with a swift kick to the weakspot behind one¡¯s knee, LaRein forced the man to kneel and decapitated him. ¡°Priestess!¡±

    Spots of warm blood wet her clothes, staining her face. She tasted metal.

    ¡°Listen,¡± LaRein said as he grasped June by her shoulders, shaking her gently. ¡°Nobody is prepared for this sort of thing. But we¡¯re here now. And we need you.¡±

    ¡°O-okay. Okay,¡± June slowly returned to reality. She called from the Light within. Her staff tip glowed as brilliantly as the sun. Her senses marked all her allies in the area. Then she released. All around her in a nova of energy, the Scoutrunners felt their scrapes heal, their wounds mend, and their stamina resurge.

    Two of the bandits surmised her function immediately. One broke off to tangle LaRein in battle. The other ran for her, broadsword at the ready. She raised a hand and recalled the simplest Rite she knew. A flash of light threw the bandit back.

    ¡°There you go!¡± LaRein exclaimed. He dispatched his opponent in the next two swings. Once to disarm the bandit in a literal fashion, the other to sever the crucial piping in their neck.

    She smiled nervously, briefly, for in the next few moments she began to hear people die. Her people. She charged another nova and released prematurely. But that wasn¡¯t enough. All around her, the bandits closed in. Some of the larger passengers had come out with pots, pans, and kitchen knives, but they were hardly fighters. They fell, making little contribution. The rest of them were being corralled.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, just keep going,¡± LaRein said. He was lying. Terror made the cutlass shake in his hand. June heard it as loud as a knell.

    She threw out pulses of light as fast as her addled nerves allowed her to. Rites weren¡¯t killing tools. The bandits were thrown back, a few were even knocked unconscious. But most were getting back up. Her ears picked up the sound of rope and spring. A heavy crossbow.

    ¡°Watch out!¡± She shouted.

    LaRein¡¯s body flew past her, pinned against the side of a car. He made no further sounds. The crossbow was being wound again. She couldn¡¯t tell from where other than it was somewhere in the trees. An ability was scattering her senses.

    ¡°Girl.¡± It was Captain Yavi. ¡°Have faith in yourself. Help us!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m trying!¡±

    The Scoutrunners have been pushed together.

    ¡°Whatever happens,¡± that was Lis?a¡¯s voice. The voice of the only person June could call a friend in the caravan. ¡°I don¡¯t blame you. Just try.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Her jaws clenched. June drew all the Light she had from the depths of her Soul and recited her Rites. The blast lifted the cars a few degrees off the earth. The horses panicked and struggled. All the bandits were shoved back. The Scoutrunners felt their strength return and their fatigue gone.

    June collapsed on the ground, hyperventilating, as the fighting resumed. The Scoutrunners gained a few feet of ground against the bandit horde. Falerian steel met highway metal.

    ¡°That¡¯s it, my pupil. All it takes is faith. Believe in God. Believe in the Order. Believe in yourself.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Archbishop,¡± she whispered. ¡°I will. I will¡­¡±

    A body fell in front of her, gasping. Blood leaked profusely out of a spear wound in the abdomen. June felt her face pale as her eyes met fading green irises. Lis?a struggled to breathe beside her. The young runner was beginning to go into shock.

    ¡°No! No, no no-¡± June looked around. She had bought them a few seconds. The numbers simply weren¡¯t on their side. Yavi was backing off, hand clutched around his stomach. A tall bandit adorned with gold chains and rings twirled a spear around his neck. Deft fingers made the pole of death dance at his call. Then he thrust, and Yavi prepared to parry, but dagger was no match for a spear¡¯s reach, and the spearman had feinted. Not once, but twice, the third thrust so fast it seemed to come out of nowhere. And Yavi fell as well.

    June met the spearman¡¯s eyes. She saw hate. Felt it like tidal waves washing over her, seeping into her Soul. His eyes were like green fire.

    ¡°Fucking Falerian trash!¡± The spearman spat. ¡°I¡¯ll do to you in inches what your country did to mine in miles.¡± The spear was raised and muscles tensed.

    Time ground to a standstill. June¡¯s mind had left this world. She had figured out why this scene was so familiar. Before she knew the Archbishop¡¯s warmth, she was happy. Tucked away in a fertile valley, where a village of no more than a hundred families tended to a small patch of land. They baked fruit pies and made pigments. In the spring they built walls to cover with art using their own fingers as the brush. Their tools were the hoe, the stove, and the axe. Their fuel was oxen, wood fire, and coal. They were simple and innocent.

    What came next had been predictable. When Vulka had fished a handful of survivors out of the rubble she realized she was alive. It had been pure luck. This girl of six looked back at the shattered murals, the wasted farmland, what remained of her mother once the roaming warlord¡¯s voracious men were done with her, and she had felt¡­ something the Archbishop had spent ten years trying to funnel into a love of the Light. The Light nurtured. The Light healed. The Light forgave. The Light saved.

    She screamed. ¡°The Light has betrayed me!¡±

    --

    Jorge had swung his axe casually to defend himself. It was still a blow that could fell a small tree. The bandit actually diverted it with a knuckle against the flat of his axe and attacked with a sword in the other hand. Jorge grabbed the sword by the blade and snapped it in half. It cut his palm, but no more seriously than a bad paper cut.

    ¡°So that¡¯s my limit,¡± he said to himself. The other bandits were next. This time Jorge didn¡¯t muck around. His axe shattered their weapons. Then he knocked them several feet back with the blunt side. He hoped they got the message.

    Then the foliage parted and a man as large as he stepped out, sporting a fur coat and a hand-and-a-half sword. When the other bandits slowly picked themselves up, the coated man raised a hand. The others stepped away.

    ¡°I thought there was no honor among thieves,¡± Jorge said. He struck first. His opponent sidestepped, redirecting Jorge¡¯s momentum elsewhere with his sword, then aimed a thrust beneath his ribs. Jorge¡¯s axe dug into the dirt. He had seen this coming and used it as an anchor to pivot his shoulder into the opponent¡¯s chest before the sword thrust gained speed. Jorge had put his all into that tackle, the kind that would¡¯ve reduced a football player into a fine mist. His opponent stayed in one piece however, and fell against a tree. The tree shattered. The man smiled and readjusted his grip on his sword.

    ¡°Christ¡­¡± Jorge stopped underestimating them. He fought for his life. His heavy blows glanced the edge of the opponent¡¯s steel. His ferocious swings against a practiced mixed of light and heavy slashes and jabs. He was soon covered in thin gashes. Jorge realized he was being toyed with. His techniques were self-taught, designed to fight the monstrous creatures of the forest. Against a human sized foe as strong as he, armed with training, swordsmanship, and human cognitive ability he didn¡¯t know how to win.

    The battle by the caravan didn¡¯t seem to be going so well either. Jorge caught flashes of light on the edge of his vision. The fighting was dying down. He saw the man smirk. Jorge scowled then, angry enough to forget his wounds. He shifted his grip. His palms wrapped around the axe¡¯s neck rather than the grip. The reduced length of the lever arm ought to make him fast enough versus a sword. And if not, at least he tried. They both assumed their stances again, and strode forward, weapons primed.

    Jorge couldn¡¯t see.

    He fumbled about in a panic and fell onto his rear. His heart pounded like a drum. Suddenly, he was aware of every droplet of sweat crawling down his body, stinging the cuts he had sustained. His eyes adjusted. The bandits had dropped their weapons, they glanced all around them as if searching for their compatriots. The coated man retreated, his face was a disappointed one. He shouted something, and whatever was left of the highwaymen gathered their spilled wits and ran. Many of them wouldn¡¯t make it.

    Jorge remembered being a toddler. That primal fear of a closed wardrobe. The unseen beneath one¡¯s bed. The black curtain over an unlit kitchen. Where every cell in his body screamed danger. He saw men with wet spots on their crotches trip and shuffle back, crying out. He presumed they were pleading, but he couldn¡¯t hear them talk. In fact, he heard nothing at all. Something had muffled his ears. When he looked up he couldn¡¯t see the sun. It was the afternoon last time he remembered. Now it was the witching hour.

    He saw one of the enemies run towards him, forgetting that they were going to kill him. He saw the curtain of primal black envelop the man. It was then the man screamed. A vacuous cry that sounded as though they were submerged beneath oil. He saw the poor bastard¡¯s skin evaporate, not through heat but through force. Torn away like bits of paper. Then came the fat, which was rendered away. The muscles stripped like cheese. The blood into vapor. The shadows were the darkest in the skull¡¯s twin hollows. Then even those bones were gone. Into dust.

    Jorge braced for when that would happen to him. He closed his eyes, shaking, begging, even praying for the first time in years. He saw red beneath his eyelids. The birds chirped. The sun shone. It was late afternoon on a warm summer day. The only cloud in the sky was from the volcanic eruption, which had stopped. Jorge looked around him with wide eyes. He was still shaking. He didn¡¯t even remember where and when he had dropped his axe.

    ¡°Wh-what the fuck¡­?¡± He whispered.

 31 â€“ Noble Savage

    silence. The dead were gathered and wrapped in preservative bandages. June recited a Rite that heavily slowed the rate of decay. Then they were stacked in the back of the caravan near the bales of horse feed.

    One of the horses had died; its throat had been slit. It dangled on its side, leaning into the restrains of its harness above a pool of black red earth. They tore it down and dragged the corpse into the trees. One Rite of Calming later and the simple beasts of burden were ready to move again. Only four non-combatant passengers had died; those had been the overconfident ones who had left the cars to help fight. Ten runners were dead. No one talked about it. June wondered if they would be mourned. It was usually the youngest heirs of noble houses that joined the Karavane or started at the lowest rungs of the military. Their siblings might be glad of the resulting larger piece of inheritance. Either that or they were the children of wealthy families looking to gain favor with the state and join the nobility. The loss of a child to their own incompetence wasn¡¯t a dishonor, but the natural course of things.

    As the caravan quietly went under way again under Yavi¡¯s leadership, June wondered what it was all for. All these people dead because consumers in Terilein, their destination, needed to spend coin on goods they didn¡¯t really need, at least not anything worth losing a human life over. Their memories would be dismissed by their families as the cost of failure in a meritocracy. No one cared for the youngest son or daughter in an estate with dozens of older, more talented siblings. June mourned for them instead. She found LaRein¡¯s manifest, looked up their names, and prayed for them.

    ¡°May they find their place in the Resting Spires.¡±

    Maybe that was the ultimate goal of the Order.

    The nobility needed to be Faleria¡¯s standard, and so they discarded their weaknesses. Their example bred strength, and if they had been just the tiniest bit weaker, they¡¯d have lost to Aldren. So the Order must supplement that loss of humanity with kindness and empathy. It was the Order after all that found work for the dispossessed after the war and integrated refugees into an enemy culture. Was that their Raison D''¨ºtre? June didn¡¯t like that conclusion. The idea would haunt her for all her life: that the foundational strength of an empire was inimical to human empathy.

    She stayed in her quarters that night, staring at a piece of paper on the small desk her room allotted. A bulb of light hovered above her head providing a meager candle¡¯s worth of illumination. Beside the paper, a steelfeather waited in ink, its hollows filled with black, unwritten words. She wanted to, but what would she say to Archbishop Vulka? That it was her first assignment and already she was having a crisis of faith? Those without the Order mocked her for her meek demeanor. Those within pitied. June drained the steelfeather and stored it, then capped the ink bottle. She bade the light away and it did. Her room was plunged in the dark. Somehow she felt better basking in nothing but the moonlight cascading through the small port in her room. Outside, people ate in relative silence. What little conversation June could hear was usually about nothing at all.

    Knocks at her door. June had fallen asleep leaning against her bedside hugging her knees. She stood at attention and said, ¡°Who is it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s me.¡±

    June opened the door.

    ¡°Hi Lis?a.¡± June tried not to look unsuccessfully. The runner looked much better than before, although her face was still pale and her movements came with a noticeable sluggishness. ¡°Are you alright?¡±

    ¡°It just nicked an artery is all,¡± Lis?a said.

    June knew that of course; she was the one who pulled her tissues together and fused them back. It seemed much of what talk they could have was just for the purpose of exchanging their voice between them. What could they talk about after what had just happened?

    ¡°I just came to check up on you,¡± Lis?a said, breaking the silence. ¡°You should eat something.¡± She began to leave. June stopped her with a palm on her shoulder.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°Can you stay for a few minutes?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    They sat together in the dark against the bed. Lis?a absorbed the cramped surroundings, wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

    ¡°Why do you stay here of all places? Can¡¯t the Order secure you a cabin in the staterooms car?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a long story.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to do anything but sit still anyways.¡±

    June looked up, gathering the words. ¡°Decades ago, it was discovered that the Order, or rather it was called the Faith of Wodan back then, was using its familiarity with the emperor to take advantage of its tithes. They enjoyed taxation free operation but higher privileges than some noble families. All one had to do was pretend to be a legitimate branch of the faith to shirk responsibilities to the state. It weakened Faleria with hedonism, wanton waste, rings of degeneracy where powerful people preyed on children¡­ This was how the true believers survived. We dismembered the High Speaker and split the authority of the faith into a court of Archbishops, so no one bias could sway the faith. And we swore humility and abstinence from the luxuries of currency.¡±

    ¡°That why that big ugly thing can be seen from every street in Cadeau?¡±

    ¡°The basilica?¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    ¡°No, our rooms within are all pretty much this size. Even the Archbishop¡¯s. Those marble halls are everyone¡¯s privilege.¡±

    Lis?a patted June¡¯s knee. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean you need to subject yourself to squalor, just to prove you¡¯re not the same as the old Order.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the consequence of history isn¡¯t it? Change everlasting, even if most of the public could barely remember such a corrupt time. Even if they don¡¯t care anymore. Lest we return to the ways of old.¡± June shook her head. ¡°Sorry, I¡¯m talking too much.¡±

    ¡°I think you need to talk,¡± Lis?a said, moving closer. She leaned just a little onto June¡¯s shoulder. June felt the roughness of the runner¡¯s garb through the softness of her robe. ¡°And I need someone to listen to that isn¡¯t Yavi.¡±

    The company warmed June more deeply than any fire. She resisted the urge to cry. She knew she didn¡¯t deserve to, for in the long quiescence alone she had had time to unravel that uncanny feeling from before. She knew she had done something. It saved the caravan. But it wasn¡¯t something anyone could be proud of. Worst of all she had no idea what it was. She mustered her courage to ask Lis?a if she had seen anything.

    A rattle in the dark. Metal rubbed against metal.

    ¡°What was that?¡± June whispered.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go see,¡± Lis?a said. They walked further towards the rear cars of the caravan, past the storage areas for horse feed and the preserved casualties. In the back of the last car, there was a cage, a brig reserved for troublesome passengers. June saw movement.

    ¡°How about a little light?¡± Lis?a asked.

    June pinched a candle¡¯s worth of flame between her fingers. The cage bars casted a striped shadow against a large form sitting lazily against the wall. Her eyes widened. It was a man. More bear than man judging by his bulk. Dense, brown hair covered his head. A thick, unkempt beard hid his mouth. He was dressed in a loose cape made of fur and some sort of black scale. Even as he snored he had a large black axe in a death grip.

    ¡°He didn¡¯t fight back when they found him stumbling about in the area,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°Badly hurt too, but none of the runners recalled fighting someone like this. You¡¯d think they¡¯d remember if they had, too. Man looks like he crushes boulders for a living. We think he was just in the area when those highwaymen attacked and fought off a few of them.¡±

    ¡°What are you planning to do with him?¡±

    ¡°Yavi hasn¡¯t said. He doesn¡¯t seem to be able to speak our language.¡±

    ¡°You let him bring his weapon?¡±

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t pry it from him. The thing weighs a ton too.¡±

    June examined the barbarian, peering a little deeper than the eye can normally see. She sensed thoughts, dreams. She shook her head.

    ¡°Strange,¡± she said.

    ¡°What is?¡±

    ¡°The man¡¯s Soul is different. In flux.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    ¡°Our Souls complete over the course of our life, just as the Mind is less receptive to new teachings as we age. The effect should be obvious in an adult. His is¡­ not so. I¡¯ve heard of people like this. I shouldn¡¯t speak further.¡±

    ¡°Why? It could be useful-¡±

    ¡°No. It¡¯s nothing. Let¡¯s leave before our conversation wakes him.¡±

    They left at June¡¯s insistence to talk of other things, more interesting topics, ones that didn¡¯t involve death and strangers. When the night reached its zenith, Lis?a left to go catch a few hours rest, bidding June good bye. While the passengers slept, June paced. She brought out her steelfeather and ink again, wondering if she ought to.

    ¡°They are the harbingers of evil, my dear disciple. The bringers of calamity. Their Forms will be alien, their Minds untenable, their Souls receptive to corruption. Stay clear of their ilk, June.¡±

    But the stranger was none of those things. When June peered into the man¡¯s mind and saw his dreams, they weren¡¯t about destruction or evil. Could it be a deception? She knew of no one that could lie whilst in dreams. What evil could rest in a man dreaming about wrestling a fish?

 32 â€“ The Assassins of Ralagast

    Much can be said about the city of Ralagast. Every word, however, came at the risk of your tongue. Of its citizens alone, chapters can be written detailing their often dour mood thinly veiled by cheerful sardonicism. Their rapiers and broadswords were as sharp as their tongues, enhanced further still by skeins of Spells-Imbuements they were called-, often drawn in the middle of the ballroom prompting the attendees to stop, pull back, and gasp, for better entertainment had just arrived. The musicians switched from baroque to merry, ragtime, swashbuckling pulls on the string. And sparks flew bright enough to rival the chandeliers.

    Two, thin edges slipped past each other, twirled about the footwork of their wielders, then came together again in short matrimony. Spell collided with Spell running through the grains of the steel. Fine traceries of it arced across the room. The spectators gasped, cheered, applauded.

    Edeard Lumens repositioned, resetting the fight. His fingers flexed on his rapier¡¯s grip. A hot smile bared his whitened teeth. His opponent was panting. A spot of red had stained the other man¡¯s sleeve.

    ¡°Quick with the sword but slow with the rapier,¡± Edeard said loudly. ¡°Your wife was right. Concede, cretin!¡±

    Their feet orbited the center of the ballroom, following the curvatures of the celestial diagram inscribed into the tiles.

    ¡°You¡¯re full of it, young man. A hot balloon with two spigots,¡± Nerix Lordrun replied.

    ¡°Explains why I soar over you.¡±

    ¡°And one prick away from coming back to reality.¡± And they clashed again, lunging, poking, sizing each other¡¯s confidences. Edeard brought his blade close to his chest as Nerix charged in two steps. He deflected the attack, then sidestepped to the side of the older man¡¯s unfamiliar footing. As Nerix corrected his stance, Edeard poked, feinted, then struck again. Blade slipped parallel to blade. The tip of his rapier felt the opponent¡¯s parabolic guard, rubbing against a Basketguard Spell. Faint arcs of energy were loosened as Edeard¡¯s own repulsion Spell gathered at the tip, then reached a climax against the opponent¡¯s guard. Nerix¡¯s weapon was flung out of his grip. Edeard strode once and in one flick of the wrist his weapon tip rested on the bowl between Nerix¡¯s collar bones.

    The crowd gasped. The strings stopped on a shrill note.

    ¡°I¡¯ll have you apologize for that comment about Lady Velvedere,¡± Edeard said.

    ¡°And I will do so the next time I see her, my knight in purest dayshade.¡±

    ¡°Considering how much your word is worth perhaps that would be pointless.¡± Edeard withdrew and sheathed his weapon.

    ¡°My comment was in jest, if such a concept is foreign to one in that attire. I¡¯ve always thought you looked like a buffoon.¡±

    ¡°The correct term is otherworldly, philistine,¡± Edeard said. ¡°I think I bore of this exchange. I will be retiring for the night. Good night to you all.¡±

    There was a round of quiet applause. That story would last a couple days in transit betwixt the society. Then it was back to the pushing currency and materials from behind the desks in their mansions. Ralagast was a large city. All cities within hundreds of miles paled in comparison, although there was some suspicion that Cadeau de Chires may eventually overtake their prestige. Whatever such a vague notion meant.

    Edeard basked in the afterglow of his victory on Nouliune Hall¡¯s extensive balcony on the fifth floor. Cool winds brushed past the flaps in his clothes. Many a passing nobleman noticed his identity and greeted him. Sometimes he returned it, sometimes he didn¡¯t. What mattered if he did or not? Edeard was a knight of the Preservation. An elite bearer of the Falerian standard. These were but noblemen of commerce and internal affairs. His glory rivaled that of the noblemen of war. He smiled at the thought, which he had recalled and played back many times again and again. This world was brilliant. He had never enjoyed life more.

    When the murmurs of faraway conversation faded, he thought he was finally alone on the balcony. Then came the smell of a heavy storm. He whipped around, eyes wide, and immediately bowed.

    ¡°My Lady,¡± he said.

    ¡°Rise.¡±

    Edeard rose to meet the gaze of the most beautiful woman he had ever known. Lady Velvedere. Empirial Architect. Enactor of the Emperor¡¯s Diktat. Highcaster. She Who Usurped An Angel¡¯s Feather¡­

    ¡°There really is no need to regard me in such manner, Edeard,¡± she said, interrupting his faraway fantasia.

    Edeard thought there must be a mistake.

    A rich mane of hair like heavily pregnant grain waving in the noon sun ran in braided rivers down to the small of her back. Her comely figure, which came in the form of strong shoulders narrowing down as smoothly as the eye could discern to a thin waist before widening again at the hips like an inverted chalice, was apparent even through the panoply of gear she wore. How could a man not regard her in such a manner? Edeard had awoken in this world seeing her face, and had decided then he would serve her forever.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°What do you need of me, madam?¡± He asked.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t we sit a while?¡±

    ¡°O-of course!¡± Edeard tried not to appear frantic. They found an empty table nearby overlooking Ralagast¡¯s speckled night. Countless torches effused light into the night sky. The dim light caught the softness of Lady Velvedere¡¯s crescent eyes, half-closed, as if in mourning or just a little sad.

    ¡°It must be convenient to be a knight,¡± she said. ¡°You get to fight for what you believe in. Your world is simple, honest, fair.¡±

    ¡°Only in some ways, madam. Though my troubles pale in comparison to yours, they exist in a fashion.¡±

    ¡°You overestimate me, lord. But perhaps not during this past month. The nobility behind commerce and empire are wielders of the quill, not the sword. That brings a whole new dimensionality to their dealings.¡± Lady Velvedere placed her cheeks against the palms of her hands and sighed. ¡°I just wish the Emperor didn¡¯t give me so much work to do. You may be glad to live in your world.¡±

    ¡°I live in whatever world that may be of use to you, madam.¡±

    ¡°Oh silly, I¡¯m just venting. There is no place for sharpened metal in a board room.¡±

    ¡°Then I will at least listen.¡±

    ¡°They feel threatened. Cadeau de Chires is growing, competing, productive. Talent that used to come to Ralagast are going there instead. This city has grown old and lethargic resting on its laurels. Now I hear talk about assassins.¡±

    ¡°Must be rumors to deter competitors.¡±

    ¡°Why do you think so?¡±

    ¡°Assassins you hear of would be poor at their jobs.¡±

    Lady Velvedere laughed, an expression of pure delight. Then with slow reluctance she returned to one of stony duty.

    ¡°You have heard of Lord Horatio?¡±

    ¡°He owns business in general goods. Why?¡±

    ¡°He has attempted to invest in Cadeau. We¡¯ve received news his first caravan has been waylaid by highwaymen. They¡¯ve survived, but the damage to reputation has been done. There has been¡­ unsavory talk of jealous officials in Ralagast orchestrating something so convenient. The Board is asking me to use my powers and intervene. But that is liken to bringing the sun to earth to boil a kettle.¡± She sighed. ¡°Oh well. I will have no more of your night. Thank you for listening to me, Edeard. You have done more than I could ask.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ you¡¯re welcome any time, my Lady.¡±

    ¡°We should have another one of these at a later date.¡±

    Thunder. Rain. The smell of energy occupied the sudden vacuum in the seat opposite to Edeard.

    He took a deep breath and made his way home, all the while bothered. He had never known Lady Velvedere to be powerless in any regard. Now she was, tangled in matters where power was clearly unhelpful. And he was useless. She had thanked him, but all Edeard had done was listen. Some servant he was.

    He was greeted by Iana as he entered the doors to his house. He only had one maid, despite the size of the place. The constant company bothered him, so he hired the one, paid her triple, and hoped she didn¡¯t mind the extra workload.

    ¡°Shall I prepare coffee, my lord?¡± Iana asked.

    ¡°Yes please. In my study.¡±

    Surrounded by walls of shelves and books, he began to peruse. There must be something of use among those tomes. It was always said, there is often more talk of assassins than the demand for them. The obsession for their ilk was rooted in the fanciful tales of young children frustrated by their society and longed for occupations that operate with impunity from its rules. Edeard knew this better than anyone. But if Lady Velvedere with her extraordinary ken had suspicions that cloaked killers were amok in Ralagast, it would do for him to be discreet.

    The doors to his study opened silently. Iana set a silver tray of coffee, sugar cubes, honey, and whole milk on his desk. He thanked her absentmindedly. Yet she lingered.

    ¡°What is the matter?¡± He asked, closing his book. The girl confused him at times. She seemed keen to his moods. Confident and far too willing. Perhaps it was because he paid her so well. Edeard would have given permission without hesitation if she wanted to go home at the time servants usually went home. She had a needy, elderly family that ate up her earnings in medications. But there she was every night, orbiting him. She can¡¯t seem to meet him in the eye though. Edeard remembered being socially awkward in his other self, the world he was glad to have escaped, so he didn¡¯t confront her about it.

    ¡°You seem troubled, my lord.¡±

    ¡°Hm? Yes, a little. There may be things in the shadows here in Ralagast. I may have to work outside the Knight¡¯s Guard on this.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard of such matters from the other servantries. Should I be wary?¡±

    ¡°Continue as you are. That ought to keep you safe.¡±

    ¡°Forgive me for being egregious, but, why don¡¯t you inform the Inquisition of this?¡±

    ¡°Because I received this information from Lady Velvedere with her confidence. I must help her.¡±

    ¡°¡­I see.¡±

    ¡°This mustn¡¯t leave this room, understand?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Of course. If you don¡¯t mind, my lord. I¡¯d like to be dismissed for the night.¡±

    ¡°Oh? Um, yes, it¡¯s past your hours anyhow. Good night.¡±

    The doors closed behind her. Edeard returned to his work. His research yielded fruit near midnight. Faleria kept State and Economy separate, constantly tugging at each other so authoritative order could never overmatch the sheer power of currency and vice versa. But each was also the other¡¯s strength. Without the State, the Economy had no grounds to compete, and without Economy the State had no resources with which to enforce the peace and maintain power. It made sense for one to interfere with the other. Someone in the courts didn¡¯t want Ralagast¡¯s money leaving the city and into its competitor, Cadeau de Chires. While Ralagast¡¯s facets dulled and lost their shimmer, Cadeau was a growing gem on Faleria¡¯s new frontier. There was only so much room in the Emperor¡¯s regard. The State wanted His favor, to see Ralagast as still being superior. The Economy couldn¡¯t care less; they curried good opinion by operating well.

    It might be worth killing over.

    Edeard grew weary all of a sudden. There was a disturbing monotony with the way people behaved. All this sounded far too familiar. There would be time after this crisis to philosophize. For now, he needed gear. Clandestine tools. And he knew just the armorer.

 33 â€“ Come Market Day

    The caravan arrived in the mercantile ports of Terilein more or less on time. June hadn¡¯t left her room in the few days since the incident, trying to muster the shroud of calm that had been shaved thin since then. She hadn¡¯t seen much success. Her nerves were still fried. Loud noises still startled her. And she would have no time left to ruminate.

    Because when those horses stopped, the momentum of the caravan only doubled. Dozens of traders and port workers went to work. Doors were flung open into the morning sun. Showers of dust were loosened into the air from the force. Men in short sleeved worker¡¯s uniforms stepped on light and off heavier. Crates of warm ale were sent to the ice pits. Piles of fruit were sorted into ripe, unripe, rotten, and bruised. Flies buzzed above the spongy pile. The port falconer loosed vermin pigeons to clear the insects.

    Wood creaking, men shouting, chapped lips whistling, boots grinding on pavestones, flies buzzing, wings beating.

    June reinforced the Rites protecting her ears one more time before gathering her staff and stepping out into the warehouses. She picked up conversation, laughter, deal-making. Endless streams of sound and noise and intentions. While the citizenry did their work, the Scoutrunners carried out the mummified forms of their deceased and loaded them on the back of an unmarked carriage. She walked alongside them as they moved. When they were finished, she thanked them and got on the carriage just behind the driver. One more passenger arrived onboard before they left.

    ¡°Lis?a?¡±

    ¡°We have a couple days break apparently.¡±

    The driver didn¡¯t seem to care about the additional traveler. He swung his crop, and the horses obeyed. They left the warehouses, joining the lanes with the carriages. The roads were all paved in Terilein. One lane per direction divided down the middle. Pedestrians skirted past in their dark dresses and suits. Some eyed their carriage with disdain.

    ¡°Modern place,¡± Lis?a said. She pointed. ¡°Look at that one. It¡¯s got no horse!¡±

    ¡°Ah. One of the Kalladale steeds,¡± June said. ¡°There are large piles of cells in its undercarriage mimicking a Mind. It draws on Kalla, a plane of turbulence to power its locomotion.¡±

    ¡°A Mind in a machine?¡±

    ¡°A mimicry insofar as to establish a bridge. It¡¯s all barbaric to me.¡± June wrinkled her nose. ¡°Arch- um¡­ my mentor always said nothing good can come from relying on the planes the way mages like to do. Now machines have taken up the habit. And it¡¯s spreading throughout Faleria.¡±

    ¡°I think they look neat. Who makes them?¡±

    ¡°They were invented by a Highcaster in Ralagast, a week from here.¡± June hugged her staff, bringing the pole close to her chest. ¡°It¡¯s wrong. You don¡¯t feel it the way I do. When a plane opens, something stares back. The more you draw the less benevolent the watcher. And powerful mages are ravenous things.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re all still colleagues, June. The Order and the Cadre. Do you hate them that much?¡±

    ¡°You see them as people. I see more behind and beneath their flesh. Casting changes you. I¡¯m glad you don¡¯t understand.¡±

    Once they left the thick of the worker¡¯s sector, the buildings became more modest. They only rose four storeys above the ground. Low angle roofs with rain collectors funneled water into tubes that ran throughout the city. Lis?a began to see the familiar points of tall spires peeking over the townhouses. The carriages turned a corner, ducking in the shadow of an estate. The church was momentarily unseen. Here, taverns and inns lined the road. Some places offered services of the flesh. She thought she saw someone familiar among the girls advertising outside.

    Lis?a looked at her lap. She had begun fiddling with her thumbs without realizing. The adventure they had experienced thus far hadn¡¯t given her pause to think. Was this what she wanted? Maybe she¡¯ll survive long enough to become lieutenant in a few years. Then there¡¯d be opportunity to move to a city and join the Knight¡¯s Guard. A State servant of Faleria. The country that destroyed hers. Not that she had much connection to her forefather¡¯s past. Or a father at all. Valdren had told her he died trying to protect them from their own citizens, not from Falerian troops, so she couldn¡¯t even sustain an anger towards Faleria. Now here she was. At the heart of the Falerian experiment.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    This was wrong. But it was too late the moment she joined the Karavane. Funny how in the comforts of civilization, people had so little true choice. She looked to her new friend. More lost kitten than true equal. June stared at the road ahead, her knuckles a whitened vice on her staff, brow constantly furrowed, as if suppressing pain the entire time. As if she ever had a choice to become what she was. Lis?a flattened her palm against the handle of her dagger and felt what meager training they were allotted flow through her nerves, calming her. Maybe that¡¯s what they wanted. Maybe the Falerian standard wasn¡¯t to find joy in service of the state, but to find service as the only escape.

    So they rode along through the veins of the empire, basking in its walls, its Light, beside a small mound of corpses. The engine rolls on. Burning and burning, no less hot after losing a few souls.

    ¡°What did your captain decide to do with that man?¡± June asked.

    ¡°The forest dweller? Apparently he wanted him questioned, but the guy can¡¯t speak Nephila. Or any civilized language. We¡¯re keeping him for now.¡±

    ¡°Hm¡­¡±

    The carriage arrived at the Order church¡¯s back entrance. Young boys in white robes immediately came to unload the bodies. Lis?a watched the process with some fascination.

    ¡°They¡¯ll be left to rest a while,¡± June explained, ¡°Sometimes the Soul doesn¡¯t want to leave the Form. We have Rites to give them peace and allow them to return back to Etrylis.¡±

    ¡°Then the bodies will be sent to their homes?¡±

    ¡°If their families want them.¡± June shrugged. ¡°Sometimes they couldn¡¯t care less.¡±

    The last of the bodies was carried away. The two of them stood alone in front of the well-trimmed gardens behind the church.

    ¡°Want to go grab a drink?¡± Lis?a asked. ¡°Or does the Order abstain?¡±

    ¡°That was the old Order¡­ Maybe. I need to speak with the Father. I have matters to absolve.¡±

    ¡°Alright.¡±

    ¡°You can come with, if you¡¯d like.¡±

    ¡°Oh um- sure.¡±

    Lis?a followed her inside the building. It was more modest than the establishment in Cadeau. But as usual upon entering it felt as though the sun fell upon the glass roofs with greater favor than anywhere else. She actually felt better just by being here. A Father walked over with an outstretched arm, beckoning June to come with him past the rows of pews to the tabernacle. There were cushions available for kneeling before the ornate marble cast of some figure in the faith. The man frozen in white stone was surrounded by hordes of creatures and men, cowering before the spikes of his halo. His eyes were closed, his brow stoic. Among those creatures were women with the bottom halves of snakes. Tall, thin men with sharp ears and black eyes. Many-eyed bulbs that floated off the earth. Giant man-like insects.

    The Father returned to stand next to Lis?a. They watched June pray before several other priests and priestesses.

    ¡°I thank you for your service,¡± he said.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t done much yet,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°All I did was nearly die.¡±

    ¡°There is a balance between humility and self-esteem. It¡¯s remarkable you children can be so brave after but a year of training. The Karavane have always been a trampling ground to squeeze talent out of noble children.¡±

    ¡°I am no noble.¡± Lis?a turned to look the Father in the eye. She hoped her identity pushed the man away. He was nonplussed.

    ¡°Daughter, when one joins the military, or the Order, or any segment of Faleria, your membership is your identity.¡±

    ¡°You are unaware of the tribulation I survived as a result of my ancestry.¡±

    ¡°Be that as it may.¡± The Father gestured at the people kneeling. ¡°Do you find this farcical?¡±

    ¡°How could you tell?¡±

    ¡°There are those who believe, those who do not, and those who hate the belief not realizing much of their own knowledge depends on having faith in an authority.¡±

    ¡°Which one do you think I am?¡± Lis?a humored with a smirk.

    ¡°Those who do not, but possess overwhelming empathy. I believe you¡¯ve seen her work.¡±

    Lis?a twitched. She cursed herself silently. She couldn¡¯t leave in a huff now, not without further revealing her thoughts.

    The Father continued, ¡°Do you know why we choose such tender children. All of them, look.¡± And Lis?a looked, despite not wanting to. Beside June, the other priests and priestess prayed just as intensely, basking in a teary halo of light, all while sniffling, trembling. ¡°While the Cadres invite chaos through opening the planes, Rites draw purely from within. The ever replenishing Light. But one human can only have so much. The darkness within is what gives them such strength, so their Light shines so very bright by comparison. Just like all things that concern the self, it is but a matter of perspective.¡±

    ¡°So you choose broken children.¡± Lis?a was chewing nothing. Her fists clenched.

    ¡°They come here to absolve. So they can be reminded of their past, bolstering the strength of their Light. So their pain can be used for the good of Faleria.¡±

    ¡°They will never have peace then,¡± Lis?a hissed. ¡°Their job is to torture themselves!¡±

    ¡°Better this than to rely on the planes.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m beginning to disagree.¡±

    ¡°Have you ever spoken to a Highcaster?¡±

    ¡°¡­no.¡±

    ¡°Good. Don¡¯t. We are equals. Whether we are Archbishop or scribe or¡­¡± He glanced amiably at Lis?a, ¡°skeptic. Speak to a Highcaster, and you will see a different relationship entirely.¡±

    The absolution finished shortly after. Lis?a walked closely with June as they exited the building. June wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and quickly stuffed it back inside her robes.

    ¡°I think I need a drink,¡± she said.

    ¡°Yeah, we do,¡± Lis?a said.

 34 â€“ Role Play

    Edeard practically soared over the roofs of the city. Ralagast¡¯s endless alleys and complex pipes made traversing them an art form of its own. In the old world his bloated physique would never have been able to do such things. Here he was stronger than humanly possible. Ralagast was a city that had been built and rebuilt countless times. Old blended with new architecture. It was as much a maze of space as it was a maze of eras. He found the junction between three epochs, a single pit of an alley dug into the old suburbs. Rickety stairs connected each level. The corridors within were so dense its inhabitants knew a stranger by the dumbfounded looks on their faces.

    Many of these pits lay scattered about the city. Even the Guard didn¡¯t know they existed. Here was a whole new ecosystem of folk. Edeard hated referencing his old world, but they can only be described as the Robin Hoods of Etrylis. Among them there was a young woman with brilliant, scarlet hair. Her shop was tucked away in one of the many branching paths in the verticality. In hooded robes he squeezed past similarly dressed concerned citizens. Even at night these crannies were loud with life. The stalls each had a jovial face, offering weapons at unbeatable prices, poisons and tinctures, artifacts from ancient times, trinkets and baubles.

    An arm grabbed him from behind a counter.

    ¡°You have the look of a man who needs a tool,¡± said the old shopkeep, gap-toothed and grinning. ¡°I have here a genuine piece of a Nephilim wargear. Turn the dial to its lowest setting and it could cook your eggs to perfection. Turn it high and it will eat an army.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps it could,¡± Edeard remarked, ¡°Six thousand years ago. No thanks, old-timer.¡± He retrieved his arm with prejudice and kept walking. At the very end was the place he needed.

    Behind the counter, sparks flew. The occupant deftly manipulated the blue tip of the torch over the contours of her project, joining metal to metal. Edeard waited patiently for her to be finished. Just as she finished one weld however, she began another. Edeard cleared his throat. The woman stopped then, pushing her mask up over her head.

    ¡°Sir Lumen,¡± She greeted.

    ¡°Jetrois, how is it going?¡±

    ¡°A friend of mine broke their Kalladale.¡± She slapped the machine she was working on. ¡°Been trying to fix it for them. I must say though, one doesn¡¯t need to fix a horse.¡±

    ¡°No, one just puts it down and buys another.¡±

    Jetrois smiled and stood from her workstation. They linked their hands in an amiable grip and shook.

    ¡°So, what is it this time, my knight in starry cloak?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve reputable rumors that conspiracy is afoot between statesmen and magnates. And that assassins crawl throughout the city.¡±

    ¡°Is water wet? I have heard nothing about assassins though.¡±

    ¡°I need a lockpick device that can get through pressure locks. And to renew the Imbuement in my cloak.¡±

    Jetrois sighed. ¡°The whole point of the Lord Mayor adopting pressure locks is to avoid being picked. But I can give you a Valve-freeze device. Should shut down the boilers keeping the bolts in place. Then you can do a simple repulsion Spell to open it. Give me your cloak.¡±

    Edeard handed it over the counter. He watched Jetrois hover her hand over the fabric, whispering power into the fibers. Multiple planes tore open, mixing, entwining, forming function from chaos. The cloak regained its original strength.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°There.¡± Jetrois handed it back. ¡°Simple, low yield Spells only. Push it and this cloak won¡¯t shield you from a cast alarm.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be back with your other thing.¡±

    She brought a bronze scepter-shaped device from the storage in the back. The tip housed a glass blister. Edeard examined it in his hands.

    ¡°Looks like a point-and-click,¡± he said.

    ¡°It is. Maximum range is about five meters. Lasts a few minutes before the boiler corrects itself.¡±

    ¡°Understood.¡± Edeard paid her, then turned to leave.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been meaning to ask.¡± Jetrois leaned forward on the counter. ¡°Aren¡¯t there proper channels to do what you¡¯re trying to do?¡±

    ¡°Sometimes¡­ justice is slow and unsatisfying.¡±

    ¡°Unfaithfulness? Among the Preservation?¡± Jetrois quipped. ¡°I thought you of all people were a true believer.¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll leave before your mockery reaches full strength.¡±

    ¡°Come back soon!¡±

    Edeard returned to the rooftops of Ralagast. He observed his city with a strange sense of pride, absorbing the dense tapestry of lights created by countless gas lamps. If he squinted, he could see the street where a riot had taken place just three months ago. The State had introduced a tax hike to fund their own seldom revealed projects. The businessmen offset the cost to their employees. One whisper here, one bribe there, and the people thought the State council was behind their sudden decrease in pay. The knights of the Preservation were eventually empowered to work, fighting the people they were supposed to protect.

    Edeard was new then. He had climbed the ranks of this new world¡¯s society like he did back on Earth, except in MMOs. On Earth he was a shut-in, a part time cretin who got by couch surfing, utterly unmotivated to engage with Earth¡¯s unfair ideals. Etrylis rewarded work like nowhere else he had known. He had thought this world was perfect. Then he grew up.

    The tax hike was eventually repealed. The magnates returned wages back to normalcy. Neighborhoods had been destroyed. Dozens of lives lost. A construction firm grew fat as the Lord Mayor handed them repair contracts. A hundred or so dispossessed had no choice but to join the military after they lost everything. He was there in the city¡¯s palace. He saw the owner of the construction firm shake hands with the Lord Mayor, then beckon his teenage daughter forth with a fatherly hand on her back. Cold, heavy revelation almost made Edeard hurl right then and there.

    When citizens fought, everyone else above them gained. Businessmen thrived, the military grew, the house won once again. He still believed in the Falerian ideal. But this city like all cities were rotten. The strange rules of this world gave him strength. And he was going to use it to correct its people, by force if the law failed to serve.

    --

    ¡°I should have stayed.¡±

    ¡°You think so?¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯d I come all the way out here? Just to rebel? I¡¯m so stupid.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±

    ¡°I nearly died on my first assignment.¡±

    ¡°But you didn¡¯t!¡±

    ¡°I killed one of them.¡± Lis?a drained the rest of her glass. Golden relief slid down her throat, numbing her feelings for just a moment. The bottom of the glass slammed back on the table. ¡°I remembered my training, and I managed to get one of them. Aimed for the throat. The blood was so warm. It came like a fountain. I saw his lights go out. I¡¯m so pathetic.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s pathetic for doing their job,¡± June said. She set down her glass and pushed it to the other three empty ones beside her. A server came by to collect them. June quietly paid for both their drinks. She collected Lis?a, guiding her out of the tavern.

    ¡°I meant I only killed one person and I¡¯m already a mess. How are you so strong, June?¡±

    June stopped.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± She asked.

    ¡°You saved us all,¡± Lis?a murmured. ¡°Only a few of us saw you do it but you got rid of most of them for us. You¡¯re amazing.¡±

    ¡°I-I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Lis?a seemed to have already forgotten her train of thought. She fished a folded piece of paper from her pocket. Unfurling it to its full size revealed a clean sheet. Then spots on page coalesced, coming together, darkening into letters and then words. Her eyes widened and she sobered just a little.

    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± June asked.

    ¡°The prisoner has escaped. They took his axe when he was sleeping. Dammit, Yavi is calling us all in and I¡¯m drunk as hell. How much have I had?¡±

    ¡°One.¡±

    ¡°Seriously? God¡­ Wait did you pay for me?¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s just get you to the runners¡¯ headquarters. You ought to be yourself by the time we walk there, ok?¡±

    ¡°This is so embarrassing.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s alright¡­ it¡¯s alright.¡±

 35 â€“ The Bull in a China Shop

    Perhaps it was because he knew he couldn¡¯t wander by himself forever, or maybe it was his awareness that he would need help eventually. He was hurt, bleeding, covering in valleys of pain from that fight with the highwayman captain. So he went to them for help. They did some rudimentary care on him. They pulled his flesh together and closed his wounds to the best of their ability. Then they dragged him in a cage to one of their towns.

    The car wobbled as Jorge stepped out onto the ground. Cool stones wet his soles. The air smelled foul, an olfactory cacophony of animal, human, and machine exhaust. One of them, the uniformed ones that looked like someone cosplaying a commando from an edgy action movie, yanked on his chains to come with them. He glared at him, his thick eyebrows like a canopy darkening his eyes into deep pits. Their footing stumbled, and their attitude became more amiable then. One among them didn¡¯t seem intimidated. That man was dressed similarly. Almost indistinguishably in fact, a common tactic to hide rank. A leader of a sort, whatever passed for a leader in this world.

    Jorge followed them to a place with many holding cells. The look on their faces when they saw him enter the doorway, a veritable giant in their midst. He thought the nervousness came from the axe in his hand. The leader spoke to a robed man. Already Jorge could tell something was off about him. Then the robed man raised a hand, twiddled his fingers, and searing ropes of pain brought Jorge to his knees. They pried his weapon from his loosened grip and threw him in a cell. It took three of them to lift him.

    He woke up and the rest was history. He pulled his hands away from each other, breaking the chain links.

    Jorge hollered, raised his right leg and kicked the bars. Sparks flew, not from the metal, but from his foot hitting an invisible layer of energy permeating the bars, apparent only when struck. So he struck again, harder. Trails of dust fell from the ceiling. He kicked again. The bars bent. Brick shattered. The barrier stayed intact, but not the building. The weakest link analogy never felt so appropriate. He stormed out, an annoyed grimace on his face. Two guards rushed to the noise and took a stance upon seeing him. They seemed to have trouble deciding what stance though, shaking and looking at each uncertainly. Jorge simply walked through them, the natural swing of his arms throwing them against the wall.

    That robed man came out of a room, saw him, and raised a hand. But Jorge was ready for his voodoo nonsense. The pain was just as great as before. Jorge gritted his teeth and hissed, but he was not paralyzed. He closed the distance before the opponent could prepare another hand taser thing and swung the back of his hand across the man¡¯s face. He heard something break. He didn¡¯t care. The man fell onto the floor, still, but breathing.

    As he explored the station, throwing aside any guards that investigated the noise, he passed by a window. There was a warehouse below. Two confused guards looked up at him. Jorge walked through the wall and jumped down onto the grass. A shower of brick and glass followed him.

    The guards yelled in the uncanny valley language of theirs and charged at him with their spears. The metal bent as the tip collided with his skin. Jorge slapped the spears out of their hands. The shafts splintered into a hundred pieces. The men backed off then, allowing him access to the warehouse. The double slide doors were held together by a lock and chain. Jorge walked through the wood, breaking the metal lock with the momentum of his body.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    There were rows and rows of trinkets organized in bins, no doubt confiscated from criminals. Jorge had done nothing wrong. In fact, he reckoned he had helped their caravan by occupying some of the bandits. He saw his axe leaning against a wall. It must have been too heavy to lift onto a shelf. Now that it was in his sight, he calmed down and felt a little bad. Jorge was sure he didn¡¯t kill any of them. That voodoo man was going to need to set his jaw right though. He picked up his axe and used the edge to cut the shackles on his wrists. When he exited the warehouse he came face to face with what must have been fifty soldiers. A dozen light footed individuals on the station¡¯s rooftops stared at him from behind fletching, pulling nock against their cheeks. A row of soldiers with shields stood with their knees bent. They were waiting for him to make a move. Jorge let the wedge of his axe fell to the ground. The thud made them flinch. He leaned on the pommel and relaxed. Then he stared at them, utterly silent.

    --

    Lis?a split off to join her team while June wormed her way to the front of the chaos. Even pedestrians surrounding the Scoutrunner headquarters had heard the noise and crowded to investigate. A dozen ¡®excuse me¡¯s later she made it into the station. She followed the apparent trail of destruction to the back of the building, where she found the stand-off between soldier and a very unmoved individual. She heard Yavi speak to their resident mage, who look half enraged and half frightened. The man¡¯s jaw had been broken.

    She forced her way to them, bumping many a pauldron along the way.

    ¡°Allow me,¡± she said. She recited a Rite into the swollen bulge in the mage¡¯s cheek. Bone set to bone, and the swelling slowly subsided.

    ¡°Ms. Jerylieu,¡± Yavi acknowledged.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°Figuring out how to stop this barbarian.¡±

    ¡°He looks stopped to me.¡±

    ¡°He nearly killed Metis over here.¡±

    ¡°Only because you did all this to him!¡± June took a breath. ¡°Look, he clearly doesn¡¯t speak our language and he doesn¡¯t belong in our cities. Maybe we should just let him go back to his home?¡±

    ¡°Not a chance. Look at him. He doesn¡¯t look anything like the natives of Heldrazi. And he was there when we were attacked. We know nothing about his involvement, lack thereof or not.¡±

    ¡°Then we ought to teach him how to speak. What¡¯s pointing your sticks at him going to do?¡±

    ¡°Are you going to teach him?¡± Yavi scoffed. ¡°The caravan is set to return to be assigned to a new owner soon. We are to accompany it according to an order by messenger paper. You have three days.¡±

    June retrieved her own paper from her robe pocket. There on the page was a freshly signed command from the Order. ¡®Continue accompanying them for now.¡¯ She looked up, distressed.

    ¡°Where are we going?¡±

    ¡°To Lord Horatio¡¯s city of operation, where the caravan was distributed.¡±

    June shuddered. An uncomfortable name brought bumps to her skin. Ralagast.

    ¡°Three days,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll teach the man to speak Nephila in three days.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll certainly try.¡± Yavi called for the men to stand down. ¡°If he fails to answer our questions in a satisfactory manner in three days, protocol will have him to be shipped to the military city of Entrigon to be interrogated properly for involvement in interference of economic function.¡±

    The mage named Metis flexed his jaw, and spoke, his voice heavy and low, ¡°And I won¡¯t be using a stunning Spell to convince him to go.¡±

 36 â€“ Mostly Harmless

    They prepared a room for him, a cheap cubicle in the first floor of the local inn. The bed was too small. Look at it from the corner of your eye under the dim candle light and you could imagine it writhe with bed bugs. That pious-looking girl paid for everything¡ªJorge wondered where it was that a priestess lumbered around with coin. He was fed, then forced to submit to a bath from the inn¡¯s stewardesses, which only made the entire situation more embarrassing. They reddened and averted their gaze at the sight of him naked. So Jorge relented to the brushing and soaping, reasoning that if he smelled that bad and looked this horrendous he ought to let them do their job as quickly as possible.

    He was given fresh clothes. Or more accurately, hand-me-downs from the innkeeper who was a man of similar stature. He wore them underneath his scaled fur cape. The fabric felt tight against Jorge¡¯s chest. When he resembled a citizen of the civilized world and not a caveman, he was even dragged to what he surmised was a dentist. A wiry, twitchy man poked around his mouth with a mirror on a spoon, making him gag multiple times. Words were had between the man and his assistant, and before Jorge could react, leather bindings were around his wrists. The dentist pulled the cord of the infernal machine by his side. Combustion roared, fans ventilated the exhaust. Steam hissed and concentrated at the tip of a tool the man yanked free from the engine. Jorge watched with wide eyes as the screeching drill was brought closer and closer to his mouth. The man smiled, rubbing his shoulder affectionately.

    Jorge yelled like he never had. A year in the forest eating nuts, berries, and game; his mouth had become a teeming ecosystem. After a long, painful extinction however, Jorge touched his teeth with his tongue, and didn¡¯t regret letting them do that to him. When he closed the door behind him, the priestess stood alone in an empty waiting room, ushering him to come with. He followed, feeling somewhat indebted.

    He had underestimated the advancement of this culture. They seemed to have currency, technology, healthcare, and libraries. Each came with its own quirky twist. The books on the shelves rearranged themselves. When the priestess said something aloud, one of them poked their spines out to be snatched. She pointed at a chair. Jorge sat. The girl flipped to one of the first pages and pointed at the first glyph at the top.

    ¡°Eta,¡± she said.

    Jorge gave her a weird look.

    ¡°Eta,¡± she repeated.

    ¡°E-eta.¡±

    That pleased her. Her finger slid to the right.

    ¡°Beu.¡±

    ¡°Beu.¡± Jorge clued in on what he was expected to do.

    At night he laid in bed beside his trusty axe. By luck the angle allowed him view of the moon through the tiny clerestory window. The celestial companion was a pearlescent orb, clean, unblemished. Not riddled with acne and liver spots like the Luna of Earth. It was obvious before, but the mind benefited from such visual minutiae; Jorge wasn¡¯t in Kansas anymore, and no amount of heel clicking was going to send him anywhere. He had no shoes besides an old pair sandals anyhow, graciously gifted by the innkeeper as well, who seemed happy to meet a similarly bulked fellow.

    As early as the sun began to rise he was woken to go to the library again, and there he would spend all day. Another girl, dressed in the dark uniform, brought food to them. She looked lithe, motive. They all did. Especially her friends on the rooftops outside the library¡¯s wall-height windows. They ducked when they thought he might notice them. They were too slow. That explained why there seemed to be no guards accompanying the priestess, not that they were equipped to stop him if he became upset.

    While he half-heartedly paid attention, he ruminated on his experiences. Magic was real here. And people became stronger if they killed. How did that work? Was one awarded the kill if the trigger of a machine that did the killing was pulled? The rules were unclear. It was a frightening thought nonetheless. Jorge imagined the consequences of introducing a young individual from Earth into such a place, how quickly their minds would start to see other human beings as power pi?atas. Good thing he was so neurotypical and well-adjusted. He smirked at the self-deprecating joke.

    ¡°Please! Pay attention!¡±

    ¡°Sorry, go ahead,¡± he said.

    The girl blinked, taken aback by the response. Recovering her pace, she continued with the lesson.

    Come evening he returned to the inn and saw a couple servers struggle to move a crate into the kitchens. He took a minute to carry it for them. When the innkeeper returned, the servers told him what happened. Jorge was pulled into a few rounds of drinking with them after the chairs were flipped onto the tables and the counters wiped. They spoke fast, merrily, and in dialects; he couldn¡¯t understand them. The ale was good though. And the mood alone wrestled a smile out of him. When the night was over he was charged to lift one more time, to bring the stumbling innkeeper back to his room. The man made a fist and tapped Jorge¡¯s chest, laughing heartily before falling asleep right on top of the blankets. Jorge tucked the giant infant in and returned to his room.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    When morning came the priestess wrinkled her nose.

    ¡°Have you been drinking?¡±

    He shrugged. Their lessons continued. This time they did not go to the library. Instead the girl took him around the town, pointing at various objects and saying their name. Carriage. Tree. Bench. Pigeon. Fruit. Stopping by a street food stall, she¡¯d give him a coin and tilt her head towards the selection. Jorge looked uneasily at the display. The things on a stick looked appropriately exotic. He recognized what could be sweetmeats and rolls of colored starches in powdered sugar.

    ¡°A bag of this,¡± he said. The owner beamed and began shoveling a bagful of the candies.

    ¡°No,¡± June said, urging suggestively.

    ¡°¡­please,¡± Jorge added.

    June nodded. They proceeded down the road. Jorge chewed his candy thoughtfully.

    ¡°Do you like it?¡± June asked, giving care to each syllable.

    ¡°In a way I¡¯ve seen these before,¡± he said.

    June was about to say something, but stopped. She seemed to be searching for the words. Jorge gave her an amused look.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to speak that way anymore,¡± he said.

    ¡°This is incredible! Where are you from? Is everyone in your family so adroit?¡±

    ¡°My father was a¡­ guard. A lawman. And at one time a soldier. My mother a¡­ mathematician. She contributed to ergodic theory before having me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t know what that is.¡±

    ¡°Neither do I.¡± He popped another roll into his mouth. ¡°We have something like this back where I¡¯m from. Guess I got them because they remind me of home in a roundabout way.¡±

    ¡°What are they called there?¡±

    ¡°Turkish delights.¡±

    ¡°What is a Turkish?¡±

    ¡°Something from a nation named Turkey.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of such a place.¡±

    ¡°I doubt most here have.¡±

    June took a deep breath. ¡°Listen, there is a reason why we did this for you. We need you to-¡±

    ¡°Answer questions.¡± Jorge crumpled the empty bag and tossed it in a bin. ¡°Sure. Take me to your leader.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Whatever for?¡± As they walked Jorge tilted his nose up to the air, breathing in deep the vapors of progress and civilization. He could distinguish it from the natural, forested stench. Pollution and human effluent made its presence known. It was still much better than the air on Earth. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before this world catches up.

    There was something else in the wind that brought a dense furrow to his brow.

    ¡°Smell that?¡± He asked.

    ¡°Yes.¡± A pause. ¡°Were you¡­ running from it?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I lost a friend to it. The only familiar face in this land.¡± He wondered how long before the fiery stench would leave his nostrils and he could truly leave it all behind.

    Jorge was returned to the station. The man who was leading their band of roguish parkour artists waited impatiently for him there. They made him enter a room lit by a single oil lamp, where the man stared at him for a few minutes before speaking.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°I am named Jorge.¡±

    ¡°Of?¡±

    ¡°Faett.¡±

    ¡°Never heard of that family.¡±

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Impressive that you managed to learn Nephila in only three days, Jorge, to the point of being able to convey sarcasm.¡±

    ¡°It has similar syllabic progressions to my language.¡±

    ¡°And what is your language?¡±

    ¡°English.¡±

    ¡°Never heard of such a language.¡±

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not playing around!¡± Captain Yavi flipped the table between them against the wall. Jorge remained unperturbed. ¡°You know what I think? I think you already know Nephila. I think you¡¯re a Wolfrim spy. Seriously? You expect me to believe you learned an entire language in three days?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you think I¡¯d have chosen a better cover story if that were true? I don¡¯t even know what Wolfrim is. I¡¯ve spent most of my existence in Heldrazi. The only reason I¡¯m here is because of the eruption. You should thank me by the way.¡±

    ¡°Why the hell would I?¡±

    ¡°While you flimsy spider monkeys were dying to a few bandits I happened to have engaged their leader in combat. He was stronger than me. That¡¯s why I was hurt. The reason I¡¯m here at all tolerating your attitude is because your, what, religious liaison?¡ªwas nice enough to do all this for me.¡±

    ¡°She works under my authority.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve read a few books while at the library. Her authority is parallel to yours, not intersectional.¡±

    ¡°Listen¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m here on good will. That cute table toss you did? Might intimidate those pissants under your command, but we both know you haven¡¯t the steel that could cut me, and your robed clown with the voodoo hands only caught me by surprise once.¡±

    A moment of silence. Yavi sighed, then set the table back where it belonged.

    ¡°I need to figure out what to do with you,¡± he said, before leaving exiting the room.

    Jorge settled back into his chair. Admittedly, he was a little annoyed. The memory of the being in his dreams stayed fresh in his thoughts. The Aspect of Death, the Merchant of Souls. Like a biblical angel it had brought unwelcome tidings to him, and without the courtesy of a simple ¡®Be not afraid.¡¯ It gave him imagery of prophecy, coming death, ingrained deep in the world lines. And the only way it could be avoided was to have an unknown variable tossed into fate. Someone whose world lines did not begin here in this world. It had but one piece of advice to get him started, ¡°Involve yourself.¡±

    ¡°Fucking hell,¡± Jorge cursed.

 37 â€“ Trouble in the High Tower

    It was always like this at every servantry gathering, the gossiping, the wanton talk the professionally meek maids and rigid manservants indulged themselves in away from the presence of their masters. The party would begin in thirty minutes, this time in Lord Horatio¡¯s manor. The last one had occurred at Nouliune¡¯s Hall just a few weeks ago. One would be inclined to believe Ralagast was prospering as it had, consistently, for the past decade.

    ¡°Oh that¡¯s bullshit!¡± A short maid with a plump physique said as she decorated the hors d¡¯oeuvres with little mint leaves. ¡°If things are really going so well why¡¯d we have that riot just months ago? My cousin owned a haberdashery in that street. Honest work, he said, wouldn¡¯t draw the ire of anyone from above or below. Guess who burned his place down in the end.¡±

    ¡°The exception doesn¡¯t negate the generality, Fleur,¡± a friend of hers said loudly over the sound of the spice grinder. ¡°My sister¡¯s bakery has never seen more business.¡±

    ¡°Who do you think is buying cake during these times, Kalia? You? Me? Pellene¡¯s warehouse worker gentleman friend? She said that he said the warehouses are full. Goods are being bought, not moved.¡±

    ¡°Could mean anything,¡± Kalia insisted.

    ¡°I ought to bring you to a magic show, seeing as you¡¯re so easily impressed by smoke and mirrors.¡±

    ¡°Oh shut up. Either way, what can we do about it? Two silver hawks by the hour buys no cathexis.¡±

    ¡°What about her?¡± Fleur nodded at the girl just barely visible behind the chaotic river of maids, waiters, and waiter captains waltzing in and out of the kitchen.

    ¡°Her? She¡¯s basically mute. What about her?¡±

    ¡°I hear she works for the eccentric Knight. Lord Lumens. Her salary is much higher than ours.¡±

    ¡°How much?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. A lot more. Maybe that¡¯s why she doesn¡¯t fraternize with the rest of us. She has no need for stress relief.¡±

    ¡°Maybe she is stress relief for this Lumens fellow.¡±

    The two laughed. No one but them would hear that conversation. The cacophony of the evening¡¯s preparations were an infallible muffler.

    Iana always knew very few in her profession liked her. Most of them were apathetic to her existence, given her limited interaction in their circles. Some took it as offense, reading into it as people often did. Does she think she¡¯s better than us?¡ªand other such rhetoric. It was unavoidable of course; there were those like that in any job, and Iana had worked many.

    In the last minutes before the guests arrive, the busyness only doubled. Champagnes and wines were checked for temperature. The cuisine general walked in brisk strides, hands tucked judiciously behind his back, from one prep table to another, painting every morsel with an iron gaze. Presentation was scrutinized, the soups and sauces sampled, the cakes ruthlessly judged for symmetry and artistry. All eyes were on his stoic visage. For a brief minute absolute silence hung over the kitchen. Then he nodded, once, a single minute movement, and the quiescence immediately dispelled. The trays were stacked, glasses were poured, and out the food went into the halls, entering an atmosphere of golden light and string music. The first wave of guests clapped at the presentation.

    Iana moved the tray assigned to her to the tables, and began to stack them in place. Her grip almost slipped in the midst of arranging a bouquet of crab legs; a large, rough hand had felt the roundness below her hip, roughly, without discretion.

    ¡°Who¡¯s this one?¡± The Lord said. He was a primly dressed one; they all were. Practically indistinguishable from the rest. He locked over to his wife, a woman made statuesque by six inch heels sparkling with gemstones. The color matched her amethyst dress, shifting in gradient from d¨¦colletage to toe. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen her before. Reckon her owner would let us borrow her for an evening?¡±

    ¡°That would be just lovely, Ernest,¡± The Lady said. She turned to Iana. ¡°Have you any experience, darling? Please be honest. I love the innocent ones.¡±

    ¡°I must apologize, sir and madam,¡± Iana said. ¡°I must get back to work.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve brought the chow out, what else do they demand of you?¡± The Lord said.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°Come,¡± said the Lady. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about your master, we¡¯ll work something out afterward.¡±

    ¡°Master Lumens wouldn¡¯t approve,¡± Iana said, pleading. ¡°I-I must go.¡±

    The thin fa?ade of amiability faded from the Lord¡¯s face. ¡°I¡¯m not used to be being refused.¡± His hand reached for Iana¡¯s elbow.

    Another gentleman cleared his throat behind the pair, stopping the Lord from making any move further. The gentleman took off his top hat and bowed. Two thin spectacles rested loosely on his narrow nose. Senescent eyes regarded the couple harshly, but his voice had the sweetness of age.

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± he said, ¡°I happen to know this one. She works for Lord Lumens, an elite from the Preservation. He is a strange one, but very, very protective of things under his purview.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± The Lord said. ¡°We have forgotten our manners. Your wine is too prodigious a vintage, Lord Horatio.¡±

    ¡°Enjoy yourselves,¡± Lord Horatio said as they left. He beckoned Iana to come with. ¡°Let¡¯s bring you back to the kitchens¡­ er¡ª¡±

    ¡°Iana,¡± she said.

    ¡°Right. So many of you. An odd fellow, Edeard, to only have one servant.¡±

    ¡°He said he had no need for more. He prefers privacy.¡±

    ¡°Yes. He lent you to my party but did not attend. Are you close enough to him to know why?¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°You are,¡± Lord Horatio answered for her, ¡°But he is not. I see.¡±

    ¡°May I be excused, sir?¡±

    ¡°Of course. And, young lady, it doesn¡¯t hurt to be more forward.¡± The old Lord adjusted his spectacles, then returned to the aristocratic busywork of welcoming new guests.

    The rest of the evening progressed without further complication. The servantry worked hard knowing Horatio tended to pay bonuses if the event went well enough. It also served as a litmus test for the more speculative ones among them; is Ralagast in decline?¡ªthe endless topic behind kitchen doors. A career spent in relative silence leads to pent words, Iana supposed. She avoided participating in those talks. They were pointless, but most of all, dangerous. When the party concluded at about two o¡¯clock, she collected her bonus and made her way back home. As she walked, curiosity got the better of her, and she counted the money. It was the same as usual. That suggested there was nothing wrong with business in the city, right?

    She stuffed the money back in her purse, irritated. The other mouthy servants had filled her head with nonsense. Even when she tried not to eavesdrop, a few phrases and ideas still wormed their way into her head. In her frustration, she stopped at the front door of the Lumen house. This was not her home. She made sure no one was around to notice her mistake, then hurried the other way.

    There was always a brighter side to things, her grandfather had said. Now she got to walk in Ralagast¡¯s brisk nightly weather. Passing by the gas lamps intermittently placed down the streets gave her a brief wave of warmth. And the clouds had cleared enough this night to allow her view of the stars. An education gained as a child reared itself. She saw a much smaller, rounder version of herself stand before her pointing at the sky. Beside the little phantom, kneeled a man, a tutor, a father, a soldier, a reluctant conscript, for she learned early that a man could be many things at once, including things they desperately wished they were not. She did not slow her pace, scattering the memory as she walked through it.

    The Wicham used to be the bad neighborhoods. It was where they shoveled misbehaved citizens and newly integrated from Aldren. The matter had long settled and the neighborhood was like any other now, but her skin still prickled at the sight of them. She rushed up the stairs to a small house among many others and entered quickly.

    It was as quiet as the dead. She set her things down gently. The boards tended to creak. Her gait was graceful, careful. She checked the two large rooms upstairs. In the dark, her eyes barely saw the sleeping forms of her grandparents. Their pill trays were empty. Beside the trays were well-cleaned plates. She smiled and collected them, bringing them down to the kitchen sink to be washed.

    ¡°You¡¯ll work yourself to death.¡±

    The voice nearly made her drop the plates. She began to wash the dishes.

    ¡°What are you doing here, Ayden?¡±

    ¡°Just came to check up on family.¡± The young man stepped out of the shadows, a brown paper bag in his arm.

    Iana stopped. ¡°What is that?¡± She asked over her shoulder.

    ¡°I just want to help,¡± Ayden said, ¡°That¡¯s all.¡± He opened the ice box and began placing the groceries into it.

    ¡°How¡¯d you buy it?¡±

    ¡°By the prophet, Iana, does it matter? Food is food!¡±

    ¡°You should leave. Don¡¯t do this again.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not the only one who cares. How did you afford those pharmaceuticals? I don¡¯t ask about that, do I? Nor do I judge.¡±

    Iana put away the last dish and tossed the brush to the side. She did not turn around. The idea was loathsome. She wished the voice inside would stop telling her to.

    ¡°As a matter of fact, I did pay for them with my work.¡±

    ¡°On a maid¡¯s salary?¡±

    ¡°The one I work for is more generous than most.¡±

    Ayden eyed her from head to toe.

    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure,¡± he said, implication dripping from his tone.

    Iana shook her head. ¡°You¡¯re disgusting. I work longer hours, he pays me more. That is all. There¡¯s nothing else.¡±

    ¡°Why can¡¯t we be siblings again?¡±

    ¡°Be quiet, you¡¯ll wake them.¡±

    ¡°Why do you judge me like this? Because I take a shortcut here and there? Honesty doesn¡¯t work anymore, Iana. Maybe its illusion did in the heyday of the war.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t talk about it.¡±

    ¡°Well it did happen. And now we¡¯re on our own. You have your way, I have mine, but we should be in this together.¡± Ayden shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ come back later. Much later. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve had enough of me for a while. But we¡¯re not done.¡±

    She heard a window slide open. Iana finally broke free of her stubborn will and turned to face her brother.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard?¡± Ayden said. He pulled a mask over his face, completing a black suit. A harness on his back displayed barbed hooks, canisters, rope, daggers. ¡°The night is alive.¡± And then he was gone.

 38 â€“ Once More Unto The Road

    The time had come for the caravan to return to its place of construction, emptier than when it had first picked up passengers and cargo. Not much needed moving to Ralagast. The cars were quieter. The horses maintained a better pace due to the lightened load. June was glad of the space to think. She could form a thought without being bombarded with a wall of sound and other sensoria. So she took the time to study her Rites. The large man, Jorge, read a classical Falerian epic across from her, occasionally looking up to ask her what a word meant or the meaning of an idiom, phrase, aphorism, et cetera. Truth be told the man frightened her. It had naught to do with his strength. He saw things most were content to never be aware of. The tiny twitches in the face, the exposed nerves everybody carried around with them. Even the chillingly dutiful Yavi had stopped trying to get more information out of him. Jorge had shrugged, repeating that he knew nothing of the geopolitics of this land, and wasn¡¯t invested either way.

    And then there was the obvious suspicion. His alleged learning of their language in but a few days. There was still much he could not pronounce, but the gap between them was closing. Was there such people hidden in the Heldrazi forest? Perhaps there was a reason why Aldren had so heavily razed the place before Falerian occupation.

    June set aside her Ritebook.

    ¡°Tell me about where you¡¯re from,¡± she said.

    Reluctantly, Jorge pulled his attention away from his pages.

    ¡°Very green,¡± he said. ¡°Lots of disgusting insects. Tree monsters. And bears. Very dirty.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not what I mean.¡±

    Jorge sighed. ¡°I told this to your Yavi. He doesn¡¯t believe me. Can¡¯t say I blame him.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not Yavi.¡±

    ¡°¡­I came from a planet called Earth. There isn¡¯t a hint of magic there. It¡¯s a place barren to what you call the Mind, or the Soul. There is only Form, and we manifest it in terms of science and technology. Philosophy there is a point of view, rather than a reflection of reality like it is here.¡±

    ¡°What was it like there?¡± June asked. ¡°You don¡¯t seem to like your home.¡±

    ¡°It is a civilized place for animals. But in many ways it¡¯s no different than this world. We¡¯ve specialized, given everyone different jobs to allow our cities to function. Technology has made where I¡¯m from very comfortable for many people, but we¡¯re never satisfied.¡±

    ¡°How can that be? If you¡¯ve the means to make everyone live well¡ª¡±

    ¡°It isn¡¯t used that way. Not all the time. And it¡¯s only where I¡¯m from do people truly live well. The upkeep in labor necessary for the lives we lead are pushed to lands who don¡¯t know better, where they work hard for little compensation, and are taught no other way to live. They make luxuries we take for granted. Slaves. For the lack of a better word.¡±

    ¡°That sounds horrific¡­¡±

    ¡°Out of sight, out of mind. Do you know why this world is only marginally better?¡± Jorge patted the book in his lap. ¡°Because if the world map in this story is accurate, Faleria shares the same continent with eight other superpowers. You all haven¡¯t globalized yet. You people haven¡¯t gotten a chance to do what my world has done.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re wrong.¡±

    Jorge frowned. ¡°What makes you so sure?¡±

    ¡°The Order¡ªthe church I am sworn to¡ªwas once a godless institution. We participated in hedonism and the pretense of faith. Until we proved the Soul was real, and that good and evil is felt by the world around us.¡± June opened the palm of her hand. A wisp of Light materialized there. Jorge looked away, but he could not deny how soothing it felt. ¡°This is real. There is reward for faith. There is power in good. This isn¡¯t merely a point of view.¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t your Light only so bright because of a point of view?¡±

    ¡°I- I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡± June withdrew her Light. The man¡¯s insight made leaps she was both impressed with and afraid of. ¡°Nevertheless. We may yet avert moral stagnation once this cold war is over.¡±

    Jorge chuckled, returning to his book.

    ¡°When I left my world, the three great powers there were still engaged in chill conflict after decades with no signs of stopping. There¡¯s nine here on the same land. I wouldn¡¯t hold your breath.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°You know, this pretend apathy of yours is an ill shield.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡±

    ¡°You pretend to be cynical because you care about people in general, and nothing wounds you more than to see others continue to be cruel.¡±

    Jorge slammed his book shut hard enough to echo around the car. June was unfazed.

    ¡°I can be cruel,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m not a good person.¡±

    ¡°If you say so.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not alike.¡± Jorge returned to his reading.

    There was much to learn about Etrylis he needed to catch up on if he wanted to participate here. If only he was thrown into this world with his head filled with the planet¡¯s general ethos. Matters would have been much simpler. Language was but a single facet of culture and identity. Brilliant, words were, and nuanced as to be the very bridge that transforms strangers to friends to lovers, but culture wasn¡¯t so simple a gem. He didn¡¯t read for fun. Someone from his world once said, ¡°Stories are truer than the truth.¡± Pretentious, and conceived from behind the gates of affluence, but there was some truth in the aphorism.

    In the epic he held in his hands¡ªcalled The Five Thousand Feathers of the Hawk¡ªa party of heroes from all corners of Falerian culture bridge their differences to defeat great evils. Someone born here would see it as no more than a story, but Jorge read closer, and saw the pages soaked in philosophy and bias. No one in the party came from outside the Falerian border. As extremely as they were foils to the other, their differences were reconcilable under the Falerian Hawk. The evils they fought were but a singular point of view, the threat they posed was to the Falerian ideal, of which Jorge was slowly beginning to understand.

    Faleria had little room in its vigorous heart for those without merit. It saw no purpose for honor or honesty if it did not yield results. Kindness was an indulgence, not a founding tenet. Coexistence with the erstwhile citizens of its conquered nations had practical contribution to the emperor, or else. Cold, ironclad values. But any less and its enemies would have likely swallowed it whole long ago.

    Jorge¡¯s dreams have been troubled. The entity kept returning. He couldn¡¯t tell if it was just his recollection of it, or the entity itself speaking to him. Death was coming. A tangled knot in the so-called world lines had guaranteed it.

    ¡°Tell me, Ms. June,¡± he said.

    ¡°Just June is fine.¡±

    ¡°If you see someone in danger and knew¡ªone way or another¡ªthat they were going to die in days even if you help them, would you?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Everyone dies, Jorge. Whether they¡¯ve a week to live or their whole life, can you say there is a minimum number of days before which someone¡¯s life isn¡¯t worth saving?¡±

    ¡°Hmm.¡±

    It was terribly na?ve. But Jorge somehow felt better.

    --

    What Lis?a never counted on when she first learned how to ride was how much it hurt to sit bowlegged on a saddle for an entire day. The blazing friction in her hip joints, the general raw discomfort she felt south of her pelvic region. She wondered if one just got used to it, or if experienced riders simply didn¡¯t discuss it. There was room on the caravan for more people. But then where would the horses go? She was glad it wasn¡¯t her that asked Captain Yavi if they could ride on the caravan for a few hours, but some other runner who still fancied themselves a nobleman. The chewing out that boy received echoed among the other runners as giggles and jokes.

    It was a matter of image, of course, as many things were in Faleria. You were a Scoutrunner. Your job is to escort, not to get tired and beg for a break. Sometimes you were supposed to lie.

    The passenger paper notebook in her breast pocket buzzed. Lis?a retrieved it and opened to the page designated for runner communications. It was from Yavi. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach beside the ache she had been nursing since the morning.

    ¡°How goes your progress with Ms. Jerylieu?¡±

    Lis?a wrote back, ¡°Good. She trusts me.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure? Her senses are prodigious.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t lying when I tried to befriend her. She is someone anyone would be glad to call friend.¡±

    ¡°Just don¡¯t forget your observations. Remember what you saw during the attack. Vulka sent us something volatile.¡±

    ¡°Understood, sir.¡±

    Yavi replied with a straight dash, the sign for ¡®finish¡¯. Lis?a put away the book. She¡¯d be lying if it didn¡¯t hurt her to hold ulterior motives in her interactions with June. That was twice now this job has had her do something unsavory. Murder and lying. One killed men, the other killed relationships. And she was prepared to commit on the lie too. If June were to ask what choked her heart so, she¡¯d talk of the immense guilt she felt leaving her only family behind so she could join the military that killed her ancestors¡¯ memory. June would hear truth. The priestess might even pity her. Sympathy was an addictive salve.

    Lis?a then did the unthinkable. She opened her notebook again and wrote addressing Yavi, ¡°Why did you join the Karavane?¡±

    As soon as her quill left the paper, she regretted it. She watched in stone-faced horror as the ink dissolved into the page. The message had been sent. After agonizing minutes, fresh ink materialized, forming words. Lis?a felt her heart trying to pry open its cage.

    ¡°My father drank. My mother drowned her sorrows in a plethora of men. My older brother lost his life when the war was young. So was I when I joined the main forces, the Emperor¡¯s Rocs. Thought I¡¯d make a difference. Realized one year in I was just chasing my brother¡¯s ghost. Transferred to the Karavane Hawks to avoid seeing any more death.¡±

    Shaking, Lis?a wrote, ¡°I see.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t think about why you joined. Think about where you want to end up.¡±

    ¡°Thank you for telling me, sir.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t speak to me about this again. ¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¡±

    Lis?a put away her book and sighed. The pain of horseback riding didn¡¯t feel as prominent as it did before.

 39 â€“ Clandestine Import

    People were buying less and less, and yet the caravans kept rolling in with their cargo. Consistently, day or night, the warehouses were at least half manned. Edeard watched them work from a chimney across the Ichabod, the channel that bisected Ralagast. The worst part was, they worked without looking over their shoulder. He saw their lips move frequently. Conversation, smiles, laughter, whistling. These common men thought all this was business as usual. He adjusted his farglass. A boat had rowed up and parked beneath the channel¡¯s basin wall beside the warehouse. A foreman called the workers in for a break, and a drink by the looks of the barrels they were tapping into behind him. The tired men needed no other encouragement, leaving their work on pause where it was. As they left, a caravan pulled up with its sides overlooking the river. The sides of the cars unfolded. Figures in dark clothing slipped out of them, then climbed down onto the boat with wooden crates in their arms.

    ¡°What the hell¡­¡± Edeard muttered.

    He compressed his farglass. Priming his feet, he sprang into movement. His cloak warped the air around him, bending light. On the ground and under the constrast of the gas lamps, no one saw a caped shadow fly from rooftop to rooftop. The shadow eventually stopped on an apartment block near the river, just as the boat was passing by. Edeard followed its path for hours until he no longer could. The boat had slipped into the sewage tributaries: labyrinthine constructions beneath the city.

    Edeard left the rooftops. He opened a sliver into Deglass, the plane of reflections, a simple Enchantment that enveloped him in shimmer, making him very nearly invisible. He traced his back along the basin wall into the under city. He was careful to never expose even the edge of his face to the boat. Instead, he followed the ripples in the water the paddles left behind, only turning the corner when he was sure there was no line of sight between the boat and him.

    Not many have been down there in ages. The brick walls were cracked. Some parts of the walkways were beginning to sink into the turbulent current. The Lord Mayor had once said, ¡®A city has two graveyards. One is honored, the other none could bear to acknowledge.¡¯ Edeard wondered if this was the other. The whole place smelled of expulsion and death. He followed still, relying now on the meager lamplight from the boat; they had moved too deep into the undercity for his eyes to adjust. But soon he began hearing activity growing louder than the rushing waters. And his eyes were beginning to be of use again.

    The boat had stopped around the corner. Edeard tapped his ears, casting a tiny, parabolic Spell. He daren¡¯t cast anything more complex, lest they detect the planes tearing into this world. Conversation was amplified, including the ruffling and other many little movements people didn¡¯t notice they made as they talked.

    ¡°¡­recruits?¡±

    ¡°Going well.¡± The boat rocked. Water sloshed. People were getting off. The side of the boat scraped against the dock. Crates were being lifted. ¡°This whole recession has gotten a lot of young folk desperate. Like I told him, youth is malleable.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll talk at the summit. Is it all here?¡±

    ¡°One hundred Hrimner devices. Do you have a range?¡±

    ¡°¡®ver ¡®ere.¡±

    The boat rocked one more time, then began to move again. Edeard gathered his cape and ducked into a pipe. The water felt cold rushing past his boots. An ephemeral lantern¡¯s glow briefly lit the current, then faded again. The boat had gone. He stepped out and went to the dock. Cold dread chilled his blood.

    Whoever these insurgents were, they had built something here in the undercity. They must have been here for months. The dock was an entrance leading to underground halls. Edeard leapt up onto the ceiling supports, avoiding the many gas lamps that hung from tendrils off the rafters. From there, he watched hundreds of people being trained in wooden obstacle courses resembling the architecture of the city. There were even kitchens to feed all those men and women. No. They were not much more than boys and girls. Plans ran wild in his mind. This world haven¡¯t invented a camera. How was he supposed to prove this operation to the Knight¡¯s Guard without sending alarms down here? Then he wised up. What if they already have people in the Guard? In the greater government? There was only a short list of people in the mayoral palace he could trust.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    For now, he had to find out what those machines were. As if on cue, the ceiling trembled. Loosened lines of dust fell. The lamps shook in their housing. He followed the ventilation openings to the source of the shaking. Two men stood alone in a long room with targets at the end. One held a brass colored contraption that looked designed for the human grip. The tool had a glass ball containing a single crystal. The glass ball fed its energies into a tubular machine through a mess of pipes. But he could tell instantly what it was meant to do. The man below aimed again. When his finger depressed the trigger, Hrimner¡ªthe plane of static barriers¡ªtore open. A red bolt flew at lightning speed to a target dummy at the end of the room. The bullet shaped barrier collapsed on impact, expanding and dissipating into a frictional shockwave. The dummy was incinerated at the same time it was being torn apart. What remained was a smoking crater on the wall behind the target and a thin shower of burning fragments. The man holding the weapon laughed.

    Edeard imagined one hundred frustrated young men and women hell-bent on revolution with these devices in their arms. He needed to leave. Now. He had to find his friends at the palace. They had to know. He prepared to leave. Then an idea occurred to him. His eyes fell on the crates at the back of the room. In that very moment, the two men were engaged in further discussion. Distracted. Edeard flexed his fingers.

    --

    Jorge officially met Lis?a when they camped for the night. He ate alongside them, even helped where he could with his bare heads; they sure as hell weren¡¯t going to give him tools. Dinner was white bread and soup. It was enough for Jorge. He hadn¡¯t felt the hunger for a long time. Meanwhile, Lis?a would ask all sorts of questions about him. About his past. Where he came from. What it was like. His answers grew shorter and shorter as the night wore on. Finally, the young lady asked, ¡°So you can¡¯t be hurt by blade, right?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s probably better to say most don¡¯t have the strength.¡±

    ¡°Can I try?¡±

    He shrugged. ¡°Sure.¡± He held out his arm.

    Lis?a unsheathed her dagger and rested the edge on Jorge¡¯s extended forearm. In one quick motion she sliced. June looked away. Lis?a¡¯s eyes widened.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she said. ¡°That is crooked.¡±

    Jorge withdrew his arm with a furrow on his face. There was no blood, but the uppermost layer of his skin had been parted. He turned his gaze to the Scoutrunner, his eyes examining her thin physique.

    ¡°How hard did you try just now?¡± He asked.

    ¡°Pretty hard,¡± Lis?a replied.

    ¡°You really were trying huh.¡± He addressed June, who avoided the scene by staring at her soup bowl. ¡°Do you know anything about uh Form? The body? Whatever it¡¯s called.¡±

    ¡°Medically? Sure, a little,¡± June said lightly, glad the contest was over.

    ¡°Do you know people with extraordinary strength?¡±

    ¡°You mean at those travelling performances? Some of them can lift a small horse!¡±

    ¡°I mean people like me.¡±

    ¡°I suppose there are legends of heroes in our history that were larger than life. They¡¯re always strange in demeanor, and incredibly powerful. And¡ª¡±

    ¡°Otherworldly,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°I guess.¡± Light gathered in June¡¯s eyes. ¡°Wait. You don¡¯t mean.¡±

    ¡°In Five Thousand Feathers, almost all the heroes came from ¡®a land far away¡¯. I¡¯m wondering if that¡¯s less than metaphor. Maybe these heroes are people like me. People from other places.¡±

    ¡°Well, your Soul is highly irregular, that¡¯s for sure.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± June thought of the words. ¡°Do you know why for every million folk, there¡¯s only ever one efficacious king, be they good or evil? There¡¯s a balance to things.¡±

    ¡°Metaphorically?¡±

    ¡°No, in actuality. The Order refers to it as the Unconscious God, because to be awake and perform this role is to exhibit bias. A village cannot have a hundred chiefs. Just one who was meant for the job, and whoever happens to be attempting the job. For every thousand mages only one may have the talent to be an Invocateer. The world would be in ruins if everyone could be a king or a puissant caster.¡±

    ¡°What about those, what do you call them, Highcas¡ª?¡±

    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t talk about them,¡± June said. She sighed. ¡°They are what happens when an Invocateer lives too long, and learns too much. People aren¡¯t meant to have such long lives.¡±

    ¡°I thought life mattered to you, no matter the length.¡±

    ¡°Life matters because it ends, Jorge,¡± June enunciated. ¡°When you amass too much¡­ time. Things start to look different. My Archbishop showed me. It becomes cold. For everyone else.¡±

    ¡°What does my Soul look like then, under your sight?¡±

    ¡°Receptive. Open to growth. The Unconscious God never allotted you a place in the balance because you were never born here.¡±

    ¡°Figures.¡± Jorge finished up his meal. He left them, perhaps unceremoniously, to more pleasant conversations while he cleaned up.

    All in all, he had learned nothing. He remembered the forces that dragged him and a number of his compatriots from Earth to this planet. It was conscious alright. Someone out there needed people like him, outside the system and with all the advantages that came with, to be a part of Etrylis. Ralagast was only a handful of days away. It was supposedly a bigger city, older and more developed. There had to be answers there.

 40 â€“ Proud

    ¡°Don¡¯t like this at all,¡± The trader said out loud. His name was Beniel. A forgotten branch in his family tree drew from one of Faleria¡¯s older conquests, giving his name the etymology meaning born of luck. His grandmother had failed to specify what kind. So he went through the years assuming it was the other.

    He hauled another crate onto a half-occupied trolley. Glancing over to his side, he saw a passenger unload twice his weight in a fraction of the time. It was the stranger those runners had been dragging with them. Rumors during dinner had told him the mysterious man was a monster. That he could chop trees with a stiffened hand and wrestle bulls into submission.

    A load of nonsense.

    But he was quite the helping hand. Beniel whistled to get the man¡¯s attention.

    ¡°Hey, you, come help me with this!¡± He called. The man came over with a casual attitude, somewhere between amateurish or just plain lackadaisical. Together they began unloading the crates from Beniel¡¯s car.

    ¡°This was a bad idea,¡± Beniel said to himself as he worked. ¡°Knew the discounted rates were too good. Do you smell that, big boy?¡±

    ¡°¡­? Oh you¡¯re talking to me?¡±

    ¡°Who t¡¯hell else? Smell that do you?¡±

    ¡°Still can¡¯t smell much else but that forest fire down south.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re in Ralagast. The center of industry in this corner of Faleria. And you can¡¯t smell fuck all but that damned volcano. I knew they didn¡¯t lower the caravan rates for no reason.¡±

    The so-called monster patted the crate. ¡°What do you peddle?¡± He asked.

    ¡°A kind of heavy metal. For pipes. Sometimes them rich pricks use ¡®em to make wine amphoras. Makes your fermented grape juice sweeter. Then gives you psychosis and impotence. But they¡¯re the ones with the coin and the word, so who am I to play doctor, right?¡±

    ¡°You only live once,¡± the man agreed. Or was it humoring? Beniel couldn¡¯t tell.

    ¡°Me? I take care of my body. One glass of wine made with indelible metal equipment every week¡¯s end. Dark greens and red meats. My father¡¯s side has a history of heart problems. My mother¡¯s the spittin¡¯ of health. I ain¡¯t leaving my heart to a coin toss.¡±

    The monster man hauled the last crate the trolley could carry into place. He appeared no more fatigued than that morning. Beniel on the other hand was beginning to pant. His temples were wet with exertion.

    ¡°I got the rest,¡± Beniel said. ¡°Thanks, big boy.¡±

    ¡°Hm.¡±

    Jorge left the talkative trader to his day. He left the unloading area to join the gathering of the Scoutrunners by the stables. Captain Yavi stopped talking as Jorge approached.

    ¡°Figure out what you want to do with me yet?¡± Jorge asked.

    ¡°I¡¯ve arranged an inquisitorial appointment at the mayoral palace,¡± Yavi said. ¡°They have the adequate skills and equipment to determine if there is Wolfrim influence in your mind. If you¡¯re telling the truth and you really are just some tree trog who somehow missed the last thousand years of political chess on this continent, then you¡¯re free to go do whatever it is you do.¡±

    ¡°But you¡¯ve dragged this poor trog away from his swinging vines and favorite shitting holes just to ask a couple questions,¡± Jorge said, curling his mouth in a juvenile frown. ¡°How am I supposed to live?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a jungle somewhere close by,¡± Yavi said, squinting. He turned back to his men. ¡°Keep out of trouble. You, if you start another bar fight my report to your parents will be¡­¡±

    Jorge left the stables. He looked up to behold the vastness of the city. It was a truly large place. Towers of brass, brick, and steel draped long shadows on top of them. Apparent age seeped out of the city¡¯s every pore, in its repaired-over roads, architectural mismatch, even empty lots that used to house some tract of history. Jorge guessed this city was the routing junction for many a wave of reinforcement and triage during the war he had so much about. Ralagast had endured war¡¯s capacity for prosperity and destruction. One clearly didn¡¯t last, and latter seemed inevitable.

    ¡°Hey, Jorge.¡± That girl¡¯s voice. June¡¯s friend. Jorge had forgotten her name.

    He glanced over his shoulder. ¡°What do you want?¡±

    ¡°We need to head to HQ to get our rooms for the next couple of days.¡± Lis?a strolled up beside him, twiddling her hair. ¡°Don¡¯t make me make you.¡±

    He laughed. They began their walk into Ralagast. The noble city which never sleeps. Where nights were bright with parties and days rich with labor. It looked mighty quiet by Jorge¡¯s gaze. The band of runners and one white-robed priestess were conspicuous on the loosely crowded streets. Subtle emptiness can be gleaned every the eye wandered. Were they afraid of something? The sun hadn¡¯t finished rising yet; the streets should be busy.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    He took breath, preparing to ask, but stopped. Lis?a was fidgeting, her brow lowered. Jorge frowned. He was never good at reading faces, but the anxiety was palpable even to him. What was wrong with this place? The citizens either avoided them or glared. Concerned mothers ushered their children away. A few odd men loitering by an alleyway sized him with their eyes, as if genuinely considering if they ought to start something.

    Curiosity finally caved in.

    ¡°What is going on here?¡± He asked. He felt a tinge of guilt for doing so; Lis?a seemed to grow more restless.

    ¡°You really don¡¯t know anything, do you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll drop it.¡±

    ¡°No, if you¡¯re going to be staying, you might as well know. Look at them. Their eyes.¡±

    Jorge shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t see what you mean. They¡¯re a normal looking green.¡±

    ¡°Falerians have purple eyes, Jorge.¡± Lis?a rapped her knuckle on Jorge¡¯s elbow. He looked down at her face and noticed the similarity. ¡°These are all Aldrenites. The ones who didn¡¯t play nice or failed to integrate into the new regime. They force them into these neighborhoods.¡±

    ¡°What about the ones who do play nice?¡± Jorge asked.

    ¡°They get the same opportunities as everyone else. Allegedly.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know for sure?¡±

    ¡°The highest ring of noble families will never be anything less than pure Falerian. I know that.¡±

    ¡°Hm¡­ I¡¯m not telling you what to do, but I don¡¯t think you should keep your head down.¡±

    ¡°The hell do you know? You¡¯ve been monkeying in the woods for your whole existence, wherever you came from.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m suggesting¡ªnothing more¡ªthat making one thing your whole identity is going to wreak havoc to your soul in the long run. I¡¯d know.¡±

    Lis?a chuckled. ¡°What was your ¡®thing¡¯ pray tell?¡±

    ¡°I¡­uhm¡ªI used to be very overweight.¡±

    Lis?a fell into bellows of laughter. The other runners looked back in alarm. Even June made a face.

    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª¡± Lis?a could barely speak. ¡°That¡¯s not the same thing! At all! Ha~! That couldn¡¯t be your only ¡®thing¡¯!¡±

    She caught herself, and withdrew. Hesitantly, she searched for Jorge¡¯s gaze, but when she found it, it wasn¡¯t an angry one. Jorge wore a bemused smile.

    ¡°For a moment there, you forgot there were other people here,¡± Jorge remarked.

    ¡°Listen,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°I apologize.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t need it. But I get it. I can change my weight. You can¡¯t change your eye color, or whatever it is that¡¯s different between you and the Falerians. What you can choose is whether or not to let it hold you back.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that simple.¡±

    ¡°It both is and isn¡¯t. Maybe I realized this too late. To live among other people is to deal with an ocean of opinion. Blaming the whole world for judging one way or the other is only good for a moment¡¯s catharsis. If you think there¡¯s nothing you could have done, you stop trying. You get addicted to that catharsis, and the hit is weaker every time.¡±

    ¡°But you still lost weight,¡± Lis?a said. She gestured to his tone form. ¡°I mean you probably gained some in other ways.¡±

    ¡°I did it for me.¡±

    They made it to Ralagast¡¯s runner station without molestation. Maybe it was because of Jorge¡¯s presence, maybe not; it didn¡¯t matter. Lis?a had only heard of those neighborhoods, so shameful to the public consciousness they were unnamed. There were orators and essayists out there of course¡ªtheir eyes glinting amethyst in the noon sun as they spoke poignantly¡ªwho claimed this a kindness. Once a place is named, it takes after its namesake. People who crawled their way out of the muck of those places could choose to have their past erased, and join the court alongside everyone else, equally devoid of a past. Ultimate fairness and a serene lack of prejudice. And therein lied the complication.

    Lis?a did feel better. She held her head high as she walked the rest of the way, uncaring of the judgmental gazes of her fellow Aldrenites. She did not fault Jorge for not understanding. She understood what he meant. What the simple-headed man did not recognize was: that was the point. They funneled these disgruntled Aldrenites here to these unnamed places, inspired them to grow strong, to leave their past behind and be unjudged before the court, ascending to the height of a lord if they were able, becoming at the end of a long, arduous, meritocratic journey: Falerian.

    The people who lived in those neighborhoods were still fighting the war. They bore into Lis?a those angry looks because in their eyes she had surrendered.

    --

    ¡°Stop him!¡±

    Edeard flew onto the rafters to avoid the flurry of knives that followed his wake. He was fast; the edges didn¡¯t even knick his cape. But so were they. When he cleared the undercity and into the sewer pathways, five of them stuck to his tail. He needed to lose them before returning anywhere close to his neighborhood.

    He disengaged his shimmer Spell¡ªit was useless at his speed¡ªand prepared a repulsion Spell. As they followed him up the vertical walls of the basin, he tossed a blast behind him. The force threw one of his pursuers off the wall. Edeard was gone before he saw the pursuer hit the ground. He certainly heard the crunch. Another knife flew past. Edeard wiped a finger on his ear, noting the red blot on his index.

    ¡°Fuck.¡±

    He knew a boulevard in the area. A good forty meters in width. He veered behind the hills and valleys created by Ralagast¡¯s uneven rooftops and chimneys. Bits of shingle and brick shattered behind him from footfalls and thrown knives.

    Don¡¯t they ever run out? He¡¯d have used more potent Spells if he had two hands to cast. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t necessary. The boulevard laid ahead. He channeled an Enchantment into his flesh and jumped. A rain of rooftop matter trailed behind the soles of his feet. He felt the stiff nightly breeze rush past his face, whisking away his sweat. Then he descended, gradually, as slow as adrenaline allowed, with his feet onto the edge of the roof on the other side.

    He whipped around to see if his tail was still hot. A smile crept to his lips. His pursuers were rappelling to the ground; they couldn¡¯t make the jump. Edeard wasted no more time, and left a maze-like trail behind him through an already confusingly complex city. He stalled on top of an annex to double check, then he triple checked.

    He had lost them.

    Only then did he return home. The sun would rise in but an hour when he could return to the comfort of his study. Edeard laid the brass contraption he had carried under his arm on his desk. There was no need to pretend; it was a gun, not a device. The first gun he had seen in this world, and it made the flintlock look like a super soaker. No matter, he had succeeded. The intense fatigue only made his victory sweeter. Edeard had never worked this hard before. His face was slick with sweat.

    His smile instantly turned into a frown. The world was blurring. Trembling, he looked into the mirror on his desk. His ear had gone green. A blue spider web of veins pulsed on that side of his face.

    ¡°No¡­¡±

    One wisp of a thought crossed his mind as he felt his whole body begin to deaden: he never did appreciate the designs on his rug, at least not so closely. As he neared complete blackout, the double doors to his study opened. He heard a shrill cry and someone rushing towards him, then all became silent.

 41 â€“ Ichorous

    Edeard had never heard someone beg before. At least he thought he hadn¡¯t. Least of all for something that wasn¡¯t on their own behalf. When his eyes opened, he recognized the weight of his own bed sheets. His eyes glacially rolled in their sockets as he gathered his surroundings. Dark wood four poster bed. Oval mirror. Modest dresser. A single wide window made of several panes on hinges. This was his master bedroom.

    To his side, Iana sat absolutely still, head cocked to the side. She snored, almost imperceptibly, as if even in sleep she abided by the adage ¡®A servant should be seen, not heard.¡¯

    ¡°Iana?¡± He said.

    She sprang to life, uncrossing her legs, and clearing her throat.

    ¡°Sir? How are you? Are you¡ª?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. Thank you. For all this. Did I tell you to or¡­¡±

    ¡°You were mumbling ¡®no hospital¡¯ before you went limp. I had a physician sent for. Discreetly. A Doctor Deidre.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have to visit them later to make sure they are compensated for discretion.¡± He dragged himself to a sitting position. Iana left her seat to help, but he held up a hand.

    ¡°Were you¡­¡± Edeard said, thinking, ¡°Did you also say something else during my delirium or¡ª¡±

    ¡°I said nothing.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Edeard smirked. ¡°So that was an angel pleading for my life.¡±

    ¡°What kind of angel would pray for you?¡± Iana snapped.

    ¡°There was praying involved too?¡±

    ¡°Shut up.¡±

    Edeard laughed. It was an airy, wispy exhale. His strength had yet to return.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for worrying you,¡± he said. ¡°My work was important. There¡¯re plans beneath our city. When I am stronger, I will take the evidence to someone I trust in the mayoral palace. Perhaps Lady Velvedere.¡±

    ¡°Sir. What do you see in that woman?¡±

    ¡°Well, when I first awoke I was in this city and with her face hovering over mine. She gave me everything. She taught me Nephila, paid for my training¡ª¡±

    ¡°I get it.¡±

    ¡°¡ªand she is quite beautiful.¡±

    ¡°I really do get it.¡± Iana cleared her throat again. ¡°Unfortunately, Lady Velvedere is indisposed. While you slept, the Lord Mayor announced a plan to deal with the volcano at the Heldrazi Forest. She and a group of her chosen will freeze the mountain, if such a thing is possible.¡±

    ¡°Well it was about time. I¡¯ve been hearing about that operation for weeks.¡± He sighed. ¡°Weeks. Bureaucracy. Maybe that¡¯s why this city is failing.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean, sir?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m being paid too much. Only a third of the Knight¡¯s Guard is deployed at any time, even in this monstrous city. And elites like me who can cast and fight rarely get called in. You¡¯re working for an idle lord, Iana. As a citizen you ought to be concerned. Perhaps even hate me.¡±

    ¡°I-I don¡¯t dislike you, sir.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± Edeard smiled. He groaned as he prepared to leave his bed sheets, tossing the corner aside. ¡°I suppose I do compensate you very well.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not why,¡± Iana said, far more forcefully than she intended. ¡°I mean that uhm¡ªI think you¡¯re one of the good ones. As far as knights go.¡±

    ¡°Thank you for that.¡±

    He showered and dressed in fresh clothes on autopilot. His mind was elsewhere, thinking. With Lady Velvedere busy, he could speak to the Knight Captain. Lord Jace was an honorable and cautious man; he ought to notice if there were clandestine forces with an ear against his walls. The Lord Mayor was too obvious. Should he wait? The enemy would be on high alert after his stunt. If he waltzed into the palace now it would be the most dangerous time, and he was still recovering from whatever toxin had ailed him. But with every passing day the enemy¡¯s plans near fruition.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    When he had finished pinning on his aiguillette, he had completed the arithmetic. Trading days of preparation by the Knight¡¯s Guard for his returning health was not the play. He nodded to himself. He¡¯d take the gun and sneak into Lord Jace¡¯s office just as he was to leave for the night. The man often liked to stay late. All the better to facilitate Edeard¡¯s passage under the cover of night.

    ¡°Iana? Some coffee please.¡±

    Edeard opened the doors to his study. For the second time, he felt faint. The desk was empty.

    ¡°Iana!¡±

    ¡°Th-the water hasn¡¯t boil¡ª¡±

    ¡°Who tended to me?¡± He rushed to find the maid in the kitchen, grasping her by the shoulders.

    ¡°I-It was Doctor Deidre. A man from the adjacent district.¡±

    ¡°Were you with him the entire time he was treating me?!¡±

    ¡°Yes¡­ no, wait, I didn¡¯t show him the door after I paid him. I stayed with you.¡±

    ¡°Damn it!¡±

    Edeard stormed off to get his rapier.

    Iana called after him, ¡°Did I do something wrong?¡±

    ¡°No. No you didn¡¯t.¡±

    Edeard rushed outside, his scabbard rapping against his hip in his haste. The door was left ajar in his wake.

    --

    Jorge set his axe upside-down against the wall of the room he had been given. It would have barely sufficed as spartan for the average sized soldier. For him it was like a broom cupboard. He didn¡¯t want to spend any more time than necessary in those cramped quarters. As he wandered the headquarters, drawing attention wherever he went, he weighed his options. Perhaps he could just leave. He knew of nothing that could stop him. Except numbers. If he left he would be supremely suspicious, and he¡¯d likely be painted as an enemy across this country. One of countless numbers no doubt.

    The city made him think of home. Earth. The only difference being aesthetics. Great gothic spires both old and new. Pointed roofs and windows glazed with time, covered with thin layers of dirt and dust. The roads were paved but discolored. Even though the headquarters was embedded deeper in the city beyond those unnamed neighborhoods, he still received looks from passersby. Not of anger, but perhaps from disdain. Jorge took up a lot of space. His clothes were strange. He was unshaven.

    Go downtown in any large enough city on Earth and busy people would give anyone like him sharp looks just for existing on the same pavement as them. Except Ralagast seemed a lot less busy than it had room to sustain. Something was wrong. He knew instinctively. He glanced over his shoulder at a rooftop behind him. A brief smile crept up on his face. The runners were quicker this time; he didn¡¯t see them duck. But their presence was not well hidden. Yavi wasn¡¯t going to let him out of their sight.

    Jorge thought to give them a challenge. Just for fun. There were places in this relatively quiet city where he heard noise, life. Little cultural islands anyone would find metastasizing in every large enough town. He turned a street and headed into one of them. The austere gothic grey and bronze was exchanged for reds, golds, and violets. The streets here were smaller, but far more densely packed. And as expected, the faces were different. There were almost no purple eyes in sight that Jorge could see among the flurry of citizens.

    Languages were thrown his way. Not Nephila, although he heard phrases and loan words here and there. Indistinguishable noise to him, but he did notice tone. Welcoming tones, pleading, angry, uncaring. People wanting him to buy things. People angry that he was taking up so much space on an already budgeted street. People begging for coppers.

    ¡°Really is like Chinatown in here,¡± he muttered to himself.

    The roofs were occupied with clothes hung out to dry. Children played unattended up there as well. He wondered in amusement how the runners were going to follow him in here.

    These sorts of places were always so dirty. The curbs were as likely a home for a rat as it was for a person in ragged clothes, or a stall where unimaginable roasts hung dripping fats and grease. They smelled and were guaranteed to be as delicious as they were likely to give the uninitiated an upset stomach. For all the rigid social engineering that seemed to be Faleria¡¯s theme, they seemed to have no issue letting these places accrete.

    ¡°Come, child, come.¡±

    Jorge turned his neck. Tucked deep in the shadow of an alley, an old man in silken robes beckoned him with accented Nephila. Jorge entered the elder¡¯s domain and sat down.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t money to pay for a palm reading, old timer,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°Palms? Bah, those lines are never accurate.¡± The old man smiled. ¡°And my payment will come. I see you by your absences, young man.¡±

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m going to leave now.¡±

    ¡°Troubled childhood.¡±

    Jorge stopped and sat back down.

    ¡°This is a common trick isn¡¯t it?¡± He said. ¡°You say basic things all of us share to some degree?¡±

    ¡°Ah, experience with charlatans? Something specific then. The angelkin.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve seen it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen no angel since I came here.¡±

    ¡°Three heads. One mind. Inscrutable goal.¡±

    ¡°¡­Go on.¡±

    ¡°People don¡¯t usually see it. The balance forbids it. That¡¯s why power is so hard to come by.¡±

    ¡°Because everyone has a place in the fold,¡± Jorge scoffed. He glanced behind at the busy streets. ¡°A beggar to his curb and a lord to his linen table.¡±

    ¡°No beggar is welded to his curb, neither is a lord chained to his gold, young man. The balance is hinged.¡± The old man raised a finger. ¡°Someone like you is here.¡±

    ¡°What!?¡±

    ¡°My price¡ª¡±

    ¡°Wait, what do you mean ¡®like me¡¯!?¡±

    ¡°¡ªis that you steer the storm away from this place.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not enough to go on, old man!¡±

    ¡°We are not this frustrating because it is entertaining to us, child. If I tell you too much, the future changes. And my sight isn¡¯t what it used to be.¡± The old man sighed. ¡°Well. It is lunch time. The fowl ought to be done roasting by now.¡±

    And then he retreated further into the alley, into that sliver in the shadow that seemed impossibly dark. Jorge jumped to his feet, knocking the chair backwards, and rushed forward, but he found nothing but a brick wall. It was within arm¡¯s reach. There was no stall. There may never had been.

    ¡°I hate this planet.¡± Jorge stormed out of the alleyway, hoping no one caught sight of a crazy man talking to a wall.

 42 â€“ The Selfish Horde

    Edeard descended onto the district adjacent to his, where the buildings were squatter and less meticulous in their construction. Modest disrepair clad the brick housing. Their tenants were either none the wiser or didn¡¯t particularly care. In his hurry he hadn¡¯t changed out of his official attire. People looked his way, noted his crisp coat, his precious metal aiguillette, his overall manner, and returned to whatever they were doing before, albeit in a sourer mood than before. Edeard had never looked back at his abode this way. He had seen it thousands of times on his return from his duties yes, but from the perspective of the main boulevards. People were happy to see the knights there. Well-to-do people. From here, the view of well-kempt estates only instilled envy. Sometimes they threw parades on those boulevards celebrating the Knight Guard. Edeard had begun to realize who it really was organizing said parades.

    He had had a hand in putting down a few of them himself. Many of them were using Reciprocators: crystal-cored devices that held a few simple Spells in repetition among the gem¡¯s lattices. Spells in the hands of the people. Power where they had claimed it belonged. Except none of them had an iota of the Mental discipline all casters must be taught. Taught being a light word. Edeard thought it was more like indoctrination.

    He ignored the deluge of mean looks he received from anyone who passed him by. The children were worse, less restrained, and like all children they knew they could get away with much more. So Edeard endured the little pebbles they threw at him when they thought he wasn¡¯t looking. One simple repulsion Spell would be all it would take. He could cast one instantly. During the riot he had tossed a man who had a head over him aside with such a Spell. He still remembered the sound of a skull crack against the pavement, and the river of crimson that meandered out afterward, tracing the individual slabs in the sidewalk. The man wasn¡¯t even threatening him at the time.

    So in a way he understood their attitude. No good deed went unpunished in a fair world, especially by those the deed was meant to benefit. His thoughts returned to what was in front of him when he found the clinic. There was a secretary of sorts manning the front desk. It was a disheveled place full of disordered stacks of binders, books, and papers. Far too much work for one filer.

    ¡°Where is Doctor Deidre?¡± Edeard asked.

    ¡°Do you have an appointment?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll look for him myself.¡±

    ¡°Hey you can¡¯t¡ª!¡±

    There weren¡¯t that many offices in the clinic. Only one of them were lit. Edeard considered knocking it down. He twisted the knob instead, finding it unlocked. The secretary continued to clamor behind him.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, dad, this rich piece o¡ª¡±

    The doctor raised a hand from behind his desk without looking away from his writings.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright, I left him an appointment,¡± Deidre said.

    Edeard closed the door in the secretary¡¯s face. Now they were alone.

    ¡°Give it back to me,¡± he said.

    ¡°Listen¡­¡± The doctor looked beyond his years. There was the structure of a middle-aged man in that face, laden with an unlucky amount of senescence. Sleepless eyes looked up from the paperwork, somehow maintaining a sharp gaze through ancient spectacles.

    ¡°There is no talk to be had,¡± Edeard said. ¡°Give it back or people get hurt.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯d raise attention, no? And I¡¯ve a feeling you want discretion on this work.¡±

    ¡°I never said I¡¯d be the one doing the hurting. I¡¯ll assume you know what¡¯s been happening.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    ¡°Employment has been becoming harder as of late, did you know that?¡± Deidre left his desk to his liquor side table. He began pouring two glasses. ¡°This is our own. We make it on the weekends. Maybe a little too brisk for your refined palate. It¡¯s certainly dirt cheap.¡±

    ¡°What is this?¡± Edeard said, exasperated. ¡°Is this how we work now? Sling stereotypes at each other? Your tribe versus what you assume is mine? I¡¯m trying to help you. Give it back!¡±

    ¡°I will.¡± Deidre offered a glass. ¡°But how can you help if you refuse to listen?¡±

    Edeard made a sharp noise of disapproval. But he did accept the glass.

    ¡°Here¡¯s to good faith,¡± he said. He took a sip before Deidre did. He just managed to stop his eyes from watering.

    The doctor smiled. He downed his drink as well.

    ¡°That is my younger daughter manning the front desk,¡± he said. ¡°Never was good at numbers. But she forced herself to learn how to file so we could keep this place afloat. We used to get operating fees from the palace. Now it¡¯s less than a quarter what it used to be. And the prices of agents, gauze, tinctures, and balms don¡¯t change. What¡¯s worse, people are getting hurt more and more. Desperation¡¯s everywhere, Sir Lumens.

    ¡°My eldest daughter disappeared one day, saying she had found employment. Said it was discreet, but it paid. She was almost done her Regal studies too, which we had been saving for over a decade to send her to. I think we both know what kind of employment she was referring to.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s assume I do.¡±

    ¡°Oh these things are so complicated¡­¡± Deidre squinted. He sighed deeply. ¡°How does it all work? What determines the worth of a coin? There¡¯s more than enough for everyone, so why is it all up there. That¡¯s what I hear the kids say nowadays.¡±

    ¡°That hasn¡¯t been true for a while,¡± Edeard said. ¡°The lords are more or less keeping an image.¡±

    ¡°And you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a Knight of the Preservation. I¡¯ve my own house and one servant. Hardly affluent, ignoring the pitfalls of discussing relativity.¡±

    ¡°Yes. There¡¯s always someone with more. The kids¡ª¡± Deidre shook his head. ¡°¡ªthere¡¯re just so angry. So young. Passionate. You¡¯re all lords to them. They¡¯re going to take the palace.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°You want to stop it?¡±

    ¡°I will.¡±

    ¡°You may not be superbly wealthy, Sir Lumens, but you¡¯ve a supreme ego.¡±

    Edeard couldn¡¯t stop the flash of anger that streaked across his expression.

    ¡°I¡¯m trying to¡ª!¡±

    ¡°So you¡¯ve said,¡± Deidre said. ¡°But don¡¯t you think it takes a certain degree of self-obsession to think it falls onto one person to single-handedly affect change?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m planning on getting help. I¡¯ve connections in the palace. I¡¯m not relying on my own power here.¡±

    ¡°And it will all fall into place? What next after you seek help? You know for sure they will stop what has been set in motion?¡±

    ¡°I- I haven¡¯t the specificities figured out yet.¡± Edeard shook his head. ¡°But I have to try.¡±

    ¡°Therein lies the issue. You fly across the rooftops of Ralagast with nothing but good intentions, circumventing the law with no surefire plan, to stop a revolution by the people you¡¯ve sworn to protect, by eliciting help from the people you serve. And you¡¯re a caster. If you make a mistake people like me die. See the imbalance? You can¡¯t stop this, Mr. Lumens.¡±

    ¡°Age doesn¡¯t guarantee wisdom, doctor. I¡¯ve no delusions of grandeur. I can only try. And I must.¡±

    ¡°Even if you make it worse?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s possible.¡±

    ¡°Good. I¡¯ve a deal for you then. I will tell you where I¡¯ve hidden the weapon, and you can do your show-and-tell to your boss. In exchange, bring her back to me.¡± Deidre handed Edeard a steelfeather sketch of his eldest daughter. Soft eyes and narrow chin, the look of a scholar, not a fighter.

    ¡°You¡¯d only have my word,¡± Edeard said uncertainly.

    ¡°I will foil your plans if you are not on the path of upholding your end of the deal. Believe me, I will. Bring her away from those foolish children and back to me.¡±

    Edeard laughed, bitter and hollow.

    ¡°Through all that waxing pessimistic about the state of our city and the mentality of our young people, in the end you¡¯re just another citizen who only cares about himself!¡± Edeard scoffed. ¡°You care about the life of your daughter more than the countless thousands that will be affected by this.¡±

    ¡°When you try to do the right thing and fail, you lose everything, Sir Lumens. We tell our children stories about heroes and the concept of ¡®the right thing¡¯ so they grow up with a healthy mind. Adulthood is realizing what you can save, and what you can¡¯t. Rarely does one do ¡®the right thing¡¯ ¡± Deidre¡¯s lips quivered, but Edeard could see no fear in the old man. Just pure resolve, so potent it rattled his old frame.

    ¡°Fine,¡± Edeard said. He held out a hand. Deidre shook it weakly. Edeard could feel the man¡¯s bones beneath his skin. ¡°I¡¯ll find the girl.¡±

    ¡°Good. The weapon is under your desk in your study.¡±

    ¡°What?!¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t fit that monstrosity in my doctor¡¯s bag. I¡¯d get spotted and killed!¡±

    ¡°You couldn¡¯t have known I would have assumed you took it. There was no way you knew for sure.¡±

    ¡°No. I had but faith.¡± The doctor smiled. "That''s all I had at the time."

    ¡°You¡¯re a hypocrite.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a human.¡±

 43 â€“ Examination

    Jorge returned to his temporary home after the incident with the soothsayer, or whatever that was. He slept uneasily in the night. His dreams were haunted by inexplicable imagery and a foreign presence. This time they weren¡¯t as clear as when he was approached by the entity. Jorge woke up in the dark. Groggy and frustrated at the stressful sleep, he exited his cupboard room to scatter a few steps. Maybe that¡¯d calm him down.

    There were candles in the headquarters. Miraculous things he might¡¯ve caught being sold by multi-level marketing people back on Earth. Except these were real magic. The tiny flame burned down the shaft in the day, which had been marked fourteen times. One tick per hour. At midnight the flame turned a cool, ambient blue, and then burned the other way. He saw three ticks on the candle¡¯s shaft. Three a.m. The world evidently ran on a twenty-eight hour clock. He had never noticed in all his time in the Heldrazi wilderness. Maybe it was the first couple months of starving and fearing for his life that made him less observant. The stars would have to move slower after all to accommodate the longer night.

    They were a particular distance North on this planet. That much he did notice. He stepped out onto the cool night¡ªor was it morning¡ªair to gauge the heavens. If he squinted, he could just barely see the center point around which the starry canvas spun. If he stared hard enough, rainbow eels rippled near the most cloudless parts. Auroras. Except one of them left the flock and turned the front part of its body, facing his squarely. Jorge blinked, but it was no illusion. The aurora descended. Jorge held out a hand, watching the ribbon of faint color encircle his wrist and swerve between his fingers. Then it departed, returning to the sky as though it had never left. It was so far away. Jorge wondered how it ever felt so close.

    In his rapture he hadn¡¯t noticed the movement to his side, sharing his terrace. It was the captain. Yavi. Jorge almost couldn¡¯t recognize him in casual clothes. In the man¡¯s hand was a mug of steaming drink.

    ¡°You¡¯re not Wolfrim at all, are you?¡± Yavi said.

    ¡°Never was, but I¡¯d be glad to know why you thought so.¡±

    ¡°I never truly thought so. But all it takes is that one in a million. Duty is to be meticulous.¡±

    ¡°You force yourself to perform tasks you don¡¯t believe in.¡±

    ¡°I believe in caution. And in Faleria.¡± Yavi took a sip. ¡°Want some? It¡¯s called coffee.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Jorge turned his head, a single eyebrow raised high.

    ¡°Some noble or lord or some such brought the recipe from a faraway land. Nobody thought you could actually make a drink out of the bitter beans. You really know nothing about this world, do you?¡±

    Jorge shook his head. This world¡¯s ecosystem apparently supported many familiar creatures. It stood to reason a coffee plant analogue existed. He nodded, as if to make sense of it himself.

    ¡°Think of me as a newborn,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°Wolfrim people are dogmatically secular,¡± Yavi said. ¡°They¡¯d never be caught dead trying to catch the attention of the Malanas snakes.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s so strange.¡± Jorge squinted again. ¡°They¡¯re in the sky now. No doubt many leagues away. But for a moment it was right in front of me. Then it was gone. Like distance isn¡¯t real.¡±

    ¡°They only interact with children. And seers, mages, people with a certain kind of ¡®open mind¡¯. Wolfrimites would sooner try to bottle them. Falerians couldn¡¯t care less. Especially the people of this city.¡±

    ¡°Tell me about Wolfrim.¡±

    ¡°Their technology is beyond compare to ours. Derived from Nephilim artifacts.¡±

    ¡°The people that disappeared forty thousand years ago,¡± Jorge said, recalling specific tracts from Five Thousand Feathers.

    ¡°The truth is the Nephilim were masters of the planes, while Wolfrimites reject their existence. Their technology is but the underperforming scraps of an immeasurable empire.¡±

    ¡°Where did they go?¡±

    ¡°To know that would etch an archeologist¡¯s name permanently in our history, Jorge.¡± Yavi sighed. ¡°There¡¯s so many things we do, that we commit so readily to, without fully understanding the consequences, or even knowing all the variables of. Personally, I don¡¯t even remember why the Wolfrimites hate us. Maybe it¡¯s ideological. We fraternize with technology and Spellpower. Maybe that¡¯s all it takes. But if they get a chance¡­¡±

    ¡°Apology accepted,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°You were. You just explained why you dragged me all the way here when you didn¡¯t need to humor me.¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°If you say so.¡±

    ¡°This¡­ process of yours. The mental check.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an inquisitorial mage. They¡¯ll probe your thoughts for anything related to key concepts all Wolfrim spies would need to possess to do their job.¡±

    ¡°Is there any way to cheat it?¡±

    ¡°Nothing in the realm of pure science could fully protect one from something purely of the Mind.¡± Yavi made a fanciful noise. ¡°Or so I¡¯m told. Typical caster confidence.¡±

    ¡°Then after this, your duty with me is complete.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± Jorge began to leave. ¡°We should have a coffee once this is over.¡±

    He was escorted to the palace came morning. They took a carriage, perhaps to attract less attention from the citizens. As if they would care. Jorge could already glean the attitude of the people, that seen-it-all smugness they carried, and a certain holier-than-thou air. The blight of big cities everywhere, he supposed. The deeper they moved towards the center of Ralagast where the palace was built, the busier it got. He somehow got the impression that business wasn¡¯t doing so well, but here the streets were by no means empty. The city wasn¡¯t at a standstill, it simply wasn¡¯t at its best. Although he admitted he knew nothing about the minutiae of economics.

    The confusing topic that moved tenths and decimals in ways people swore were mathematical. If God didn¡¯t play with dice, people certainly did. The goal of the game wasn¡¯t to win. Keeping it within tolerable bounds of almost predictable rises and falls was the key to sustainability, would investors bother teaching that to folk outside their connections. Maybe if these prim lords and ladies deigned to share some of their knowledge there wouldn¡¯t be so much tension between those in the outer districts.

    As interesting the architecture was, Jorge eventually grew bored. Across from him sat June, who had been quiet as of late. Ever since they entered the city, as a matter of fact. It was the noise. To Jorge it was annoying. To the priestess it must have been overwhelming. He had garnered over their time spent together that she wasn¡¯t just sensitive. Pity moved him to try to at least get her talking.

    ¡°How¡¯re you feeling?¡± He asked, rather awkwardly.

    June smiled. ¡°I¡¯m fine. You ought to be the nervous one.¡±

    ¡°Was never afraid of tests,¡± he said.

    ¡°You should be afraid of this one. It takes a sadistic persona to pursue Mind reading as a career.¡±

    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll make some friends.¡±

    ¡°Ha.¡± The laugh was unconvincing.

    ¡°It¡¯s loud here, huh.¡±

    ¡°I can hear them, you know,¡± June explained. ¡°Not their idle talk. Their feelings, intentions. This ability of mine would have made me a perfect inquisitor. Except I didn¡¯t enjoy it. Reach out into the hearts of these people, and you see all the worst of us. Jealous, vain, insecure little lords and ladies afraid of losing. They are so powerless in their own domain. It¡¯s sad.¡±

    ¡°What about the poor souls in the outer districts?¡±

    ¡°Life is hard for them. But it always is for everyone. So few of us are lucky enough to have easy lives. I felt their anger when we passed them by. As if directing rage at the palace would solve their woes. The tide needs to raise all boats. Sinking the biggest ship won¡¯t get you to shore quicker.¡±

    ¡°But there¡¯d be more fish for everyone else.¡±

    ¡°Not everyone¡¯s a fisherman.¡±

    ¡°I suppose not.¡±

    The carriage took a turn into the palace courtyard. The first thing a guest saw is the pristinely maintained gardens to the roadside, bordered by square hedges. Servants tended to them. Then the roads would swerve into a large array of stables beside the palace walls. The palanquin¡¯s door was opened, and Jorge was greeted by a dozen armored guards. He couldn¡¯t resist a grin. They looked about as elegant as a human would clad in an inch of steel about the chest and shoulders.

    ¡°Get out of the car!¡± The sergeant ordered.

    ¡°Yes, chef,¡± Jorge replied.

    The stern man ignored the strange comment. With six per side and Yavi leading the way, they corralled Jorge through the palace¡¯s pearl-and-marble halls. Tiles of the opulent mineral formed seamless floors. The doors were heavy ironwood. He was walked past many an office and official looking personnel.

    ¡°Hard work, isn¡¯t it? Running this city,¡± Jorge commented.

    ¡°Shut it,¡± the sergeant said.

    ¡°A lot of quill pushers here.¡±

    The sergeant curled his fist. Before he could do anything more, Yavi put a hand on the man¡¯s shoulder, shaking his head. The sergeant settled for a growl.

    Somewhere along the way they took a turn down a flight of stairs. The scenery changed instantly. From official affluence to austere brick and rust. They had entered the palatial basement. There were cells here with bars over an inch thick. Arcanery was thick in the walls. Jorge could smell it. If he was put here, he doubted even he could escape easily. They walked past a prisoner who sat tucked away in the corner of their cell, shaking uncontrollably. Another kept screaming with a stony face and open mouth. Most stayed quiet, angry, but very few had a guilty expression. Some even struggled against the bars.

    ¡°¡ªnothing wrong! Please let m¡ª¡±

    There was a Spell at work. No matter how hard a prisoner shouted, Jorge did not hear them the instant he passed their cell.

    ¡°¡ªas just one piece of bread¡ª!¡±

    ¡°¡ªey deserved it! I protected myse¡ª!¡±

    ¡°¡ªagain! I¡¯d do it again you pigs¡ª!¡±

    ¡°¡ªnot what she seems! She¡¯s pure evil! Please lis¡ª!¡±

    ¡°Charming place,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°It goes down about twenty floors,¡± Yavi said. ¡°It¡¯s even lovelier down there.¡±

    They finally arrived at a chamber lit by a brick hearth. A man in black-gold robes covered with arcane devices turned as they entered. He stood alone among a field of equipment that made even Jorge lose a layer of cool. He tried not to let it show.

    ¡°Ah, my nine o¡¯clock,¡± the inquisitor said. ¡°Which one was this one again? How much of him do you want intact by the end?¡±

    Jorge gulped.

    ¡°All of him,¡± Yavi said quickly. ¡°It¡¯s a routine espionage check. I want him in one piece, not in a dust pan.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s with the entourage, then?¡± The mage said, pointing at the guards.

    ¡°He¡­ exercises,¡± Yavi answered.

    ¡°I know a chemist who¡¯d love to test on a build like that. Shame.¡± The mage readied the chair at the center of the room. ¡°Lay down.¡±

    Jorge did so, but his every instinct rebelled, telling him to run.

    ¡°What is your capacity for pain, child?¡± The mage asked, bearing down on him with a face blackened by shadow.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been mauled by wild animals before,¡± Jorge said. ¡°And I¡¯ve been to a dentist.¡±

    ¡°Mmm, baby steps.¡±

    Jorge really wanted to leave.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± the mage said, as if empathetic to his discomfort, ¡°If you¡¯ve nothing to hide, you¡¯ve nothing to fear.¡±

 44 â€“ The Proper Channels

    The palace was quiet at nighttime, not for lack of activity. Guards roamed in fours through the roads and courtyards. A fair number of officials strode through the well-lit halls, for whatever unimaginable work it took to maintain such a byzantine construct surely did not call for a break just because the sun was down. The construct wasn¡¯t a city. It was a system. The human archetypal obsession with systems that promised a reprieve from nature¡¯s chaos. If a citizen worked, a citizen was to be rewarded. The system was such a promise of fairness. And everyone wanted to partake of it, only, there was never enough equality to go around. Thus the city was conceived, and a nation can be thought of as a city of cities.

    A million Falerians¡ªor more specifically Ralagastii¡ªwho clamored together because there was much humanity can do as a gestalt, much industry that would be impossible without the hierarchies of grunt, foreman, and captain. People chose to live and work together, all while stewing in envy and jealousy and insecurity at every success their neighbor gained.

    Edeard had been becoming less and less sure of his role. Even as he traversed from slanted roof to roof, bell tower to crenellation, crossing the vastness of the city in long strides he second guessed if he was doing the right thing. From such a meager height the city already appeared diminished, small.

    He had stopped along the way to stop an alleyway mugging. The scared citizen thanked him in a shaky tone then scrambled away. He was alone with the mugger in the darkness, where no one need know what happened next but him. What then? He had already taken the law in his hands by intervening while not acting as a knight. Shall he kill the mugger? Become judge, jury, and executioner? It worried Edeard that he saw no issue with that at first. He couldn¡¯t remember when he had gained so much power.

    In his grip was the mugger¡¯s collar. The poor, pathetic man had wet himself. He had stabbed Edeard seventeen times with his mugging knife. The cuts barely tickled. Over the course of Edeard¡¯s work, his training, his last year of life here in Etrylis, he had gained strength far exceeding a normal human¡¯s. It wasn¡¯t right. The system was made by humans for humans. If he had become so much more, what right had he to intervene?

    ¡°Do this again, and I will end you,¡± Edeard said. He returned to the roofs, continuing his path to the palace. The hypocrisy weighed on his mind. A group of people chose one of their own to lead their interests since they lacked the power to do so, thusly creating a powerful lord, who by the intrinsic nature of being a lord has transcended the sensibilities of the people who had created them. Edeard was a lord. Edeard was absent from the circumstances that would ever lead him to fear a mugger or become one himself. If someone neither had a taste for fish or experience as a fisherman were to comment on their practices, their words would be met with ridicule.

    He reached the roof of one of the palace¡¯s spires.

    ¡°Get a hold of yourself,¡± he whispered.

    He believed in life. He was still human in spirit. That much he knew he still had in common. On his back he carried evidence of a weapon that could jeopardize the entirety of Ralagast. After a few deep breaths, he left his perch and found the Knight Captain¡¯s office, which supported a small terrace overlooking the entire city. He landed there and opened the door into the quarters. Lord Jace nearly jumped from behind his desk.

    ¡°By the emperor! Edeard? What the hell¡ª?¡±

    Edeard unslung the weapon and laid it on Lord Jace¡¯s desk.

    ¡°There are at least one hundred of these in the undercity,¡± he explained, ¡°And at least one thousand insurgents being trained to overthrow the palace.¡±

    ¡°What?!¡±

    ¡°You are a more proficient caster than I, Lord Jace. Run your senses over this tool and confirm that a plane is being weaponized within its mechanisms.¡±

    Still apprehensive, Jace raised a hand and began hovering his palm over the device. Edeard remained standing, despite there being an empty chair behind him. He was still before his superior.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    The office was richly laden with artifacts of Jace¡¯s long career. Sabers, swords, pieces of armor from different eras and lands. A globe was suspended in semicircular bronze arms in the corner by deep red curtains. Details floated above the globe, flat and blue where there was ocean, ridged where there were mountains. Names were suspended above each city and land. Tiny clouds brushed against the underside of its housing. Behind Jace was a bookshelf full of old volumes marked with numbers on the spine and nothing else. The many laws and regulations of their system, no doubt. Only a small corner of it was occupied by personal effects.

    The man¡¯s desk was covered with papers. Jace appeared under a lot of stress lately. The deep wrinkles of worry seemed unfitting on his noble, greyed visage. And after studying the device, his worry only grew deeper.

    ¡°This was designed by an artificer,¡± Jace said from underneath his beard.

    ¡°Perhaps of Wolfrim make? Maybe this is one of their attempts to destabilize us.¡±

    ¡°Wolfrim machinery would never make use of a plane like this, but perhaps that is a perfect alibi. When you¡¯ve made yourself very predictable, you¡¯ve an excuse for the occasion. This device¡­ it harnesses a dangerous Spell. One that could kill any of us, even with our physicalities considered.¡± Jace looked up from examining the weapon. ¡°And you say there¡¯s one hundred of these?¡±

    ¡°At least.¡±

    ¡°And insurgents being trained in our sewers?¡±

    ¡°Our own, it looks like. Not many years younger than me. The recession has inspired extremism.¡±

    Jace shook his head. ¡°I told them,¡± he said.

    ¡°Beg pardon, sir?¡±

    ¡°I told them this gambit of theirs could cause friction. The officials who planned this recession.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Edeard was having difficulty believing what he was hearing.

    ¡°That new city? Cadeau de Chires. It¡¯s one of the first built on land that was once Aldren¡¯s. We almost lost that war, remember? Still don¡¯t know what turned the tide. Well those cities need to thrive and prosper.¡±

    ¡°They are,¡± Edeard said.

    Jace chuckled. ¡°They need to balloon extraordinarily. These past thirty-six years have been taxing on the Falerian military nobles, and the general public¡¯s ethos. After such a close victory, people are questioning if it is worth it to continue letting the military families have all the power and be the primary spawning ground from which to draw an emperor. This recession was engineered by our mathematicians to drive talent into the new cities, produce fantastic growth, so the people continue to believe war is profitable. It was meant as a one score operation, one generation. Twenty years. We¡¯ve four left and things are at a breaking point.¡±

    Edeard collapsed onto the chair, unable to continue standing. He covered his face in his hands.

    ¡°Those riots months ago¡­¡± he said.

    ¡°I told them we needed to stop then,¡± Jace said. ¡°The people can¡¯t¡ª¡±

    ¡°I killed an innocent man. It was an accident. He got in the way. But now you¡¯re telling me these frustrations were engineered. So they were all innocent.¡±

    ¡°Their decisions are still their own, Edeard. Those riots caused more damage to innocents than your mistake. One that the Order already absolved. I thought you had let it go.¡±

    ¡°When I thought it was justice that absolved me! How do I know that wasn¡¯t engineered? What is the point of being a knight?¡±

    Jace stood from his desk abruptly. ¡°We. Are. Still. Protecting our people. That has always been our job, Edeard.¡±

    ¡°The laws¡ª¡±

    ¡°Fuck the laws. Fuck its spirit. If rules made our civilization, we enforcers would be obsolete. We lords keep the violent chaff in line! If we weren¡¯t necessary, we wouldn¡¯t exist.¡±

    Edeard laughed once, a bitter exhale that had nothing to do with humor.

    ¡°I quit,¡± he said. ¡°Take back everything the Guard has given me. I don¡¯t care.¡±

    ¡°But you can¡¯t, boy. I told you everything for a reason. You see, your heart is in the right place, but you¡¯ve never felt true responsibility before. Upon one instance of a difficult situation, your resolve is already shaken. Now you know what it¡¯s like to harbor something that which you cannot divulge lest you stoke the flames further.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t keep working like this.¡±

    ¡°You will, or else I will have you taken to the dungeons beneath this palace.¡±

    ¡°I mistook you for a man of honor, Jace.¡±

    ¡°No, boy!¡± Jace rushed forward. Enchantments were cast faster than Edeard could react. The old Knight Captain was enflamed with a red glow. Monstrous strength grabbed Edeard by the jaw, lifting him, then pinning him to the other wall beside the mounted heads of a faelk. ¡°You think honor is that simple? Honor is knowing the law¡¯s limitations as much as its necessity. Honor is performing evils for the greater good while never straying from your original path. You don¡¯t know what honor is, infant.¡±

    There was nothing Edeard could do. His Enchantments were not as strong. He couldn¡¯t focus enough to cast under Jace¡¯s duress anyhow. Eventually Jace let go, dropping Edeard on the rich, red carpet portraying the proud wingspan of a hawk.

    ¡°Return to your post once you¡¯ve regained your composure,¡± Jace said. ¡°I¡¯ll speak to my men tomorrow about what you¡¯ve brought to me tonight. You¡¯ve done well. I trust you can show yourself out.¡±

    The Knight Captain shut the lamps in his office, buttoned his uniform, and left, leaving Edeard in the dark.

 45 â€“ The Next Step

    Jorge was careful to put one foot in front of the other when he stepped out of the carriage back at the runners¡¯ headquarters. His mind felt like it was floating. As promised, the inquisitorial mind reading was worse than being mauled by wild animals. Like a migraine during a brain freeze times some arbitrary multiplier. He began to question if it would be worth it to involve himself in this world¡¯s matters if these sorts of experiences were going to be reoccurring.

    Yavi handed him a cup of coffee from the kitchens. If the captain was sympathetic, he didn¡¯t show it on his face. Jorge assumed the offer was the condolence.

    ¡°You are free of suspicion now,¡± Yavi said.

    ¡°Yeah Faleria is secure,¡± Jorge muttered bitterly. Rubbing his temples didn¡¯t help, but he did it anyway.

    ¡°We do thousands of acts like this every day. Most don¡¯t reveal some sort of plot. That¡¯s the price of freedom.¡±

    Jorge smiled briefly. He sipped the coffee. It was bitter but not sour. And was indescribably unlike Earth coffee, yet it was nothing if not coffee.

    ¡°Every city has that child in the oubliette,¡± he said.

    ¡°Beg pardon?¡±

    Jorge shook his head. ¡°An insight from an old story where I¡¯m from.¡±

    ¡°Right¡­ Well, what now? Need fare to go back into the woods? There¡¯s a forest northwest of here by two months of travel. I can write up a reparations clause that¡¯d cover it.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t live in Heldrazi because I wanted to.¡± Jorge tried his best to think about what he was supposed to do next. Was he involved yet? He couldn¡¯t quite tell. This was the first time he had true volition over where he was supposed to be, and he found himself quite lost. Finally, after a few minutes of mulling over it, he said, ¡°I think I¡¯ll sleep on it.¡±

    ¡°Wish I had done that all those years ago.¡±

    ¡°What? You regret something?¡±

    ¡°I joined the military because my brother did,¡± Yavi said. ¡°I was young. An exuberant teen. Somewhere along the way I decided that war wasn¡¯t my thing.¡±

    ¡°What happened?¡±

    Yavi stared at the black beverage in his hands for a few moments before answering.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°I think it was during the height of the war. It¡¯s hard to place the time of the memory. Like an idiot I made friends, and there we were, together, thinking boldly to ourselves that we alone would be the heroes of this story. We had breached one of Aldren¡¯s greatest cities then. Their walls burned, their bunkers in ruins, their soldiers on their knees. Me and the boys went back for a drink thinking we were heroes for being one step closer to defeating an evil empire. I only learned years later that while we drank, our nation¡¯s Death Hunters were scouring the city slaughtering male children and anyone who might have the mental fortitude to grow up and be a threat to our nation. Then came the sun. It was night time. We thought we were hallucinating. But then we felt the heat. I was the quickest. I jumped into a trench while the entire encampment was enveloped in arcane flame. The entire battalion was incinerated down to a small handful of lucky souls. We had won a great battle that day, without realizing that we had pushed Aldren too far. They had sent the Fire Scourge, the Celestine Sorcerer, just two of his many names. Most knew him as Tireliam, Highcaster.¡±

    Yavi drew a deep breath. ¡°Young boys fancy violence as a solution to problems. Hell, our most compelling fairy tales feature it. We use violence to destroy a villain, and violence to threaten children back on the right path. And it bloody well might be the absolute cure to most issues. But it¡¯s hard to tell if the toll is worth it when you¡¯re just one man.¡±

    ¡°You deserted, didn¡¯t you?¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°I was discharged for mental unfitness.¡± Yavi laughed. His eyes reflected the lamplight. ¡°Do you have any idea what it¡¯s like to not recognize the friends you thought you would be glad to die serving with, but instead be able to smell them in the air while you alone survived?¡±

    ¡°¡­No.¡± Jorge lowered his head. ¡°My life has been¡­ exceedingly comfortable for most of its runtime. My people are so innocent. They fantasize about travelling¡ªlet¡¯s call it that¡ªto this kind of world, like an escape. For fun. After my time here, I just can¡¯t imagine a world that¡¯s easy to live in.¡±

    ¡°Your people sound strange.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not strange. Just ridiculous.¡±

    He finished his coffee with the captain, deciding that he no longer disliked the man after they parted ways. Jorge retired to his room without joining the others at dinner. He needed the rest after the procedure he just underwent. Sleep possessed him like death. He did not dream, and saw no vision, and met no entity. So when he was awoken while the sky was still dark, his brow sharpened into a glare.

    ¡°Why am I awake?¡± He said with a growl.

    ¡°I was sent to get you,¡± Lis?a hissed. ¡°The city is in chaos!¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    Jorge scrambled out of his bed. He grabbed his axe and followed her outside. The air was alive with the sound of fire and shouting. Over the rooftops of Ralagast, orange permeated the night. There was fire in all directions, the telltale flicker of destruction. Faint screams could be heard farther away, deeper in the city.

    ¡°Where¡¯s June?¡± He asked.

    ¡°She¡¯s safe. She¡¯s a noncombatant. I¡¯m not.¡±

    ¡°Well, what am I?¡±

    ¡°Whatever you want to be with that thing,¡± Lis?a said, nodding at his axe. ¡°We¡¯ve been ordered to evacuate people away from the palatial center. Whatever you want to do is your choice. I¡¯ve been told you¡¯re not beholden to Faleria anymore.¡± With that, she deftly jumped onto the rooftops, disappearing towards the center of the city.

    Jorge was left by himself on an empty street, dumbfounded. He grit his teeth.

    ¡°Fuck it!¡± He began running, following the loudest source of violence in the heart of Ralagast.

 46 â€“ A World On Fire

    Manservants took to the streets carrying the belongings of their masters onto the backs of carriages. Families frantically boarded after their most precious belongings were safely stowed. The roads were filled with the sounds of horses and machinery. And when all the carriages had left, a thin scatting of servantry remained behind. The sidewalks became loosely littered with men, women, and lost children. Their souls cast long shadows from the wavering, artificial sunrise, a poor substitute for the real dawn but far brighter. And the fires grew yet. Their faces became darker the hotter the flames became, until their expressions could no longer be seen. Those islands of culture tucked between alleyways splintered. Hordes of people spilled out of them, and for a brief moment the streets were busy again. Then they too emptied out. A small number of workers idled as the owners of their industries went up into the sky. Some lit a pipe and leaned by a wall. Others sat on a curb. They waited for nothing at all. There was nothing to do anymore. Left-behind children cried. The fires grew.

    The center of the city could be seen from every point in Ralagast. The buildings were tall, gothic, imposing. They were more imposing now than they ever were as they were transformed into scarecrows for men; a simple enough adaption, for men were afraid of all things tall and all things aflame. This was the second great fire Jorge had witnessed. He had lost a friend to the first. Guiltily, it hadn¡¯t rested very heavily on his mind. He had grown comfortable in a sense, assuming that lightning didn¡¯t strike twice, and that by evacuating that forest he had left that chapter of his life behind, never to see it repeat. But here he was surrounded by fire again.

    He left the loitering citizens to head deeper into the palatial district. A cry for help could be heard from the first house on his left. He broke through the door, searching amidst the smoke and crumbling foundations. The cry came again. He followed the muffled sound to the master bedroom. He swung his axe into the door and the wood crashed instantly. One of the occupants screamed.

    ¡°Come on!¡± Jorge shouted.

    But it was a young boy and an overweight father who laid sprawled in all directions on the carpet. The smoke had been too much. Jorge knelt down and pressed a finger on the large man¡¯s neck.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he said.

    The boy resisted, screaming, scrambling to return to his father¡¯s side. Jorge ignored it and brought the boy to safety.

    ¡°Let me go!¡± The boy shouted.

    Even as they left the fervid confines of the house, Jorge heard more cries for help. But he couldn¡¯t let go of the child.

    ¡°You¡¯re being selfish,¡± Jorge said. With his other hand he swung the axe through the colonnades supporting the front canopy of the house. The collapsed pile of stone barred the front entrance. Then he let go. The boy ran back, but there was no longer a way back inside. Jorge was already on his way to the next house. He didn¡¯t look back.

    The second one had several people. Three men and three women trapped in the dining room by a jet of flame in the main halls. Half-eaten food left to simmer on ruined tablecloth. Their wide, watery eyes looked at him, and then the flame.

    Gas. Ralagast had mazes of fuel gas running throughout the city. It warmed their homes and lit their lamps. That must have been how all this had spread so quickly. But Jorge hadn¡¯t the time to theorize more on it. He found the living room, lifted a couch, and slammed it on the exposed piping in the floor. The flames subsided to gorge themselves on the new fuel. Then he turned to citizens in the dining room.

    ¡°You¡¯ve about three seconds,¡± he shouted over the roaring heat.

    They scrambled out, coughing all the while. In truth, Jorge had no idea that would¡¯ve worked. It very well could have not. As he left the house, the plume worsened, and the entire structure began to collapse. Wood and stone creaked as the weakening beams neared their limits. The material hung in the balance, lingering at that precipice of collapse, then tipped over. There was no loud final snarl of wood or shattering of brick. The house simply caved in. It was quieter in death than in its last throes. This was happening everywhere. For every two families Jorge tended to, it was too late for many more.

    Others were not so unlucky. They managed to stumble out of their homes sustaining only minor burns and shortness of breath. The streets were beginning to fill with people covered in soot, gasping for air. Jorge surveyed his surroundings with grit teeth.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Where are your firefighters?¡± He asked those closest to him.

    Only one middle aged woman gave any sort of response. She coughed into a handkerchief, unable to answer him, but with a trembling finger she pointed down a road. Jorge broke into a run. Surely a city this developed had disaster prevention. He assumed the worst. There was what he assumed to be a fire station down the road. He was not alone. A group of young men and women were standing guard outside of it. They had surrounded a batch of citizens in high visibility uniforms kneeling on the grass with their hands behind their back. Two of the insurgents were carrying cumbersome devices in their hands.

    Jorge couldn¡¯t withhold a gasp. The instant his eyes fell upon the machines and saw the way they were being held, he knew what they were. It was a primal response. They noticed him as well and immediately began barking commands.

    ¡°Stop! Put that weapon down!¡±

    ¡°Take it easy,¡± Jorge said. He set his axe on the ground.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°People are dying. I presume those people are firefighters of some sort? Just let them¡ª¡±

    ¡°Are you thick? Get this great ape on his knees over with the rest of them.¡±

    The two with the guns kept their distance while several other insurgents grabbed Jorge. In one quick motion Jorge tossed one of them towards the gun-wielder on the left. The one on the right hesitated, blinking in surprise. Jorge made it within a foot of the weapon before he felt a searing hot bolt impact his chest. The world blurred. He felt the wind rush past. Then he felt windows shatter on his back as he fell through the wall of someone¡¯s establishment.

    If he had air in his lungs to scream, he would. He looked down at his chest as he tried to get back up. The way his blackened skin moved told him how many things were broken just underneath. For seconds he struggled to breathe. His ears rang. Through the ringing he heard glass crunch outside. They were coming. He couldn¡¯t play dead. Jorge had heard enough stories from his army father to know how soldiers ¡°checked¡± their enemies¡¯ bodies.

    Wood and metal tore apart: the sound of a door being kicked off its hinges. They were inside his building. Jorge looked to the doorway of the room he was in and saw their shadows waver from down the hall, growing bigger step by step. He breathed in and tried to think.

    --

    It was safe to say Lis?a had not been trained for this. Exhaust fumes were heavy, and there was no breeze, for better or for worse. The fire needed no help spreading. Passenger paper had marked where they were to meet up. She was the first to arrive. Shingles cracked beneath the soles of her climbing boots. From there she could see all around the palatial district. The fires had spared the churches, as if that was the line the insurgents had drawn. Men, women, and children were fine, but religious iconography was one step too close to the moral abyss.

    A peer clambered onto the same roof, breathing heavily. A young man she had a vague recognition of from training named Yeoman. He had fiery hair and tanned skin, typical of that province in the Southeast.

    ¡°How are you here already?¡± He asked between breaths.

    Lis?a checked her passenger paper. No new scrawls of ink had appeared. She wondered how June was doing. They hadn¡¯t talked very much since arriving at this city. The noise was too much for the sensitive girl. Considerations had been made, and she was sent to the palace to be surrounded by walls so she could be more comfortable. Now that same palace was surrounded by a ring of flame.

    The roof suddenly became crowded as the rest of the runners arrived, out of breath and caked in sweat from the rising temperature.

    ¡°Section VI, subsection twenty-one of the military cee-oh-cee,¡± Yavi began, ¡°In the absence of local authoritative functionality, submilitary regiments of any training is authorized to enforce with extreme prejudice towards the goal of reinstating local authoritative functionality.¡±

    ¡°Are there any lawmen left?¡± Lis?a asked.

    ¡°No. This attack was planned. They struck the enforcement stations in the palatial district first. Ralagast¡¯s fuel line control has informed me that someone had sabotaged their distributors with Valve-freeze devices. They¡¯ve cut off the gas at the source, but whatever remains in the lines will continue burning.¡±

    ¡°Like a forest fire,¡± a runner named Lism¨¦ whispered.

    ¡°Except there are innocents here,¡± Yavi said.

    ¡°What about the Knight¡¯s Guard?¡± Yeoman asked. ¡°Surely they serve as local authority.¡±

    Yavi shook his head. ¡°There has been no communication from the palace. We¡¯re on our own.¡±

    Lis?a twitched at the news. Yavi continued, ¡°Here are your orders. We need to get the flames under control. Fire control hasn¡¯t responded, possibly from interference from the insurgents. If this is true, they would need to be spread thin. They can¡¯t do all this and suppress every fire control station in the palatial district at the same time. Split into five squads of eight and relinquish the firemen.¡±

    ¡°And the insurgents?¡± Someone asked.

    Yavi gave them a strange look. ¡°They forsook Falerian privilege when they decided on this path. Destroy them.¡±

    ¡°Y-yes sir.¡±

    Yavi drew a rough map on his passenger paper. Lis?a watched on her own paper as the diagram manifested line by line. X¡¯s marked the objective locations. She committed them to memory.

    ¡°I¡¯m with her,¡± Yeoman said. ¡°You, you, you, Pylen, Lism¨¦, and you, with us.¡±

    Lis?a frowned for a moment at the sudden familiarity, but there was no time to question it. They returned to the ground and set off.

 47 â€“ Plans Within Plans

    Hours ago

    ¡°Come here. Come here my beautiful Ilionella.¡±

    Iana sat on the bed, carefully, her palms opened and fingers lax so Feninna could grasp her hands with her own strength. The senescent fingers shook as they clenched. Iana barely felt the pressure. The sun had just set. It set quickly here in the North, be it summer or winter, never suffering from the indecisiveness of the South. While the sun slept, the moon began its reign. A single ray snuck through the curtains into the room. That silver line travelled straight down the bedroom wall, breaking upon meeting the bed, tracing the shapes of the bed¡¯s inhabitant. Iana saw just a fraction of Feninna, her grandmother. Her geriatric cheeks rich with striations. Her shape beneath the blankets a husk, dwindled, weak. But when her head tilted further into the moonlight Iana could see her eyes and their dazzling color. Lion gold. Strong gold. Deeper than bullion and far more precious. For the honor of the Lion took years to cultivate in youth and can be found in no other people. The Lion was the proud king of the plains, fair in his rule and possessing of noble strength. But who could have known that heavenward come the well-practiced talons of the Hawk.

    ¡°How are you doing?¡± Feninna asked.

    ¡°As well as can be,¡± Iana would answer.

    ¡°Are you eating enough?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°You look so tired.¡±

    ¡°I am. But I am not anxious. We will not want for anything.¡±

    ¡°But you look so unhappy.¡±

    ¡°How can you see in the dark, nanna?¡±

    ¡°You shine in your own fashion, my sweet.¡±

    Iana saw the edge of a warm smile in that ray of moonlight. It faded quickly. Feninna seemed distressed upon a sudden. Iana grasped her grandmother¡¯s hand, but it was too late.

    ¡°They¡¯re here! They¡¯re here!¡± Feninna wheezed.

    ¡°Quiet, nanna, you¡¯ll wake the others!¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re coming, Ilionella.¡±

    ¡°No one is coming. I am here.¡±

    ¡°The war! The war!¡±

    Iana withheld tears and said, as she had many times, ¡°The war is over, nanna. It has been over for six decades.¡±

    ¡°¡­Oh.¡± Feninna rested back on the bed, her agitation abated. ¡°Have we won? Did the Deer take heed of our warning? An alliance would have done it. We would have stopped the Hawk before it left its nest. Yes. That would make sense. We¡¯re at peace, are we not?¡±

    ¡°We are at peace.¡±

    ¡°I see¡­ oh my beautiful Ilionella. How are you doing?¡±

    ¡°As well as can be.¡±

    ¡°Are you eating enough?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°You look so tired.¡±

    ¡°No, nanna. You¡¯re tired. Go to sleep.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Yes I am. I¡¯m so tired. So¡­¡±

    Iana pulled the covers higher over her grandmother. She sighed. On the opposite side of the bed, a book snapped shut.

    ¡°How are you really doing, Iana? Why do you come here to torture yourself like this?¡± Said her grandfather, Kaligo.

    ¡°Did you like the stew?¡± Iana asked.

    ¡°It was great. Real great. But it would fill my appetite more if it weren¡¯t a Falerian recipe.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t start, grandfather.¡±

    ¡°I am cursed, Iana, because rather than going senile I remember every hour of the past. But the Hawk has done its work, hasn¡¯t it? No one even knows where we¡¯re from anymore. And soon Aldren, the Deer, will have its carcass picked clean. You work for them to feed us. The sheer ignominy of it all.¡±

    ¡°For someone who isn¡¯t senile, you sure like bringing up the same conversation.¡± Iana¡¯s hand flew to her mouth. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t¡ª¡±

    But Kaligo laughed. ¡°There¡¯s my girl.¡±

    ¡°Quiet! You¡¯ll wake her.¡±

    ¡°She won¡¯t wake for anything less a war horn.¡± Kaligo breathed deeply, the years in his body evident in the sluggishness of his breath. ¡°I don¡¯t blame you Iana.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°Just keep the promise.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t work for her. Never.¡±

    ¡°Good. Now. The two flightless birds in the other room need tucking in, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    Iana could practically see him grin in the dark. She tended to her grandparents on her paternal side in the other room, finished her chores for the house, and locked the doors on her way out, making doubly sure the bolts were in place. She¡¯d often come in and find food in the ice box, or money in the drawers. No doubt Ayden¡¯s work. He was always the most enthusiastic about Kaligo¡¯s stories as a boy. Iana could not have guessed it would manifest into downright rebellion as an adult.

    ¡°They stole our history. I steal their money,¡± he had said. A poor excuse for petty theft. It always had been. Most people had no concept of which flag they lived under. They just wanted to live. Now he was wrapped up in something much bigger, and it only made Iana feel worse every day.

    She hurried back to Lord Lumen¡¯s abode. Tarrying from her primary duty would be disrespectful. Once inside, she quickly entered the kitchen and changed her apron to rid the smell of medicine from her body. She lit the gas lamps in the room and thought about what to prepare for her lord¡¯s supper. He had a bad habit of eating at strange hours or not at all. She walked around the kitchen island as she thought, nearly stepping on someone sitting on the floor.

    Iana made a shrill noise of surprise.

    ¡°L-Lord Edeard? What are you doing there¡­ sitting in the dark?¡±

    Edeard turned his head, briefly acknowledging her.

    ¡°You can go home, Iana,¡± he said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±

    ¡°You should get your family out of the city. I will arrange for it.¡±

    ¡°Sir, you¡¯re scaring me.¡±

    Edeard stood to his full height. He looked older, ragged. Iana had never seen anything less than confidence from him, even when he was fatigued.

    ¡°What has happened, sir?¡± She asked.

    ¡°I have failed. In everything. I had faith in the wrong idea. I don¡¯t know how long this city will last.¡±

    ¡°Sir, please. Explain what has happened.¡±

    Edeard divulged, slowly, about his visitation to the Knight Captain, about Lord Jace¡¯s confession. He had then spoken to the Knight Lieutenants, only to find them in agreement as well. Men of the state playing around with the people¡¯s lives, protected by guardians of the state. It all seemed like a bad joke. All Edeard could do was either play along or be branded a traitor.

    ¡°I have one last use for the Guard¡¯s resources,¡± Edeard explained. ¡°I have the power to arrange for transportation. You must leave this city. Take your elderly family with you. Go to Cadeau. You will not be short of employment there. You will live.¡± The irony was not lost on him. Attracting competence to the new cities was the point in all this engineered chaos.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to leave,¡± Iana said.

    ¡°What? Why?! Did I not explain myself clearly?¡±

    ¡°There won¡¯t be someone like you there.¡±

    ¡°I¡ªuhm¡­ what?¡±

    ¡°Nevermind. What will you be doing?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I cannot leave this city. I made a promise to protect it. At the very least I have to stay until all this is¡ª¡± Edeard¡¯s hand reached for his chest. He produced a booklet of passenger paper from his pocket. The cover buzzed. The ink was still fresh when Edeard found the page.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Iana asked.

    Edeard rushed outside. Iana followed. They arrived just in time to see the fire begin.

    ¡°Where is Wicham again?¡± He said. He turned to see panic manifest in Iana¡¯s face.

    ¡°Adjacent to the palatial district oh gods I have to¡ª my grandparents!¡±

    ¡°I will help you¡ªwait!¡± More ink was collecting on the Knight¡¯s Guard page. Edeard made a stern face. ¡°Valve-freeze devices?¡± He had such a device of his own. Bought from the greyer markets of Ralagast, left unprosecuted because they operated so gingerly on the boundary of legality. If this new information he had received was correct that may all change.

    ¡°I have work yet to do,¡± He said. He pulled out a wad of banknotes and placed it flat against Iana¡¯s hand. ¡°Get a carriage. Please get your family out of Wicham safely.¡±

    ¡°U-understood. Thank you, sir,¡± Iana said quickly. She ran off on her own path. And Edeard took to his own. He had frequented Jetrois¡¯s shop whenever he needed something the Knight¡¯s Guard did not approve of. He had thought her a harmless miscreant. But if the fires were in any way related to her marketplace, he didn¡¯t know what he would do.

    --

    The insurgent pointed the weapon forward. It trembled in his grip, too large to be wielded with grace. He wasn¡¯t ready. He had been told the weapon could kill anyone in one shot, even tear them to pieces. But the man he just shot did not die. He and the other weapon wielder scoped the house where the man had barreled through. They moved cautiously. Each step creaked something fierce. Cracks ran up the foundations of the house. The very walls looked ready to collapse. They rounded to corner with the barrel pre-aimed. In the open room where the man had landed was a large cavity, but no man.

    ¡°He¡¯s still ali¡ª!¡±

    The hallway¡¯s wall shattered as a mobile mass broke through them. A large hand reached out, swatting the weapon away from his grip. It impacted against the floor, spitting sparks, useless. The other insurgent was less lucky. The mountainous man had a hand gripped around his head. Screams turned to gurgles, then a loud series of cracks. A limp form fell onto the floor.

    Jorge inhaled the coppery air deep. He turned his head.

    ¡°Look what you made me do,¡± he said, his voice low, voluminous. ¡°You need more gumption if you want to revolt, friend.¡± He stepped forward. The floor depressed as he moved.

    ¡°Please!¡± The insurgent cried out, stepping back as Jorge moved forward. ¡°We were paid to do this! They said they wanted to burn a few houses! That¡¯s it!¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°We didn¡¯t know this was what they wanted! Please let me live¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not even from here. I¡¯ve no stakes in this city or whatever lies you¡¯ve been fed.¡± Jorge pointed. ¡°You shot me.¡± He smashed his fist into the insurgent¡¯s chest. He felt rigid bones crumble like crackers against his knuckles. The young man before him fell silently onto the floor.

    Jorge stood there, breathing heavily for a few moments. Gradually, he stopped seeing red. His grimace turned to slack-jawed horror.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have wanted me to do that,¡± he whispered. ¡°Why did I do that? They were nothing without their guns.¡±

    He felt his chest. His bones were already setting. His blackened skin had begun to peel off, revealing fresh skin underneath. The pain was subsiding. Jorge stepped out of the constricting walls of the house back onto the street. Seeing him come out but not the other two, the insurgents looked to each other and scattered. No longer attended, the firemen slowly left their prostrated positions and rushed to get their equipment ready.

    Meanwhile Jorge collapsed against a wall, sliding onto the ground. He looked at his hands. Bits of hard and soft matter still stuck to his palms and adhered to his fingers.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry dad. I said I¡¯d be better. I promised I¡¯d control my anger. I¡¯m sorry¡­¡±

    He didn¡¯t how long he stayed there. The firemen got to work while he wallowed. By the time he deigned to look up, the fires near the station had been extinguished, and the men had already begun to set out for the rest of the unattended neighborhoods. As if to mock him, morning had come, revealing a dense overcast. It was a maelstrom of cloud. Within moments, cold sleet sloughed down onto the road.

    ¡°Alright, alright, I get it.¡± Jorge picked himself up. His chest was still numb. But he knew he couldn¡¯t stay there forever. There were still people in danger. And the rain smelled strange. His eyes fell upon the palace, and he realized something was terribly wrong.

 48 â€“ Plans Within Plans (2)

    Lis?a bound her tenth insurgent in chains. She was running out of restraints. The sound of struggling was all around her. And nonsensical pleading. She had turned an ear to it. It was difficult enough pinning these rebellious citizens down, not for a lack of strength. The wounds given to her from the highwaymen had left a phantom feeling in her body, and their faces stayed in her memory. They had survived their assault and brought the citizens what they needed. Now she was told she had to do¡­ this.

    The insurgent tried to get up for the second time. This time she brought her fist into his cheek. A splatter of red streaked across the pavestones and he fell unconscious. She hadn¡¯t even hit him very hard.

    New orders had arrived in the middle of their work freeing the firemen from Lord Jace himself. Restrain them, if possible. Whatever the reason was, lowly Scoutrunners were clearly not in the pay grade to hear. All Lis?a knew was that Yavi¡¯s orders had been to destroy them. She was pulling her dagger out of a young, weapon-wielding woman¡¯s chest when the new command soaked into her passenger paper. The woman had been her age. Lis?a saw herself lying on the ground, bleeding out, fighting for something important. If only they deigned to tell her what.

    ¡°I was right to follow you,¡± Yeoman said, approaching from her back. ¡°You¡¯re more ruthless than native Falerians.¡±

    Lis?a didn¡¯t know how to explain that she didn¡¯t mean to punch the insurgent so hard, that ever since she had a close encounter with death¡ªtwice¡ªher body had felt lighter and stronger than ever. It wasn¡¯t arcanery, right? She didn¡¯t have the Mind for it.

    ¡°I wish they¡¯d make up their mind,¡± she said. ¡°Are we killing them or not?¡±

    ¡°Does it make a difference to you?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t enjoy this, Yeoman.¡± She crossed her arms. ¡°And who am I to you? You were very eager to follow me.¡±

    ¡°I heard about you from the training camp. I know what Yavi did to you. It made you strong. And I want to survive in this business.¡±

    ¡°Knew it wasn¡¯t for my good looks.¡±

    ¡°That too.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±

    Lis?a retrieved her passenger paper, hoping for any new orders. Nothing. But their work was done. The firemen were already getting their water trolleys and hoses ready. Brightly uniformed men rushed past the runners. They were not thanked for freeing them. It was expected, after all.

    ¡°Do you hate him for what he did?¡± Yeoman asked.

    ¡°Over the past year I¡¯ve had a lot of conceptions broken. I think I¡¯m just numb. To lying commanders or overly curious teammates.¡±

    ¡°Thanks for accepting me as a teammate!¡±

    Lis?a scowled. She returned to the roofs of the palatial district, scaling storeys in seconds. The fires were not to be underestimated, but their ferocity had died down. They were not supposed to think. She thought anyway. What was all this damage supposed to do? She imagined the city before this destruction. Those neat rings of houses besetting a lordly palace. Streets filled with life. At its most vulnerable, Lis?a admitted the city looked beautiful. She wondered what June was doing. Whether she was safe. Whether she is feeling okay from all the violence and noise all around her. They must know of June¡¯s condition. Maybe that was why Yavi had June discreetly sent to the palace; to be given extra care. The priestess was far more terrifying than a few flames under the right stimulus.

    Yeoman finally made it on the same roof, grunting as he pulled himself up.

    ¡°I used to dream of living in a big city like this,¡± he said as he patted the ash particles off his clothes. ¡°My family always thought the first generation to be established so deep in Faleria would bring us to prosperity.¡±

    ¡°Right¡­ you¡¯re from Normalad to the Southeast. Used to be Haldroga.¡±

    ¡°You know your geography. Some of the newer maps don¡¯t bother including the original name anymore. They were quite lenient on us in every other respect, to be fair.¡±

    ¡°Because Haldroga never fought back.¡±

    ¡°And almost none of my countrymen died. Our lifestyle was mostly unaffected. We just sign the tithe recipient differently.¡± He laughed mockingly. ¡°Now look at this place. How close even the big fish are to sinking.¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± Lis?a didn¡¯t want to wax philosophic about ironies or whatnot. For better or for worse, her truth had been made simpler. Just follow orders, achieve, and maybe she could get out of the field onto a desk in ten¡ªfifteen years. She was already thinking about the apology. In a decade or so of adherence and devotion, she¡¯d return home and hope her mother forgives her. She couldn¡¯t now, not while she had nothing to show for it. Apologizing for leaving was bearable. Apologizing for being wrong about her decision as well was far too much.

    ¡°Hey, Liz, your passenger paper working?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that. And why wouldn¡¯t it?¡± Lis?a opened her booklet. No new orders had come through in ink.

    ¡°Look up.¡±

    Lis?a stepped back in surprise. She had been so lost in thought she failed to see the clouds twisting into form. Frothing tides of moisture spiraling as though something had pulled a drain in the heavens. A single cold speck hit just under her eye, melted, and slid down to her cheek. Then another. Then a thousand.

    ¡°Know anything about weather, mouth-runner?¡± Lis?a asked.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look natural to me,¡± Yeoman replied. He held out a hand, caught a few drops, and licked it. He spat moments later. ¡°It reeks. Ugh. Not like a- a smell. It¡¯s like¡ª¡±

    ¡°Like arcanery,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°Heavy enough for even the not Mentally inclined like us to detect.¡±

    ¡°Still no orders.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s verify that, shall we?¡±

    ¡°What? Wait, where are you going?¡±

    Lis?a stopped to turn her head. ¡°Palace. Look at the clouds. It¡¯s centered above it. We ought to investigate. The captain might be in trouble.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll follow you,¡± Yeoman said casually.

    Lis?a exhaled, bemused. She wrote the suggestion to the other runners in her paper and pocketed it before the sleet damaged it further. Then they set off. She held back her pace just a little so the enthused young man could keep up.

    --

    They had prepared a room for her. Quiet, walled away from the city. Apparently it was at the request of the Archbishop. June had never been more grateful to him in her life. She had always been okay at handling the noise of the big cities. Ralagast was a special case. Old, jaded, and now in recession. The toxic atmosphere was too much. She didn¡¯t know how fast her heart had been beating until the palace attendant escorted her to the room and she felt instantly better.

    She prepared a steelfeather quill and wrote to the Archbishop.

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    He was a busy man. She did not expect a reply soon. In the meantime, she slept. A good rest was hard to get while swaying and bumping on the road, and even harder while in this city. She slept dreamlessly, waking when her paper buzzed.

    ¡°I hope you¡¯re doing well, my pupil.¡±

    Nervously, she picked up her quill.

    ¡°I¡¯m doing well now. I thought I was ready for this city.¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°The room was just in case. Don¡¯t feel shame for needing it.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    Why did she write that again? June wanted to slap herself. Before she could write something less mind numbing, the Archbishop wrote, ¡°That will be there for you any time you need it.¡±

    June frowned.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Escort work is probationary, remember? From what I¡¯ve been hearing about Ralagast, it looks like they need a full-fledged member of the Order there more than ever. I¡¯d like to have you stationed there.¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡± June said out loud. Her quill tip descended close to the page, but she withdrew before a mark was made. Her thoughts raced. Her heart was beating quickly again. A few drops of ink fell onto the paper.

    ¡°I have to go,¡± the Archbishop wrote, ¡°The paperwork isn¡¯t done yet. Think about it for now.¡±

    June burst open the door to her room grasping her hair with crooked fingers. She mustn¡¯t stay in Ralagast. Anything but that. But she wanted to make the Archbishop happy. At what cost to herself? But a member of the Order mustn¡¯t be selfish. Selfishness was what led to the decadent ways of the old Order. But this had to be too much.

    She owed the Archbishop. He saved her. June steadied her breathing. Perhaps she would get used to it. In time. Perhaps the inner wails in all men and women¡¯s souls would be reduced to a whisper. All she needed was time.

    In and out. There was serenity in breathing slow, and there was technique for inducing calm with air.

    Even inside the palace the noise was audible. She walked to scatter her thoughts away from the unsavory matter at hand into more pragmatic paths. She would be closer than ever before to the darkness in a man¡¯s heart working as a Mother. Listening to their sins, finding the right words to convince them they could change and find salvation. Then they¡¯d leave feeling absolved for a day, and return the next week with something similar. It was the unspoken truth she never dared to discuss with any of the other acolytes back when she trained in the basilica. Too often she saw the same people return for confession. It was a dangerous notion for a member of the Order to have. To think that people were not interested in changing, they just wanted to not feel guilty for following their nature. The cheating man wants forgiveness for being unfaithful. The deceitful woman wants justification for what she believed she was owed. More often than not, they would do it again. Paupers who think the world owes them reparations for every little misfortune. Thieves who want to believe their victims wouldn¡¯t have missed what they took. Wealthy men who want to believe paupers didn¡¯t deserve success. And here in Ralagast she would have to listen to such people and pretend to empathize with their own flaws.

    But all around her were the palace walls. Richly framed paintings and busts of previous lord mayors. Marble stairs, pearl chandeliers. Red carpets from the Southeast. Granite from the far North. Beautiful wood with flowing whorls and laminar fibers from the West. Her own room was made with arcane, noise cancelling materials, expensive and particular in nature. Could one subsist on the accomplishments of selfish men and hate them for their nature? June wondered if perhaps she was no better. And before her there must have been generations of Fathers and Mothers helping wayward souls to no chagrin. Perhaps she was the cynic.

    Footsteps interrupted her internal conflict. Panicked, fast, and recognizable by the sound of the soles. She met the man halfway.

    ¡°Captain Yavi?¡± She said. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you have returned to the trade routes?¡±

    The captain took a minute to catch his breath.

    ¡°You¡¯re safe. Good,¡± he said. ¡°We need to leave.¡±

    ¡°Has something happened?¡±

    ¡°No time to explain. Come.¡± He grabbed her hand.

    ¡°Wait I left my staff back in my¡ª¡± She stopped. Her brow creased in alarm.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Yavi asked.

    ¡°People are dying inside the palace. What is going on, Yavi?¡±

    ¡°This way.¡±

    Yavi led them back up the stairs to the staterooms. June could barely keep up. Around corridors and higher up the stairs. Between thunderous heartbeats that belonged to the both of them, June heard clashing steel in the halls of the palace. Palace guards warred with a growing number of intruders. One side was clearly losing. The guards were falling two at a time to one of the intruders.

    Seeing her rasping breath, Yavi led them to a stairwell to rest.

    ¡°Please¡­ what is going on?¡± June asked.

    ¡°Tell me, did you ever hear anything strange beneath your feet?¡±

    ¡°No I haven¡¯t the room since I was sent here.¡±

    Yavi peeked the corners, not saying anything else. June frowned.

    ¡°These attackers¡­?¡± She began.

    ¡°They¡¯ve been staging a coup of some sort for months in the undercity, recruiting the dissidents of this city.¡±

    ¡°From Ralagastii? I didn¡¯t know they had such a sentiment.¡±

    Yavi met her eyes fully.

    ¡°They don¡¯t,¡± he said. ¡°They¡¯ve crippled this city at every strategic weak point. This wasn¡¯t a rebellion. This was military thinking.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand!¡±

    ¡°Me neither. We have to get you out.¡±

    He began guiding her again. On the seventh floor of the palace there was a wide terrace with a bridge leading to an annex. They burst open onto the stone floor of the place. Flowers and vines hung from ornate racks on the terrace. Garden tenders looked up from their work.

    ¡°Everybody get out! Get across the bridge!¡± Yavi shouted. ¡°We¡¯re under attack!¡±

    Their movements were languid. Reluctantly, clippers and watering cans were dropped. They started towards the bridge.

    Then June lost her sight and her hearing. Confused. Dazed. There were spots in her eyes. Ringing in her ears. What had happened? She was trying to remember. Something warm was dripping from her nose. Something red. She was seeing fours. Then threes. Then twos. Yavi was shouting like a mime in her face, trying to get her to her feet. That¡¯s right, there was a bridge she had to cross. People were coming. Enemies. She had to move. But Yavi was pulling her in the other direction. Why weren¡¯t they crossing the bridge? She looked over her shoulder.

    Shattered stone and burnt matter was strewn across the floor. A section of the bridge was completely missing. Smoke billowed from where the connexion used to be.

    ¡°Come on, girl!¡± Yavi shouted.

    ¡°They¡¯re hurt,¡± she muttered. ¡°I can mend them.¡±

    There were gardeners who were much closer to the blast. She saw one stumble away in the mute silence that still hung over her ears, missing hands. Their mouth wrinkled in one ceaseless wail.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡± Yavi urged.

    The doors from where they came tore off its hinges. Armed men poured through. They wore mismatched armor, some no armor at all. Arrows were nocked. Tension twitched in sinew spines as feather tips were drawn towards the cheek.

    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± a deep voice called out. The intruders made way for one gargantuan man. He wore a black, buttoned coat with a fur shawl. A fully bearded face towered above his men.

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± June asked.

    ¡°Send the girl over here,¡± the leader of the intruders said. His hand reached for a lantern secured at his belt. He turned the flap open, revealing a blue flame burning on a silver wick.

    ¡°If you¡¯d wait,¡± Yavi said, ¡°We can have a negotiator sent to speak¡ª¡±

    An arrow struck him in the chest. He fell with nothing more than a grunt. June screamed. She knelt down, Light brimming at her fingertips to close the wound. To her relief the arrow hadn¡¯t penetrated very deep. It had been stopped by Yavi¡¯s book full of passenger paper.

    ¡°Get her over here,¡± the leader said.

    June rushed her work. She stopped the bleeding before rough hands tore her away. The men led her away from the terrace. She looked back one last time to see Yavi on the floor with a hand clutched around the arrow, nodding once at her. She didn¡¯t know how to interpret that.

    ¡°Listen,¡± June said. ¡°I¡¯m sure something can be arranged! There¡¯s no need for all this violence!¡±

    ¡°It has been arranged,¡± the leader said. ¡°Our work is already done. Ralagast falls.¡±

    ¡°Why? Who are you?¡±

    The man looked at her briefly. June received a glimpse into the man¡¯s soul, and saw disciplined rage. Anger steeled by raw logic.

    ¡°Insects. Chewing away inch by inch,¡± he said. ¡°Until we have miles.¡±

    June¡¯s eyes widened.

    ¡°You people were the¡­¡±

    ¡°She remembers. Ha.¡±

    The other men snorted. June shook her head.

    ¡°You won¡¯t accomplish anything this way.¡±

    They escorted her out of the palace through the front entrance. The lavish d¨¦cor had been redecorated with still corpses in reddened armor. The palace guards were as still as gargoyles. Outside, more intruders fought, their opponent was one man. His sword work was strong, quick, and responded with ease to the onslaught of several men. And he was winning. To his back, the city burned. The fighting casted shadows trembling to the whims of the flames.

    ¡°Face me, coward!¡± Lord Jace hollered.

    ¡°I respect your prowess too much, sir,¡± the leader said. He nodded at his archers. A dozen pinpoint arrows flew through the air. Lord Jace deflected most of them with a single Spell. But three had made it through, striking his thigh and lower stomach. He fell to his knees.

    ¡°I am not a monster,¡± the leader said. ¡°Stay there, on your knees, and you will live to rebuild this city. Our point has already been made.¡±

    They made way out of the palace grounds. As they walked away, Jace laughed.

    ¡°With your back to me, I think I recognize you,¡± he said.

    The leader stopped. June could feel dread sink its claws into her.

    ¡°You already have me, let¡¯s just go,¡± she said.

    She was unheeded. The leader unsheathed his longsword and in one swift movement separated the old Knight¡¯s head from his neck. Blood spurted briefly from the opening. The arms slumped, but the body remained upright.

    ¡°No¡ª!¡± June screamed. Enough was enough. She had been holding back a familiar feeling. The part of her she had been trying so hard not to acknowledge. The darkness within; the power Vulka had saved her from. She stopped trying to control it. But nothing happened. She drew on it. It would not come. Her opportunity was gone. The man stowed his sword again and returned. He glanced at her, then unhooked the lantern from his belt to give to one of his subordinates. June glared at it as it was taken out of her reach, realizing far too late as to its purpose.

    ¡°You did a number on us last time, girl. I wasn¡¯t about to let you loose again. Not without direction at least.¡±

    ¡°You think I¡¯d help you do anything?¡± June asked, grimacing.

    ¡°Not at this moment.¡±

    ¡°Not ever!¡±

    ¡°Well, we shall¡ª¡± His expression changed. The men felt it too. They looked around them frantically.

    ¡°Move it!¡± The leader shouted.

    June was picked up and slung over the man¡¯s shoulder. The men broke into a run, leaving the bloody palace courtyard. Wind began to blow without impetus from elsewhere. Sparks came out of thin air, singing the surrounding hedges and grasses. June looked up to see the courtyard transmogrify, light bend, and reality warp. Tides of arcane power were spilling forth. Some of the men had confused looks on their faces, asking each other what was it that they were running from.

    June whispered with knowing recognition, ¡°Embarkation.¡±

 49 â€“ Plans Within Plans (3)

    Edeard watched the dislocated folk of the palatial district pour into the surroundings. The looks on the faces of the native residents were disturbed, shocked. He felt as though he stood in the middle of the two fronts. Men and women outside their homes standing guard, dressed in plain, tough-weave clothes¡ªthe worker¡¯s wear¡ªversus the sudden influx of families in silks and suits. His keen eyes caught many of the now-refugees take off their jewelry and stuff them into their pockets. They stayed in the roads, clogging up the lanes with their slow traffic, too proper to sprint through. Or perhaps too shameless to care being seen by the masses.

    He was about to leave when a group of men, masons or quarry workers, walked alongside the procession of carriages with sledgehammers slung over their shoulders. As if to keep guard. Guard against what, Edeard thought. The families in those carriages had lost everything already. Surely any grievances ended there.

    The problem was he was in a hurry. He needed to ascertain whether or not insurgents were getting equipment from the city¡¯s grey markets. But if matters escalated here, he would always remember himself as the one who should¡¯ve been there. It wasn¡¯t long before he was vindicated; a group of citizens had gathered at the other end of the road with makeshift weapons. They stood in front of the line of carriages, stopping them. Edeard strained to hear their demands.

    ¡°Too long have the wealthy have stood at the apex of this city,¡± said a tall man in a plain suit. A shop owner perhaps. ¡°It¡¯s time you left us with something. Give us all your precious metals.¡±

    The other members of their party had hammers and chisels in their hands. They surrounded the carriages and began to chip the thin foil of metal off the cars¡¯ various decals. The drivers looked back at the cabin nervously, but stayed put. The refugees did not confront the men. Taps echoed throughout the neighborhood. Edeard couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on it, but he knew this was wrong. What if it was deserved? What if the wealthy of Ralagast really did put the city in this state? Surely not all of it could be attributed to the machinations of mathematicians; there was the still the human element. It was too difficult. He had killed innocents before from premature decisions. The face of that man came back. The tall, nameless man from the riots who only stepped in front of his rapier because he thought someone was in trouble. Edeard couldn¡¯t move. His mind raced towards nowhere.

    Noise pulled him back into reality.

    A confrontation had begun in the streets below. Edeard blinked when he saw that it was between the citizens themselves. The hammer-wielding guards and the men at the end of the street. They were inches away from butting heads.

    ¡°These people have paid enough, no?¡± A mason said.

    ¡°Their greed put us into this mess!¡± Came the retort.

    ¡°Their greed built this city.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re on their side!?¡±

    ¡°Why must there be sides? Their homes are gone. They¡¯ve nothing left.¡±

    ¡°Your debts don¡¯t go away just because you¡¯ve destroyed the means to repay it.¡±

    ¡°Spoken like a banker. Tell me, once you¡¯ve stripped them of gold and pearls, should we begin to worry about your greed?¡±

    Edeard realized the workers hadn¡¯t been wary of the refugees. They were escorting them away. As they argued, local law enforcement showed up to mediate, or as close to enforcement as the city had without the Knight¡¯s Guard. They were just ordinary men and women in homemade uniforms. Edeard left the scene, thinking, his head filled with more questions than ever before. The system had worked well for a long time. Districts appointed their own peacekeepers. And the Knight¡¯s Guard stepped in when matters became violent. But with the Knight¡¯s Guard occupied with an organized attack, the city only had its own citizens to protect itself.

    He arrived at the alleyways were the grey markets were located. The tight geometries had all emptied out. Metal siding had been slid over the shops. The residents were laying low until this disaster was over. He found Jetrois¡¯s shop closed and the front door locked. Edeard twisted the knob past its limits, strolling inside. The young woman lived behind her workshop. In the day she worked as a mechanic for the locals. In the night, who knew? Edeard found her in the homely kitchen in the far back sipping from a steaming cup. She leaned against the wall, staring out the small window which gave them view of the canal. Without turning, she said ¡°You¡¯re paying for the door.¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Edeard had wasted enough time.

    ¡°The gas lines were sabotaged by Valve-freeze devices,¡± he said. He pulled out his own and tossed it on the kitchen table. ¡°I just want to know if you were involved.¡±

    ¡°Only we knew our own city¡¯s machines well enough to make those devices,¡± Jetrois replied.

    ¡°Is that an admission?¡±

    ¡°They threatened us and our families. We caved in. You won¡¯t find a single grey market who didn¡¯t help make the sabotage happen. Some of us were even motivated to help. Something about having enemies in the palatial district.¡±

    Edeard sat down heavily on a chair, wiping his face with his hands.

    ¡°You tried to warn me, didn¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Was it not questionable that I had such a machine premade just in case you came in to my shop?¡±

    ¡°No. It was too subtle.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you weren¡¯t looking.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± Edeard nodded knowingly. ¡°I don¡¯t actually know what I¡¯m doing. I just¡­ thought believing in the right thing was enough.¡±

    ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here? Do you want me to agree with you?¡±

    ¡°No. I just came here to make sure. I¡¯m taking the long way to the palace. There¡¯s still a lot of fighting out there.¡±

    Jetrois sat opposite to Edeard, bearing on him a hard look.

    ¡°I don¡¯t envy your job,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m just a mechanic. I fix carts and tinker. Your job? All that power at your fingertips. All that judgment at the slightest mistake. It¡¯s¡ª¡±

    ¡°I saw a dispute take place before coming here. Between the residents of the burnt homes and the people in the surrounding district. I saw the fight escalate. Then I saw it resolved by good samaritans.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a good thing? Right?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not unnecessary, Jetrois.¡±

    ¡°Edeard, the district enforcers were always to satiate the faux nobility of us common folk. The ¡®we know how to police our own¡¯ bullcrap. We all knew the result if something like this were to happen. Fires and armed men. Real problems, not petty disputes. We can¡¯t protect ourselves from outside threats without the Knight¡¯s Guard¡ª¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say the Knight¡¯s Guard was not needed. I said I¡¯m unneeded. I¡¯ve exposed their operation to Lord Jace. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve done in these past few days. Knowing they were exposed, they probably accelerated their plans.¡± Edeard retrieved his passenger paper. ¡°Nothing. No new orders. That means the palace has been taken. Do I run back and face victorious enemies? Or do I stay here where problems are resolved without me?¡±

    Jetrois turned away.

    ¡°No matter,¡± Edeard sighed. He pulled out a sketch of that doctor¡¯s daughter and showed it to Jetrois. ¡°Happen to know her?¡±

    ¡°Nope. What¡¯s it to you?¡±

    ¡°Oh I¡¯m being threatened by some man who said he¡¯d expose me to the insurgency if I didn¡¯t find his girl, who had joined them for personal reasons.¡±

    ¡°Well looks like his leverage has been sprung. The rebels are already out there, fighting for us common folk,¡± Jetrois quipped.

    ¡°I know.¡± Edeard pocketed the sketch.

    ¡°You¡¯re still going to try and find her?¡±

    Edeard walked out of the shop and went back on the move. The other knights would need his help. He knew that. His work was still important. But he didn¡¯t hurry as he once would have.

    --

    The fires were not restricted to the palatial district. An island of stability had developed in the sea of chaos. At least forty men and women. Young, unscarred, their hands with barely a callus on them, were taking to the streets escorting beasts of burden. Those beasts dragged along makeshift cages made from once luxurious carriages.

    ¡°Here we are¡­ giving the city back to its people!¡±

    And other such nonsense. Jorge carried his axe with the head by his ankles, keeping it close to his body as he shimmied behind the crowd of citizens. Seeing his size and his weapon, they were eager to let him through without molestation. The mass exodus from ebbing flames continued. The arcane sleet was still falling. The maelstrom above the palace still spun. He glanced over to the demonstration. Families in torn clothes sat in those cages, wet, homeless. Their shoes had been stripped. Their pockets turned inside out. The light in their eyes, gone. Many of them had dark marks streaked across their face; scars soon to be formed from their time so close to the flames.

    The crowd watching was quiet. Jorge wondered what must be going through their heads. He was sure what was going through his; this was none of his business. How other civilizations handled their civil matters wasn¡¯t the place of one man to judge. And he would not judge. He was headed to the palace because a friend was there. That was all.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t right, son.¡±

    ¡°I wish you¡¯d stay dead, old man,¡± Jorge muttered.

    ¡°This is the dawn of a fair and just society, where we will no longer be shadowed by people who falsely horde what never belonged to them!¡± It was a young man orating at the front of the line. He was playing the crowd, but the crowd was his fellow insurgents. Citizens stood on the sidewalks with umbrellas, murmuring, torn. It was cathartic seeing enemies fall, until they saw who they were underneath. Human. Concerns travelled through the citizens.

    ¡°How do we know they¡¯re to blame for the recession?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not starving. Anxiously close, but¡­¡±

    ¡°I have a distant relative in the palatial district. He¡¯s told me they¡¯re all doing poorly. I don¡¯t know¡­¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t even treat our murderers like this¡­¡±

    No one moved. They simply watched. Then came a commotion at the back of the line. One by one the wheels on the cages were shattered and the bars bent by bare hands. The insurgents rushed to stop it, but they were easily tossed to the side. Only one carriage was left. Jorge strode towards it, axe ready.

    ¡°Who the hell are you¡ª?¡±

    Jorge grabbed the young man and threw him, gently, onto the road. He tore apart the last carriage, then without a word, resumed walking to the palace. The prisoners gathered their families close. The young man hollered in the air, something about a sprained wrist.

    Jorge didn¡¯t know if he had the right. But he felt slightly better.

 50 â€“ The Tension

    There was some understanding that what they were doing did not coincide with what they were promised. The talk of revolt began with a whisper, as it always did. Then the whispers grew loud and gained echoes. Those echoes had wider reach. The message became simplified. Nuance was stripped as the voice became unclear, yet more poignant in its newfound simplicity. When Alanei Deidre first heard of the movement, it was called the Requestrium. They spread literature and held speeches, and put together resources to formally approach the Lord Mayor for a solution to the recession. That was the plan. But it didn¡¯t work. Many among them grew frustrated, impatient.

    Then came the large man in the fur coat. An Aldrenite, suspiciously enough. He spoke of conspiracy. The palatial district¡¯s most wealthy planned all of this to maintain their seat of power. And many of them agreed with ferocity. The speeches stopped being held in the open, and became more for themselves. The ideas echoed, but did not spread. The words distorted, yet grew stronger and surer. Alanei was nearly finished with her Regal studies during that time. Even with her limited education she understood the wealthy had nothing to gain by deliberately making their foundation weaker. She studied under Lord Jace and Lord Horatio, as a rare talent that impressed both a member of the State and the Economy enough to give her tutelage.

    ¡°I¡¯m moving assets to Cadeau de Chires,¡± Horatio told her one day. ¡°At the beginning of calamity, diversifying is the wisest move, lest you wish to depend on luck.¡±

    ¡°Because if you do it too late you¡¯d have nothing left to diversify with.¡±

    ¡°Exactly. Sounds easy, but it is monumentally difficult to tell precisely when calamity begins. Elsewise we¡¯d all be businessmen, right, Lord Jace?¡±

    Lord Jace huffed disapprovingly. Alanei didn¡¯t know then why the knight always seemed to be in a bad mood.

    ¡°There¡¯s more to the prosperity of an empire than money and the movement of goods,¡± he replied.

    ¡°On the contrary¡­¡± Horatio began.

    The talk extended for hours with Jace become heated and Horatio staying as cool as spring, his general demeanor having been tempered just a few years longer by the heat of the market. Afterward, however, Horatio pulled Alanei aside and told her the truth.

    ¡°Calamity had begun when your head reached your father¡¯s hips.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± She asked.

    ¡°I hadn¡¯t figured it out until a few months ago. It¡¯s the patience of the wizened magnate you see,¡± Horatio said immodestly, but with ample awareness. ¡°Patience blinded me. You win some, you lose some. You lose a little more than you win, it happens. But keep that up long enough and people would begin to see something was wrong. The boys and girls saw it first, and old cats like me admonished them. But they might¡¯ve planned that would happen from the start. They want us to come to the conclusion that moving to Cadeau is the wisest business choice.¡±

    ¡°Sir, you are suggesting the Lord Mayor would threaten to doom this city on purpose!¡±

    ¡°Not the Lord Mayor. This is above his pay grade. This is ideological. Plans within plans. Movements of power deeper in the empire beyond even my ken needs Cadeau de Chires to grow. I have a few ears near the capital, but even I fear to theorize why. Keep what I¡¯ve told you to yourself, however. Work such as this would likely require our friend Jace¡¯s cooperation as well.¡±

    The implication was clear, of course. Horatio was too cautious to say it. Who else had more power than the Lord Mayor in Ralagast? Alanei didn¡¯t say it out loud. She daren¡¯t not dwell on the image of the person in her mind. It was said they knew when they were being thought of. Speak their name and they would know where the speaker was as well.

    So Alanei kept to herself and her studies. She woke early and went home late to an adoring sister and a tired father. Heila would run and bury her face into her stomach when she came home, laughing and smiling. They¡¯d play board games and cards, and Alanei would convince Heila to go to bed since the younger sibling needed the sleep. Then Alanei would help her father with work. The good news was there had been less work overall, and that meant well for her father¡¯s ailing body. That was also the bad news. Regal studies were expensive.

    ¡°What on Etrylis are you talking about? The less people getting hurt, the better. Besides, at the rate Ms. Ureila goes through Ritali flower and tetralichen, we¡¯d float on her supplements for a while yet.¡±

    Therein lied the problem. Her father still regarded her as a child. Too innocent to be told the truth. Too dumb even to understand that operating expenditures for all necessary services across the city had been steadily declining. Perhaps for years. Horatio was right. There was risk in impulse and downfall in patience. Even when youth and wisdom married, there were yet plans that circumvented their cumulative powers.

    When was it she decided the Requestrium? They promised to pay them, except as much as Ralagastii needed money, that wasn¡¯t enough to sway youth. No, ideology swayed youth. But for Alanei, she made her decision after an argument with her father over a single candlelight in the dead of night, their faces washed with grim shadow and heated argument. She had made her decision in impulse, then reasoned it was for the best in the long run for the survival of the clinic. Her father had been right to regard her as a child.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Now she stood among dozens of confused peers as they stood in freezing sleet. The fires were very nearly gone. The strangely heavy water lingered on her senses, each drop like cold static, drowning even a gas based fire. Meanwhile, the two most zealous among them wielded those horrific devices. Far more powerful than a bow, and more accurate too.

    ¡°Take them out into the rain!¡± One of them, named Portien ordered.

    The submissive ones among them did so, dragging the wealthy out onto the streets. But they were not enthused to carry out the order. It was as apparent as could be; no one had wanted this. They only followed the insurgency¡¯s leadership because they were all in too deep. It was too late to back out now.

    ¡°Tie them up! Make sure they can breathe. Just barely.¡±

    Alanei brought the rope around the bellies of the wealthy. Their clothes were soaked and many of them were out of shape. They had begun to shake. She couldn¡¯t meet them in the eye.

    ¡°Do you need help?¡± A young man asked, taking her side to help with the knot.

    ¡°No,¡± she said.

    ¡°Exaggerate your movements more. Pretend to be enthused. If we don¡¯t, they might turn on us.¡± He nodded to the two gun wielders, still barking orders and harassment.

    ¡°You too?¡± Alanei said.

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t supposed to like this,¡± he said. ¡°I never particularly cared about the Requestrium¡¯s cause to be honest. But even for me this is too much.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°Do you know why they even want us to do this?¡±

    ¡°I overheard them talking about the other squads. Those weapons of theirs have held the knights back well enough but a few are proving problematic. They need assurances.¡±

    ¡°Hostages.¡± The young man swore. ¡°This is low.¡±

    Boots clinked towards them.

    ¡°Are you two finished?¡± Portien shouted.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Alanei said immediately.

    ¡°Bring them by the gas tanks.¡±

    Alanei turned to the hostages and said, ¡°Well come on then, you parasitic pigs!¡± And with a hard yank dragged them along. The young man with her raised an eyebrow. They set the hostages by the others. The entire neighborhood had been brought to heel, nearly a hundred citizens in total.

    Satisfied, Portien left them.

    ¡°Impressive theatrics,¡± the young man said. ¡°What¡¯s your name, by the way?¡±

    ¡°Alanei.¡±

    ¡°Ayden.¡± He extended a hand. Alanei shook it briefly. The man seemed too calm in the midst of all this.

    ¡°Why did you join the movement?¡± Alanei asked.

    ¡°Money,¡± came the swift and honest reply. ¡°My family needs it. Medicine. Food. Doctoral visitations.¡±

    ¡°My family runs a clinic,¡± Alanei said. ¡°It hasn¡¯t been doing well in the past few years. On top of receiving less operating subsidies from the city, my father didn¡¯t want to stop giving discounts to the locals. Accidents happened fairly often in construction and many of our neighbors were men of hammer and nail. Well, they were often when there was a lot of building to do.¡±

    ¡°Looks like we both need money then, huh?¡± Ayden swept his gaze across the situation he had placed himself in. People his age forcing adults on their knees, making them and their children kneel in rain. Many of them weren¡¯t physically fit. There was a lot of shivering among the prisoners. Red eyes and running noses.

    The problem was he was afraid to ask the obvious question. It never boded well to be a part of anything when one was afraid to do the thing that gave them direction. He wanted to ask, ¡°What next?¡±

    How were they supposed to get what they want? Where would the money come from? And even if the city dispensed the currency, fixed the heady problem that caused this recession, how were they supposed to reintegrate into Ralagast as once-violent vigilantes? He looked into the eyes of Portien and his partner, Ophiel. They were chosen to wield the limited supply of the planar weaponry based on their pure belief. Sheer zeal. It often seemed the case that power fell on the hands of the unworthy. Ayden wondered if that was because the most unworthy sought power the most.

    Even as he stole from the city¡¯s well-to-do folk he took what he knew they wouldn¡¯t miss. A necklace here. A modest jewel there. Something these folk would notice weeks later and become frustrated for but a moment of their lives. He looked down by his feet. He watched the overweight man he had helped force onto his knees shiver as the icy water soaked into the fabrics.

    ¡°Do you regret joining?¡± Alanei asked, pulling him from his stupor.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think we get to regret. This is who we are now,¡± he said. He took breath and blinked the cold water from his eyes. ¡°I never did patch things up with my sister.¡±

    ¡°Let me guess, she didn¡¯t agree with your choice?¡±

    ¡°Your family too?¡±

    ¡°My father kept insisting our finances were fine, and that I should finish my Regal studies and work under the Lord Mayor.¡±

    ¡°My sister thought I should find some menial labor job rather than be a thief.¡±

    ¡°Well¡­ here¡¯s to wiser family.¡±

    ¡°Here¡¯s to ignoring their advice.¡±

    Splashing footfalls interrupted their respite. It was Portien¡¯s partner Ophiel, his finger ever itchy on the trigger of his weapon.

    ¡°What was that I heard?¡± He said loudly.

    ¡°Pard¡ª¡± Alanei did not get to finish.

    ¡°Regal studies? The work of the palatial machinations that caused this to begin with?¡±

    ¡°Sir! I thought working under the Lord Mayor was the best way to change¡ª¡±

    ¡°The process from within, right? That¡¯s what all statesmen say! Come here!¡±

    Ophiel¡¯s fingers closed tightly around Alanei¡¯s hair, dragging her to the open road. She cried out. It was barely audible in the downpour.

    Ayden rushed forward.

    ¡°Hey, that¡¯s clearly in the past!¡± He shouted. ¡°She¡¯s here isn¡¯t she? With us!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d be the judge of that! Mind your post!¡±

    Ophiel threw Alanei onto the pavestones. She felt something twist in her wrist as she slammed against the stone. An energetic whine grew in Ophiel¡¯s weapon.

    ¡°Please¡­¡± Alanei said. ¡°I¡¯m not a statesman.¡±

    ¡°My father lost his job in this recession,¡± Ophiel said coldly. ¡°My mother took my siblings to live with her relatives. I stayed because I still believed in my father, in the family. Then he fell in the riots. His skull caved in at the hands of the Knights of the Preservation. I wandered the streets for weeks living on scraps, and upon a chance caught sight of mother walking with her hands around another man¡¯s arm, my younger brother and sister close behind. And you know what? They pretended not to see me!

    ¡°This city needs to fall! A world that lets this happen to anyone is not a world worth having! We need to begin again! Do you underst¡ª¡±

    Metal tore with a metallic scream. The air boiled and warped as the weapon fell away, smoking, useless. Alanei looked down the street and saw Portien lying on the road, incapacitated. Beside him was a man in the armor and cape of a knight. The tip of the knight¡¯s rapier smoked from the recent casting of a repulsion Spell.

    ¡°Let them go,¡± Edeard said calmly. ¡°You¡¯re done.¡±

 51 â€“ Release

    ¡°We¡¯ve barely begun, knight,¡± Ophiel said under his breath. ¡°All of you, to me!¡±

    The young men and women looked to each other however, instead of responding immediately. Wild distress manifested in Ophiel¡¯s bloodshot eyes.

    ¡°Fine!¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯ll deal with you myself!¡±

    Edeard closed the distance in the blink of an eye and thrust his fist into the young man¡¯s stomach. Ophiel fell to the ground, retching, gasping for air. Then he fell silent, but his chest rose ever so subtly.

    ¡°Help these people back on their feet and go home,¡± Edeard announced. ¡°Do this and I will forget your faces.¡±

    That motivated them to work. While the ropes were untied and the prisoners brought back upright, Edeard pulled out the sketch to double check. He held out a hand to Alanei. She grabbed it uncertainly and pulled herself to her feet.

    ¡°Go home,¡± Edeard said. ¡°Your father¡¯s looking for you.¡±

    ¡°How do you know my father?¡± She asked warily.

    ¡°He threatened me to go look for you and bring you home.¡±

    Alanei cursed. Her father had threatened a lawman to do his bidding. What did that mean once this was all over?

    As if reading her thoughts, Edeard said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. This city will return to normal soon.¡± He held out a hand, catching the sleet in his palm.

    ¡°But¡­ my father did something incredibly illegal.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m quitting my post after I return to palace,¡± Edeard said.

    ¡°I¡¯m going with you,¡± Alanei said. ¡°I need to speak to the Lord Mayor and Lord Jace. I want to be a part of the process. So this doesn¡¯t happen again.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll help,¡± Ayden said, stepping forward.

    Edeard squinted.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°I uh- I¡¯m a thief, one of the first recruits into this thing. I know how the real enemies, the ones who brought in those weapons, got inside our city. I can help patch up these holes in our security.¡±

    ¡°Not out of the goodness of your heart, no doubt,¡± Edeard said.

    ¡°In exchange for amnesty. For my¡­ earlier pursuits.¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°Look mister knight, I just needed money for my family. My sister already works too much.¡±

    ¡°What did you say your name was again?¡±

    ¡°Ayden.¡±

    Edeard¡¯s brow flicked up.

    ¡°Small city,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll let you all come with me. But I can¡¯t promise I can protect you if these men I heard of are still he¡ª¡± His ears perked. Somewhere by the canals there was fighting. He broke off into a run.

    --Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Jorge had heard a shrill scream somewhere near the canals that ran through the city. An oddly familiar cry. He sprinted towards it and found two family faces. June¡¯s tiny, struggling form slung over a man his size. The same bandit leader he had fought near the Heldrazi Forest. The same person he had lost quite handily against.

    He did not hesitate to jump down to the docks to confront them however. The leader turned towards him in surprise.

    ¡°Funny how we meet the same people in such different places,¡± he remarked.

    ¡°Let her go,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°He speaks. You were quite taciturn when we first met. Listen, friend. This doesn¡¯t concern you. Go back t¡ª¡±

    Jorge walked over to the boats and began swinging his axe. Wood splintered. Water poured through the holes. The boats began to sink. There were more behind the men, however, but now they had less options. The men looked more impressed than shocked.

    ¡°You¡¯re not afraid I¡¯d hurt your friend?¡± The leader said.

    ¡°She¡¯s more dangerous than all of us,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°Not right now, she isn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the lantern!¡± June screamed. ¡°Get the¡ª¡± A hand grabbed her throat, squeezing tight. She coughed and sputtered.

    ¡°Hey! Stop it!¡± Jorge shouted. He ran forward, but didn¡¯t make it more than four steps before the men formed a blockade between him and their leader. He took on the first enemy with an animalistic roar, smashing his axe through the man¡¯s guard with ease. The foe fell away to the right. A blade thrust from the left. Jorge tilted his body so the edge ricocheted off the scales of his cloak. He countered with a thrust to the attacker¡¯s stomach with the top of his axe, pushing him into the river. The others stormed him, all trying to get around to his back, but Jorge wouldn¡¯t let them. He swung wide and dispatched anyone who made it too far to this side. More men splashed into the water. Others fell against the basin wall, their heads swinging back and making a pop sound against the brick.

    ¡°Everyone stop,¡± the leader said. He tossed June to one of his men to carry. They quickly gagged her and began to board the boat.

    ¡°No!¡± Jorge shouted.

    ¡°Round two.¡± The leader charged.

    Jorge only knew how to use his strength. His swings were strong, precise, but they were predictable. His opponent redirected each swing with ease, leading each strike away with the tip of his bastard sword. The boat was taking off; Jorge was about to lose June. Frustrated, angry, Jorge threw himself at the man after another miss. His shoulder threw the man into an unsteady few steps back. A moment of instability. He raised his axe overhead and swung down with all his weight.

    Steel flashed, twirling in an instant in the leader¡¯s hand. It happened too fast for Jorge to react to. The man had flipped his sword, holding onto the edge with both of his hands. As Jorge¡¯s swing cut through the air, the leader swung the pommel of his sword onto the flat of the axe. While momentum carried Jorge forward, the leader stepped to the side, stopping inches away from Jorge. He could count the scratches and scars on the man¡¯s face. The man smiled, his grip on his sword tensed, aiming up between Jorge¡¯s ribs.

    Jorge cried out, stumbling back. His axe was left embedded on the ground. He checked his chest. The wound wasn¡¯t deep. But it should have been. The thrust had been aimed at his heart. He looked up and saw his opponent disarmed as well and similarly confused. Another combatant descended onto the canal port in front of him, dressed in official Ralagastii attire.

    ¡°I certainly hope I helped the right side in this dispute,¡± Edeard said. He nodded at the leader. ¡°You there, what are you doing with that priestess?¡±

    ¡°You have no employer anymore, knight. Best go your own way. Our work is long finished.¡±

    ¡°Sure. Let the girl go.¡± Edeard brandished his rapier. A Spell licked the edge in sharp, blue waves.

    Jorge walked forward cautiously. He raised a hand, retreated, then finally decided to shove the knight¡¯s pauldron. Edeard shot him an annoyed glance.

    ¡°What are you doing? Pick up your weapon!¡± He said.

    Jorge looked him up and down, mouth slightly ajar. Edeard squinted.

    ¡°Is your head on right?¡± He asked. ¡°Pick up your axe!¡±

    ¡°Eddy?¡± Jorge said. He switched to English. ¡°What the fuck are you doing here?¡±

    Edeard forgot his stance, his rapier lowered.

    ¡°Jorge¡­? Why are you not fat?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your first thought?!¡±

    ¡°Are you real? Are you actually here right now?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re employed?¡±

    ¡°You look so weird without a protruding belly. I can actually see your cheek bones too what the hell?¡±

    The leader picked up his sword and sheathed it.

    ¡°Looks like I¡¯m interrupting something,¡± he said. ¡°My men are going to leave without me so¡ª¡±

    Jorge broke his axe free from the ground and raised it. Edeard returned to his stance, refreshing his Spell.

    ¡°We need to save the girl,¡± Jorge said. He could still see the boat. They had time, so long as they dispatched this man quickly enough. ¡°She¡¯s a friend.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Edeard said. ¡°On three. Together. One¡­¡±

 52 â€“ Confrontation

    The wall disintegrated under the pressure of the bolt. Red dust and evaporated brick clung to Lis?a¡¯s nostrils. The commotion had attracted the other Scoutrunners to the neighborhood just outside the palace. The insurgents without those hellish weapons had long fled. Lis?a didn¡¯t know why, but she had no time to question it. Only the gunners remained, and they were surrounded in the center of the road, locked in a stalemate. No one could make a move. She peeked around the corner of her alleyway. Two of her allies¡ªLism¨¦ and Yeoman¡ªhid behind the chimney of a house on the opposite side of the street. Several others were here as well, hiding in the alleyways and rooftops, constantly fidgeting, hesitating. One shot was enough. The weapons had the power to tear holes in walls.

    Deep inside she knew if they all charged the two gunners at once, they¡¯d subdue them in moments. But not before at least two of her allies were reduced to a fine mist. They couldn¡¯t leave while the gunners were at large, but they had no means of stopping them.

    Lis?a¡¯s passenger paper buzzed. She retrieved it.

    ¡°I have an idea,¡± Yeoman wrote. ¡°We distract them. Run from roof to roof using them as cover. A group of us stay on the ground and attack when we have their back.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s insane,¡± A runner named Haden wrote. ¡°They could turn around in a second when they hear one of us start running up to them.¡±

    Lis?a sighed. Yeoman was annoyingly shrewd.

    ¡°Let¡¯s do it,¡± she wrote.

    In the absence of authority, the runners did not assert much resistance to the plans of their peers. Lis?a¡¯s skin bristled at the sensation of their reluctance however. That noble pride that all of them carried would take more than a year of humility in the training camp to get rid of. Roughly half of them leapt from wall to the wall and took to the roofs. Lis?a briefly reminisced as she watched them go. That was the test that determined where she belonged. She had never felt farther from belonging since.

    Red flashes brought her attention back to that damp alleyway. Loud bangs and the sound of tearing structure reverberated in her ears. A runner cried out at what must have been a very close shot. She peered around the corner and saw the gunners shouting at each other, aiming their weapons at the roofs above her position. Bits of brick and shingles fell in wet trails by her feet. But there, on the opposite side of the road hidden in the shadow between houses, she saw a few teammates who had the gunners¡¯ backs in that moment. They didn¡¯t move. The road was wide enough for several carriages side by side; there was too much distance to cover and none of them were fast enough. So why did they agree to this plan?

    The gunners were shooting at the other roofs now. Lis?a sprinted out of her alleyway and onto their position in less than a second. She grabbed both of their necks and pulled them onto the ground. Moments later the other runners came to rip the guns away from their grips. Lis?a then lifted them by their throats a few inches off the pavestones and slammed them down. The gunners limbs¡¯ relaxed.

    ¡°Well done!¡± Yeoman exclaimed. He rappelled back down on the ground. There were noticeable tears in his uniform and one burn streak across his shoulder. ¡°You don¡¯t even need to be accurate with those things. What monstrous designs. Got nicked a little.¡±

    The runners took to the moment of levity without hesitation. Then one by one, the doors to the houses opened, and the citizens came out to cheer and thank them. They had been lucky to be one of the few pockets in the district to be spared from the fires, now they were spared further by a group of young men and women who shouldn¡¯t even have been there.

    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Yeoman asked. ¡°That was amazing! You¡¯re incredible at this!¡±

    ¡°I want to see your passenger paper,¡± Lis?a said.

    ¡°What for?¡±

    ¡°Just do it.¡±

    He raised his hands. ¡°Whoa whoa, I didn¡¯t know we were at that part of the relationship yet but you have to trust me. I wasn¡¯t writing to other¡ª¡±

    Lis?a placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers closed like a vice, holding him in place. She took the booklet out of his inner pocket and flipped through the pages. She exhaled knowingly.

    ¡°When you said a group of us should stay on the ground, you really meant just me,¡± she said.

    Yeoman shrugged. ¡°You were the only one who could have done it.¡±

    ¡°So why not come out with it honestly instead of writing the real plan to our teammates behind my back?¡±

    ¡°There was a chance you might disagree,¡± Yeoman said. He lowered his hands. His face became stern. ¡°The plan might have worked. I made ¡®might¡¯ into a certainty. And none of us died.¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    ¡°You¡ª¡±

    ¡°Look. We just saved their property.¡± Yeoman nodded at the jovial citizens stepping out of their homes as though they had been stuck inside for years. ¡°Isn¡¯t this why soldiers exist?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re transport escorts, we shouldn¡¯t even be here.¡±

    ¡°But we are. And this is an emergency. And when we find Yavi, he¡¯ll make note of our efforts. We might find ourselves in the real thing sooner than expected.¡±

    ¡°What real thing?!¡±

    Yeoman brushed Lis?a¡¯s hand off his shoulder.

    ¡°The real military, where the real money and power is. This? This is daycare for nobles. Well, me included, but I¡¯m self-aware of it. Bandits and highwaymen without a warlord are sickly, weak fodder shitting and eating berries in the woods. Any of us can take them on. The test isn¡¯t over. Yavi is looking for people to let in to the Emperor¡¯s Rocs.¡±

    ¡°You mean the sickly fodder that killed several of us and overwhelmed our caravan?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not this dumb, Lis?a, don¡¯t pretend to be,¡± Yeoman said. ¡°Those were soldiers. Aldrenites, I reckon. Those for whom the war hadn¡¯t ended.¡±

    Lis?a shook her head, turning away.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t right,¡± she said.

    ¡°I did what I had to,¡± Yeoman continued, ¡°You can¡¯t let opportunities go. It¡¯s just not good business. I had your career in mind too.¡±

    It was time they moved onward to the palace. Lis?a followed the group, but it was her limbs that did the moving. Her mind wandered.

    --

    Jorge swung from the left while Edeard thrust from the right. Pure strength behind the heavy, black stone cut a swath through the air beside the streak of a repulsion Spell. The leader sidestepped the former and parried the other. A flash of force threw both of them back.

    ¡°His sword is Enchanted,¡± Edeard said in English. ¡°That¡¯s the only reason it would be able to parry Spells.¡±

    ¡°Good thing I¡¯m not into magic,¡± Jorge said.

    ¡°I¡¯m beginning to feel left out,¡± the leader said. ¡°What language is that?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s stalling,¡± Jorge said. ¡°They want the girl desperately.¡±

    They attacked again, harder, faster. Jorge channeled even more power into his swings. They began to wobble in transit towards the enemy. Edeard tried other Spells. His arcanery was limited, however. Their attacks were not putting up enough pressure. But neither could their opponent return any attacks. The leader¡¯s guard was just good enough for the both of them.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t working,¡± Jorge said. ¡°New plan. I¡¯m going to taunt.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Edeard exclaimed.

    ¡°Get after the boat after you see an opening.¡±

    Then Jorge roared. The leader flinched. Edeard nearly dropped his weapon. Jorge lunged in that instant of an opening with his axe close to his chest. The leader was forced to block. The two engaged in a contest of pure strength. Meanwhile, Edeard sprinted around and rushed downriver.

    ¡°No!¡± The leader threw Jorge off, sending him into the river. But Edeard was already closing in on the boat.

    --

    They didn¡¯t take her seriously. That much was obvious even without June¡¯s senses. They joked in Aldren dialect and talked of nothing. Beneath the genial attitude however was something unmistakable. The anger of a loyal soldier lost. Patriotism without a vector. June had read the newly minted history books about how the defeat was ceremonious. Many Aldrenites simply integrated. They surrendered their arms and accepted change. Each page talked of a peaceful, appropriate end to a bloody war, freshly printed off of Falerian presses. She had never thought much of it. Having just learned to trust human beings again after Vulka¡¯s rescue, she hadn¡¯t been in the headspace to question it. She understood now war continued even after no armies remained.

    Her own anger bubbled near the surface of her control, held back by the light of that mysterious lantern at the belt of one of the soldiers. There were several men between her and it. They only saw its pale blue light. She felt its restricting presence. What was it? How did they procure something so specifically against her curse?

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you people expect out of me,¡± she said.

    No response. They had no reason to talk to her.

    ¡°Do you even understand me?¡±

    A man with a scar down his face, blind in one eye, shot her a mean glance. The kind one used to quiet children.

    ¡°You think you¡¯re all doing some noble labor. But all you¡¯re doing is hurting innocents! These people don¡¯t know your war!¡±

    The chatter began to grow annoyed. June kept talking, drawing their focus away from their surroundings. Without her staff her Light was limited, but she had been collecting it since they took her onboard. And she had just heard footsteps rapidly approaching along the canal. One of the men stood from his seat, face twisted by impatience.

    ¡°Listen, girl, none of us need your lecturing. Stay put and¡ª¡±

    The air whistled with repulsion Spells. Two men fell into the water. The others quickly got back on their feet, weapons ready. Edeard ran around the boat, timing repulsion Spells with his footfalls on the water surface. It was difficult keeping himself on the surface of the water while attacking. A few of the soldiers pulled bowstrings back. When they began to fire, he had to devote attention to deflecting the arrows as well. He was kept at a distance.

    June suddenly sprang to her feet and barreled into the men with all the Light she had mustered, straight toward the lantern bearer. The push was enough to tip his balance. He fell into the river swinging his arms. The others quickly descended upon her, bending her arms back and pinning her to the floor of the boat.

    ¡°Hold on!¡± Edeard shouted. Arrow tips clinked off his sword. Some of them were getting dangerously close to him.

    June screamed. Her arms were being restrained in angles they weren¡¯t supposed to be in. She felt rough rope encircle her ankles.

    ¡°You¡¯ve just wasted our generosity, poppet,¡± one of the men said with a snarl.

    ¡°No,¡± June managed to sputter with her cheeks against the wet wood. Somewhere beneath the surface of the water, she felt the pressure of the pale light go out. The Light within her disappeared like a solitary candle in the dead of winter. ¡°None of you deserve to live.¡±

    Edeard had finally reached his limit. He missed one repulsion Spell too many and fell into the river. The circling cloud in the sky cast warbling, pale light through the surface of the water as his armor pulled him deeper. He began to swim back up, moving closer to the light. Then he blinked. All sense of direction left him. The waters became pitch black and the sky disappeared. He forgot which way was up. His lungs were beginning to burn and muffled screaming echoed in his ears.

 53 â€“ Failure From Above

    Jorge¡¯s lungs burned. His chest pushed and pulled against the closed doors of his nostrils. He stayed underwater, trying his best to relax, to reduce the hunger for air. It was better than facing whatever was going on up there. The sky had disappeared, the day gone. He had seen this power before. Even being in its proximity brought shivers down his spine. And he had fought beasts the size of houses before without being intimidated.

    Then it all came back in an instant. The overcast sky, the overlapping ripples of sleet on the surface of the river. Jorge rushed back up to the surface, coughing, sputtering. He dragged himself back onto ground. It took great will to stop himself from hyperventilating. Somewhere down the canal, Edeard sprang back up as well. The boat was in pieces. The men were gone.

    ¡°Where¡¯s June?¡± Jorge shouted. ¡°The girl!¡±

    Edeard dove back into the river. Moments later he returned with the priestess. Her movements were weak. Her cheeks were a pale white. Her eyes were closed. Jorge stumbled over and knelt down to examine her.

    ¡°She looks okay,¡± he said.

    ¡°What the hell was that, dude?¡± Edeard exclaimed.

    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ her thing. She hulks out sometimes.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a way to put it.¡±

    The men had gone. Killed perhaps, or escaped before the girl¡¯s frightening power consumed them. Edeard had suspicions as to who they were. But that wasn¡¯t worth exploring at the moment. They climbed out of the canal and back on the roads. Alanei and Ayden rushed to meet them.

    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Ayden exclaimed, ¡°The sky went black and I could have sworn I saw my skin melt and¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine now,¡± Edeard said. ¡°Forget it. The palace is right there. Come on.¡±

    ¡°Is that where you people are going?¡± Jorge asked. He glanced at the sleeping form on his back. ¡°I¡¯m only here¡­ because a friend was in trouble. I¡¯m not a part of whatever this is.¡±

    ¡°Well we need to bring her back to the palace. I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s of some importance if that man wanted her.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of, do you know that big guy went?¡±

    ¡°No. I was in the river.¡±

    ¡°Hm.¡± Jorge didn¡¯t like it. He wanted to hit the road. His ties to this city was insofar as to clear his name. Of politics and civil strife he had no interest.

    ¡°I¡¯ll deliver June to where she can be taken care of,¡± he said. ¡°Then I¡¯m gone.¡±

    ¡°Where are you going anyway? What have you been doing since, well, a year ago?¡±

    Jorge sighed.

    As they walked, the palace seemed to rise out of the rooftops of the neighborhood, drawing closer with every step. Jorge told his story as he remembered it. The mostly uneventful year he spent in the woods. His near death experiences. Of the quest the being in his dreams gave him, he said nothing. It was beginning to feel more like a hallucination than an actual encounter. But he had involved himself. And his actions here had likely helped a number of people. Jorge did not enjoy being a slave to prophecy.

    ¡°Wait, what do you mean you fell out of the sky?¡± Ayden asked.

    ¡°Me and Edeard aren¡¯t native to this universe,¡± Jorge said simply. ¡°Something or someone brought us here. I think it¡¯s been happening for a long time.¡± He wondered if he was supposed to keep that sort of thing a secret.

    ¡°There are many tales of heroes who came from other worlds who changed the very face of Etrylis,¡± Alanei said. ¡°History is riddled with individuals and beings who seem to disobey the balance and gain power beyond what an average human ought to have in this world. Maybe the truth is more literal. Although¡­¡± She gazed up and down Jorge¡¯s body. The way he sauntered loosely. The way he looked like a barbarian from the roaming clans. ¡°Appearances can be deceiving.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not a hero,¡± Jorge said. ¡°Never wanted to be. Never fantasized about it.¡±

    ¡°You have the modesty of one,¡± Alanei remarked in jest.

    ¡°Haha.¡± The laugh was mirthless.

    Alanei turned to Edeard. ¡°Edeard here seems appropriately dressed for the role, however.¡±

    ¡°I admit I¡¯ve had such delusions,¡± Edeard said. ¡°They¡¯ve been shattered quite handily. I¡¯ve no interest in this sort of thing any longer.¡±

    ¡°Why do you talk like that?¡± Jorge said in English, smirking.

    ¡°Shut it. I¡¯m not a shut-in bumpkin in this world. I functioned as a member of society.¡±

    ¡°You look like a renaissance fair nerd.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°You look like discount Conan with a cape.¡±

    ¡°Badass.¡±

    In the lightened mood, Jorge didn¡¯t notice they had arrived before the palace, and that the arcane rain had stopped. The palace was a collection of spires and annexes, beautifully wrought with bronze, and unlike any style of architecture Jorge had ever seen. He hadn¡¯t had a chance to see it properly when he was brought here last. It was mostly intact as well. Only one of its bridges had been destroyed.

    There was someone standing in the courtyard when they arrived through the front gate. The ground was littered with blood and bodies. Soldiers, guards, and groundskeepers alike. Edeard rushed ahead.

    ¡°Lady Velvedere,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ve returned! And¡­¡±

    She knelt on the ground, hands alive with swirling arcane energies. Dozens of planes were being torn into at once, weaving into complex forms Edeard could not begin to unravel. The air was heavy with spent power. Jorge¡¯s eyes were watering from it. Edeard however could not look away. Lord Jace¡¯s beheaded form laid on the pavestones, bloodless. For all intents and purposes: as dead as one could possibly be. Lady Velvedere was reattaching the head back on the knight¡¯s neck. Sinew reconnected to sinew. Bone rejoined. Vessels regrew anew. Nerves mended.

    Then she was finished. She raised a hand and curled a finger. Jorge felt his volition leave his body. The party all stepped forward and extended a hand. Velvedere grabbed each member by the wrist, inspecting closely. Jorge winced when his turn came. The woman¡¯s hands were frigid.

    ¡°You¡¯ll do,¡± she said. She pulled Jorge down on his knees and slit his wrist with a fingernail. June¡¯s sleeping form fell onto the ground. Jorge felt a vein bulge in his temple in anger. But he couldn¡¯t turn his head to see if June was alright.

    His blood did not spill onto the ground. It arced gracefully through the air like an eel. With her other hand, Velvedere made a similar slit in Lord Jace¡¯s wrist. The blood flowed into the wound. A minute passed. Jorge was beginning to feel faint.

    Jace sprung upright, gasping for air. His hands rushed to feel his neck. Only a thin seam remained as a reminder of the beheading. Velvedere let them out of her thrall. The party could breathe again. The cut on Jorge¡¯s wrist closed, but he wasn¡¯t thinking about that. He crawled over to June. The priestess seemed intact. He felt glad, then gladness gave way to fury. He picked June up and stood to his feet in indignation. The sudden dizziness robbed his voice of strength.

    ¡°Hey lady, what is wrong with you?¡± He mumbled.

    ¡°You don¡¯t want to see what would happen if my blood ended up inside one of you,¡± Velvedere snapped. She swept her surroundings with a disapproving glare. ¡°I leave for but a couple days! And this cesspit catches fire.¡±

    ¡°My Lady,¡± Edeard began, ¡°I apologize. I should have¡ª¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s quite alright, Edeard. I left many contingencies behind to protect this city. And they all failed. I suppose it¡¯s my fault for trusting this place at such a crucial time to the Knight¡¯s Guard.¡±

    ¡°I see¡­¡± Edeard hadn¡¯t been the only one. Somewhere along the way, he had fooled himself into thinking the city was on his shoulders alone.

    ¡°The best laid plans of mages and men, leave a mage disappointed I suppose,¡± Velvedere said. She turned to Alanei and Ayden. ¡°Who are you two?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a Regal student,¡± Alanei said. ¡°And I came here to help with the rebuilding and reestablishment of Ralagast. I want to work with the Lord M¡ª¡±

    ¡°Save it. I¡¯ve tasked my cadre on that job. They will complete it without the need for bureaucracy.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ the Mayor.¡±

    This only annoyed the Highcaster further. ¡°So na?ve,¡± she uttered. She turned to Ayden. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Ayden. Formerly of the insurgency. I¡¯ve come to tell you how these soldiers made it into our city and inform our security moving forward.¡±

    ¡°But I already know how they made it into our city,¡± Velvedere said. ¡°I figured it out the moment I Embarked back. Bold for a criminal to claim his information would be trustworthy in the first place.¡±

    ¡°Ma¡¯am, I¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do me a favor and think about your compatriots. Your allies. The other insurgents. Picture their faces.¡± Ayden could only do as he was told. He clutched his head as he felt his thoughts slip out of his control. ¡°Hmm yes. That wouldn¡¯t be all of them, but it¡¯s a start. That leaves you.¡±

    Edeard felt a painful pang of dread strike his chest.

    ¡°Wait!¡± He shouted. ¡°My Lady. This man, he¡¯s¡­¡±

    Ayden fell flat on the pavestones. His eyes were open, his mouth ajar. Velvedere turned to Edeard.

    ¡°You¡¯ve seen a few, I¡¯m sure,¡± she said. ¡°Think about them.¡±

    ¡°No! Lady Velvedere. I- I promised I¡¯d let them go if they cooperated! I gave my word!¡±

    ¡°Your word?¡±

    ¡°Please! They¡¯re just kids!¡±

    ¡°You make an adult of yourself when you take on ventures like this, sweet boy.¡± Velvedere looked up at the sky. Arcane power amassed between her fingers. Then as leisurely as one threw a paper glider she released a Spell into the clouds. The sky rumbled. A hundred bolts of lightning struck at once at various precise points in the city.

    ¡°It¡¯s not the physical damage that angers me so, Edeard,¡± Velvedere said with a sigh. ¡°It¡¯s the image. Houses I can rebuild. A heart I can stop. A mind I can sway. But perception? Ethos? The transmission of ideas? Reputation is a Spell created by speech alone. You¡¯ve made this city look bad.¡±

    ¡°What have you done?¡± Edeard gasped.

    ¡°Clean-up.¡±

    ¡°This¡­ this isn¡¯t you.¡±

    Velvedere squinted. ¡°You¡¯ve never known me. Get back to your home. I¡¯ll have you sorted soon.¡±

    Lord Jace brought himself on his knees.

    ¡°I apologize for this, my Lady,¡± he said. ¡°I have not been vigilant enough.¡±

    ¡°Retake the main offices of the Guard. Reestablish control of the city, and I¡¯ll consider this failure forgiven.¡± She paused for a moment. ¡°But not forgotten.¡±

    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡± Jace hurried away without so much as acknowledging Edeard.

    ¡°Ha. You¡¯re just mad you look bad because of this.¡± Jorge stood straight, facing the mage directly.

    ¡°This a friend of yours?¡± Velvedere asked.

    ¡°Please, he doesn¡¯t mean it,¡± Edeard said quickly. ¡°No more. Jorge, shut up!¡±

    ¡°All I¡¯m doing is talking,¡± Jorge said. ¡°Or are mages afraid of speech?¡±

    ¡°Cute,¡± Velvedere said. ¡°Take your friends and go, Edeard. I¡¯ve work to do.¡±

    The air flashed with light and thunder, then she was gone.

    ¡°That¡¯s this city¡¯s leader?¡± Jorge asked incredulously. ¡°What kind of place is this?¡±

    ¡°Jorge¡­¡± Edeard bent over to collect Ayden¡¯s body. ¡°Please. I¡¯m begging you. Shut the hell up.¡±

    ¡°She just murdered this guy in front of us!¡±

    ¡°She can still hear us,¡± Edeard hissed. ¡°Things are different here. The rules are not the same as they are on Earth. Please just listen to me and don¡¯t talk about this.¡±

    The worst was yet to come. He closed Ayden¡¯s eyes before setting off with his body in his arms.

    ¡°Go home to your father, Alanei,¡± he said over his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ve made him worry enough.¡±

    ¡°But¡­¡±

    ¡°Lady Velvedere took your face too when she peered into Ayden¡¯s mind. She spared you. Lay low for now and return to your family.¡±

    As the two left, Jorge stood still, unsure of where to go. June stirred on his back. She woke, groggy and exhausted.

    ¡°What- what happened?¡± She asked.

    ¡°I have no idea,¡± Jorge said.

 54 â€“ Resolution

    Iana went back inside the old house to make sure nothing valuable had been left behind. In her hand she held a couple medals suspended on frayed ribbons, the last of the mementos to be picked off the creaking wood floors of the bedrooms. They were made of gold. Lion gold. She doubted more than a handful of people in the world could tell the difference anymore.

    She entered the carriage through the back to hand the medals to her grandfather Kaligo, the only one who could speak coherently anymore. The others were asleep.

    ¡°I suppose we¡¯re expected to sell these if we run out of money before we die,¡± he said.

    ¡°I¡¯ve paid the driver,¡± Iana said. ¡°He will take you through the safe roads through the Cadeau-Ralagast junction.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not coming with, are you?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Some things have been made clear over the past few days. She had run the idea so many times through. ¡°I¡¯ve spent a long time working for others, for family, but not for myself. I don¡¯t want to remember our lineage through my labor. I must find my own path.¡±

    ¡°You want to follow your lord, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°That- that isn¡¯t necessarily-¡±

    ¡°Just tell him, Iana,¡± Kaligo said. ¡°About time you found a man. Go on. Don¡¯t worry about us. I¡¯m still strong enough to run a house. And you¡¯ve given us enough money to live a few years.¡± He chuckled, glancing over at Iana¡¯s other grandparents. They were sound asleep. ¡°Look at these decaying bats. I¡¯ll probably be the last one to go.¡±

    ¡°Okay. Thank you.¡± Iana stepped off the carriage. She called out to the driver. The carriage began to roll away.

    Kaligo stuck his head out with one last thing to say.

    ¡°Never forget,¡± he said. ¡°The pride is everything. Live a good life. And for any god¡¯s sake patch things up with your brother.¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± she said.

    She watched the carriage recede down the road, diving slowly in and out of waving plains. Only after she could not see them anymore did she return to Edeard¡¯s home. There were a few tasks left to be done to make the house presentable.

    --

    Jorge put June back on her feet. They looked at each other, waiting for one to speak first before the other. The typical awkwardness pending a parting. Jorge hadn¡¯t known the girl very long. But in a way he felt paralleled to her, differently than the way she thought herself paralleled to him of course. He felt most understanding of the anger she harbored. She was most convinced of his nobility as a human being.

    He disagreed with the assessment. Not that there was a need to have that argument again.

    ¡°Where will you go?¡± He asked.

    ¡°Back to the palace,¡± June said. ¡°There¡¯s some paperwork to be done. I¡¯m being stationed here. The work of the Order has always been to act as a moral compass. And this city is in dire need of more like me.¡±

    ¡°Almost as though your leaders knew this would happen.¡±

    ¡°The Archbishop assigned me before all this,¡± June said. She reigned her voice back, realizing she was being defensive.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t accuse anyone,¡± Jorge said. ¡°There¡¯s a reason you thought I was.¡±

    ¡°¡­I know.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not familiar with your abilities, but from what I know, this city can¡¯t be healthy for you.¡±

    ¡°There are things I owe and duties to perform. A free man like you wouldn¡¯t understand.¡±

    Jorge understood debt. He himself had depended much on the help of others and a fair share of luck to have lived so long. The difference was his debtors didn¡¯t seem to care about collecting. They¡¯ve all either gone their own way, or died. As people tended to do.

    ¡°Good bye.¡± Jorge slung his axe tightly over his shoulder and walked away.

    ¡°See you.¡±

    One walked back towards the palace at the center of it all. The other caught up with a friend. Jorge had never seen Edeard make such an expression.

    ¡°Is that a good friend of yours in this world?¡± Jorge asked, nodding at Ayden¡¯s body in Edeard¡¯s arms. Edeard shook his head.

    ¡°No,¡± he said. And then nothing else. Jorge decided not to pry further. They returned to the residences just outside the palatial district. The place was mostly untouched, sandwiched between two classes of people, never quite belonging in either. Blameless in their neutrality.

    Jorge whistled at the sight of Edeard¡¯s house.

    ¡°They give it to you,¡± Edeard explained. ¡°When I leave, they¡¯ll freshen it up and assign it to the next knight.¡±

    ¡°Still, you¡¯ve done well for yourself.¡±

    ¡°I really haven¡¯t. I haven¡¯t done anything. Open the door for me, will ya?¡±

    Jorge held the door so Edeard can enter. Jorge heard footsteps descend the stairs, followed by Edeard taking a sharp, unsteady breath. A young woman in a maid¡¯s outfit entered the front hallway. She had a welcome smile on her face. For a moment at least. Her smile evaporated in an instant.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    Jorge stayed by the door as Edeard walked forward with the body in his arms. A common instinct had told him he better linger back. He watched the young woman¡¯s face redden and lose composure, collapsing under the sheer weight of emotion. Edeard gently set the body down. The woman held Ayden tightly, wailing, trembling. Somewhere along the way, her shaken, lost expression turned to anger.

    ¡°You were with him!¡± She screamed.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Edeard would say. He said it many times, and did not deny any of the flurry of accusations thrown his way. Jorge couldn¡¯t watch any longer. He twisted the door handle and stepped out.

    He glanced up. It really was a beautiful afternoon. The raining Spell had long cleared and the maelstrom had gone. Not a cloud was in sight. Eventually Edeard left the house.

    ¡°That was her brother,¡± he explained.

    ¡°Was it your fault?¡± Jorge asked.

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. I was there. And Ayden died.¡±

    ¡°That young man was murdered, Edeard.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know a single example of a free world where authorities can execute anyone at a thought.¡±

    ¡°Do you want to challenge her?¡± Edeard said, raising an eyebrow. To that Jorge said nothing. Edeard sighed. ¡°Iana came from a nation called Pyrelion. No one remembers it now. That¡¯s because Lady Velvedere had wiped them off the face of Etrylis. Not their lives, but their history, their words, their pride. The books would say pride made them reluctant to expand, building inward rather than conquering outward, resulting in their loss.¡±

    ¡°And you worked for this lady.¡±

    ¡°She was so warm when she found me in that crater, when we were pulled to this planet. So compassionate. I could scarcely believe the word of the books when I happened upon them. I guess what one sees blinds one to the pen.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± Jorge took a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯m off.¡±

    ¡°Where are you going?¡±

    ¡°Anywhere else. Come with me. Maybe we¡¯ll find the rest of us.¡±

    ¡°Do you mind waiting until I can get the funeral stuff done? For Ayden, I mean. I¡­ need to help Iana with this at least.¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡±

    --

    Lis?a arrived at the palace with her team to see the other runners already there. The place was crawling with administration. New groundskeepers and guards were already being assigned. She saw dead bodies being piled onto carts to be shipped off to the churches for their last rites. Medical mages were in the courtyard, treating any survivors. The runners stood in escort of Yavi. He had seen better days.

    The arrow had pierced between his ribs, missing his heart but leaving a lung damaged. The arrow had been removed and the wound closed with healing Spells. Despite this he had no problem issuing orders.

    ¡°The last team,¡± he acknowledged as they stepped up. ¡°Report.¡±

    Yeoman explained what had happened enthusiastically, including what Lis?a had done. The way the account was told was perfect as well; Yeoman did not take credit for coming up with the plan, instead framing it as teamwork.

    ¡°Once we have that verified with the citizens I¡¯m sure it will look good on your records,¡± Yavi said after.

    The runners chattered excitedly. There was a chance then, that they could leave this humiliation and rejoin their families at a station more appropriate for nobles. Yavi noticed the odd one out among the runners.

    ¡°What are you thinking, Lis?a?¡± He asked.

    She did not speak for a few heartbeats.

    ¡°I want to be discharged.¡±

    Her team stopped their talking immediately. Yavi nodded.

    ¡°Sure,¡± he said.

    ¡°Wait, what?!¡± Yeoman exclaimed. He turned to Lis?a. ¡°Why? You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re giving up!"

    ¡°I really do,¡± Lis?a said.

    ¡°You¡¯re really just going to let her go?¡± Yeoman turned to Yavi.

    ¡°You¡¯re all here because you want something, no?¡± Yavi replied. He nodded to Lis?a, his expression stony, but approving. ¡°Leaving a place you can¡¯t abide in is a wise choice. I wish I had done something similar around your age.¡±

    ¡°Where will you go?¡± Yeoman asked, crossing his arms. ¡°Why did you join in the first place?¡±

    ¡°I thought it was freedom from my mother,¡± Lis?a answered honestly. ¡°Now I know it was freedom. Just that. I don¡¯t want to play in and around rules to add new titles to my name. I don¡¯t want to risk my life riding alongside packages to line storefronts. And I don¡¯t want to use other people.¡±

    Yeoman retreated. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re just doing what it takes,¡± Lis?a said, ¡°What you feel you need to do. I¡¯m going to do the same thing.¡±

    --

    The funeral was quick. An unelaborate stone marked with a single name and nothing else was set above a buried jar of ashes. There were only three people in attendance after the priest finished the rites. Jorge hung back while Edeard and Iana talked.

    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have blamed you for everything,¡± she said. ¡°His choices were always dangerous. This was going to happen eventually.¡±

    Edeard almost apologized again. He cleared his throat.

    ¡°I¡¯m discontinuing service to this city,¡± he said. ¡°If you like¡­¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Iana said. ¡°Family is everything. And I haven¡¯t much left. I¡¯m going back to my grandparents. They don¡¯t know this happened yet.¡± She cast a forlorn look at Edeard. ¡°Maybe in a different world.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Edeard said. He regretted not biting his tongue. This need to be sorry was useless, and worst of all pitiful.

    ¡°You should go.¡±

    ¡°Iana?¡±

    ¡°The truth is, Edeard, I love you, and I think will for a long time. But I can¡¯t separate your face beside my brother¡¯s death in my mind. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, not doing enough. I don¡¯t blame you. But I can¡¯t stand you.¡±

    ¡°I understand.¡±

    Edeard stepped back. One remained by the grave.

    The two Wayfarers made their way out of city, quiet for some time. The winds shuffled the endless fields of grains outside the borders. It sounded like whispers from the plains itself, shushing those about to leave a world behind. Behind them, the city no longer smoldered. In the couple of days since the rebellion failed, almost all the damage had been repaired. Families mended, mourned the loss of their youth, their homes, their place in the city, and then moved on. Edeard doubted there¡¯d be any mark left on Ralagast in a week. None of it would be possible without Lady Velvedere¡¯s ruthless control. Anyone involved in helping the insurgents make their foothold in the city would spend a long time in the dungeons beneath the palace. The insurgents themselves would be hunted down. It took him a lot of groveling to get the Highcaster to let Jetrois, the mechanic, off with a more lenient punishment. Jetrois would spend the next two decades in service to the State rather than rot in the dungeon. It was a better fate. Edeard¡¯s last act as a knight would be to beg.

    But it helped someone.

    ¡°Jorge,¡± he said. ¡°Do you regret coming here?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the point? Is there a way to get back to Earth?¡±

    ¡°If there¡¯s a way in, there¡¯s a way out.¡±

    ¡°Do you want to find it?¡±

    ¡°The thing is,¡± Jorge said, thinking about it a little while longer, ¡°The entire catharsis of your journey can¡¯t be to leave a place. Because none of your experiences would be relevant afterward.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what retirement is.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t what to retire from living yet, Edeard.¡±

    ¡°Right. Let¡¯s just follow the beaten path then¡ª¡±

    ¡°Wait.¡± Jorge stopped and looked around.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t nothing but the wind and the grass, Jorge.¡±

    ¡°Come out!¡± Jorge said.

    The fields parted. Lis?a stepped out onto the road beside them.

    ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± Edeard asked.

    ¡°You seem interesting,¡± Lis?a said. ¡°Mind a stranger tagging along?¡±

    ¡°She looks really sketchy,¡± Edeard said.

    ¡°She¡¯s a friend of a friend,¡± Jorge said. ¡°And her head is on straight. From what I gathered. Come on then.¡±

    The three walked together, leaving a barely notable history behind. The farther they walked, the more their conversation would be lost to the winds of the shifting seasons. Eventually, their backs would disappear over the curvature of the steppes, their fates unknown. For now.