《A Story With No Plot》 CHAPTER 0: Before The Curtain Rises ------------------------------------- Location: The In-Between ------------------------------------ Divine Overseers¡ªbeings beyond mortal comprehension. All-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful. Yet even they would eventually succumb to the bane of all sapient life: boredom. A mighty sigh reverberated through the halls of the Bright Theatre. The Daemons, once immersed in their work, hesitated. The endless click-clacking of typewriter keys ceased as a dark and ancient shadow stirred atop its elevated dais. The Shadow, Master and Director of the Bright Theatre, stood solemnly above them. His star-like eyes scanned the faceless masks of his workers, watching as they shifted uncomfortably beneath his unseen gaze. They could not perceive him¡ªhe had ensured that much¡ªyet his presence pressed upon them, vast and inescapable. "What works hast thou produced for mine eyes?" he sighed, as if his job were some great, inescapable burden. In an instant, a fresh stack of papers materialized in his grasp, covered head to toe in dark shifting runes. A strangled gasp escaped a Daemon as she stumbled forward, thrown off balance by the sudden disappearance of the weighted papers she had been holding. Her fingers twitched instinctively toward the empty space where they had been. Those pages were her pride and joy¡ªdecades of fate-crafting, chronicling the life of a peculiar mortal. Though magnificent, they were unfinished.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. And now, they lay in the Director¡¯s hands. The Shadow scanned the pages, disinterest evident in his gaze. He was about halfway through the stack when he suddenly stopped to stare at the Daemon, piercing through her soul with his starry orbs. The Daemon was suddenly glad she could not see the expression¡ªor lack thereof¡ªthat he was currently making.
For a long stretch of time, there was only silence between them. Then, at last, The Shadow spoke. "Thy runes are hollow, lacking the depth of a well-wrought verse."His voice, while quiet, carried a silent disappointment. He made a motion, and the esoteric language imprinted on the pages began to morph, revealing the very bones of her script."Wouldst Thou pen fate in such crude scrawl? Lo, thy structure wavers, thy phrasing doth stumble, and thy form is an insult to the tongue of the cosmos." The Daemon swallowed hard, fighting back a response.''Of course you think it''s crude!'' She protested mentally,''You perfected the damn thing!'' The Shadow ignored her outburst, instead he peered intently at a certain section of the script, its framework having caught his eye. For a moment he was silent. Then, he hummed. "Yet... what madness is this?"He prodded the section with his bonelike fingers revealing a set of golden runes held together by shimmering strings. ¡°A mingling of fates most strange, a conjoining of threads unspun. This fusion of destinies¡­ ''tis unorthodox, yet enthralling.¡± The Daemon dared not breathe. The Shadow exhaled softly and slammed the stack shut. His earlier boredom had been replaced by a strange vivacity, which the Daemon could feel through their tentative mental connection."Flawed, yet possessed of a certain... genius."His starlit gaze bore into her, unreadable."Thou shalt refine this." It was not a request. CHAPTER 1: The Opening Scene I ascend the pole with practiced ease, my muscles straining as I hoist my self up into a perfect handstand. The heat of the stage lights press down on me, yet I steady my breath in preparation for the next act. From above, a shimmering ornamental blade drops down swiftly. The crowd gasps as I catch it deftly on the curve of my sole, balancing it upright. A ripple of oohs and aahs echo from below the platform, and I begin to juggle, passing the blade from foot to foot with measured, precise movements. The specially made metal reflects light spectacularly, and the audience watches in awe as a kaleidoscope of colours begins to form. A man steps forward, enamoured by the display. He is quickly pushed back by an armoured guard who instructs the crowd to not come closer. They hesitantly comply and take a collective step backwards. I can see the excitement in their eyes as they wait for the final¡ªand most intense¡ªpart of my act. A massive metal ring descends from the ceiling, its polished surface gleaming like a moon in freefall. Timing my next move perfectly, I lean forward, surrendering to gravity as I spiral downward in a controlled descent. The world blurs around me. I release my grip from the pole¡ª And the crowd erupts. As I leap through the ring, fire erupts in a brilliant arc, searing the air around me. Heat licks at my skin, but I push through, tucking my body into a tight roll mid-air. The flames roar, trailing after the tail of my silk attire as if they were some great beast. The moment stretches¡ªweightless, breathless¡ªbefore I unfurl, twisting just in time to grasp the colourful strands of fabric that hung from the ceiling. My momentum carries me forward, sending me swinging over the enraptured audience. Below, faces tilt upward, eyes wide, reflecting the flickering firelight. I take in their expressions¡ªfear, awe, excitement. It fuels me. I let go. For a heartbeat, there is nothing but air beneath me. I am untethered. And then I fall, and¡ªsnap!¡ªI twist and catch hold of a second pole, gripping it tightly as the flames behind me dissipate into embers. One final pose. One leg extended, arms reaching forward. My fingers come together in the shape of the Imperial Symbol: Heaven''s Flaming Eye. A perfect finish. The silence before the applause is always the sweetest part. A single breath stretched across a thousand held lungs.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. The theatre explodes into cheers, and I drink it all in. "Thank you! Thank you very much!" Then at the corner of my eye I witness a peculiar sight: A man stands at the back of the crowd, his face unreadable. Only he does not cheer. ************* I sit alone in my tent, watching the myriad of shadows flash by. They twist and turn, stretching unnaturally as figures pass by, distorted by the lantern light that breathes life into them. The night is busy, sounds of laughter echo through the air, mingling with the faint hum of music and the occasional clatter of metal boots against pavement. A gust of cool air sneaks through the entrance as the tent flaps rustle. With the wind comes a familiar face. "Naeve!" Excitement tinges my voice as my niece steps into the tent, brushing stray auburn strands from her face. I had heard that she was in town, but to think that she''d come so soon... "How long has it been?" The words feel stuck in my throat as I study her features. Naeve has inherited much of my sister''s face: High, defined cheekbones that catch the light just so, the same sharp jaw that lends her an air of quiet defiance. Yet where my sister''s gaze was cold and steely, Naeve''s eyes burn with something wild and untamed, much like my own. She has yet to fully shake off the dust of travel. The scent of horses and the road clings to her clothes like an invisible cloak. She looks older than I can remember. Not in the way of years, but in the strange way the world leaves its mark on others. Naeve grins, flashing a set of shimmering white teeth. "Do I look that different?" I return the smile. Like a whole different person. "How are you?" She exhales, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the journey. "Tired" Then, with a smirk, "Hungry." I laugh. "And you come here for food? I''ll have you know I haven''t eaten since morning: The cook called in sick." She extends her hand, "All the more reason to take you out, Aunty. Mother said to make sure you saw the moon tonight." I take her hand. "Lead the way then." And we walk out the tent. An instant blast of cool air hits my face. I look up, and see the sky lit up by thousands of paper lanterns. Today marks the Empire''s 100th anniversary, and both the government and the people spared no expense in the celebration. The streets are alive with color and movement¡ªlaughter, music, and the occasional burst of fireworks fill the air. As Naeve tugs me toward the bustling market stalls, something catches my eye. The man from earlier, the one who refused to appaud the performance, moves through the crowd with a purpose that sets him apart from the others. His posture is rigid, his gaze sharp as he speaks to a merchant, then another, and another. There¡¯s something almost surgical about the way he picks his targets¡ªno wasted movement, no idle chatter. A knight. I recognize the insignia on his cloak, though I¡¯ve never seen him before. He most certainly isn¡¯t here to celebrate. Curiosity sparks in my chest. Who is he looking for? I turn to Naeve, "Let''s go over there." I say, pointing at the next stall in the man''s path. Without waiting for her to answer, I step forward, weaving through the crowd, making my way toward him. CHAPTER 3: Heavy Is The Head The enchanted light from the grandiose opal chandelier poured out, illuminating the once darkened hall. Magnus chuckled at the display. Typical. Pompous bastards. He shifted his gaze towards the large throne at the hall''s center¡ªa bizarre fusion of natural rock formations and jagged metal plates. Magnus sighed, lamenting the fact that the one who sat on the throne was no less strange. Gray, lifeless eyes peered down at him from behind a dark veil, carrying within them the superior air of a noble. A large flowing gown completely obscured the monarch''s lower body. This wasn''t going to be easy. Assassinations rarely were. Time to get this over with... His lips parted, and a string of ancient syllables poured out from his mouth: a decree. "Omniasqu? obstet, ''twixt caelum et terra, corrix injustari. Vincula divin? signantur." The air shuddered. A deep, resonant hum pulsed through the hall like the tolling of some unseen bell. Then, from the very ground beneath the throne, crimson chains erupted¡ªcoiling, writhing, slithering like living things. They moved with purpose and precision, lashing around the monarch¡¯s wrists, her throat, her ankles, forcing her still. She did not flinch. Not even as the chains began to shift, their surfaces writhing with eldritch glyphs before burrowing into her flesh. A faint hiss filled the air as the chains sank in, their color bleeding away as they disappeared beneath her skin. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Where the bindings had once been, dark sigils now marred her skin, their inky presence pulsing in defiance of the opulent glow above. A mark of limitation. A brand of weakness. A flaw, imposed by something greater than power alone. Magnus exhaled, flexing his fingers as the weight of the decree settled over the chamber. Let¡¯s see you try and ignore me now, Your Highness. A strange chill ran through Magnus'' spine¡ªa warning. He leapt to the side, shoes skidding against the polished floor. A few seconds later, it erupted. Shards of rock burst from the ground, razor sharp and flying out at deadly speed. Magnus barely had time to react, his fingers snapped together, and a writhing mass of crimson chains materialised, twisting around him like a metal cocoon. ¡ªBoom!¡ª ¡ªBoom!¡ª ¡ªBoom!¡ª The shards struck the barrier, each impact ringing like the crash of a hundred blades. The force behind them was monstrous, threatening to rip through his defenses. Sparks flew as the chains strained under the pressure, groaning from he onslaught. Magnus frowned. She still has this much strength? Even after the flaw was imposed? The air shifted, and Magnus felt it¡ªsomething wrong, the heat of an unfamiliar presence. Soft arms wrapped around his waist, drawing him into a hug. There was a scent of something faintly floral. A silk veil came into view, then a soft voice. "I meant to kill you with that." ¡ªCrack!¡ª His chains shattered. The world tilted. Darkness swallowed him whole. CHAPTER 4: A Gift For A Star The bar was alive with noise. Sounds of chatter and laughter, clinking mugs, the occasional burst of drunken song¡ªall balancing together in a warm, melodical hum. Had Lennard been in a relaxed mood, perhaps he would have enjoyed some of the comradery. This time, unfortunately, he was not. He sat hunched over the counter, taking sporadic glances at his wristwatch, fingers drumming aimlessly on the counter. He paid no heed to the bartender staring strangely at him: Lennard had not yet bought a drink. He wasn''t planning to. The business he had with the ''Sequined Stool'' had nothing to with either food nor drink¡ªIt was a rather highly important matter. Few things mattered more to the man than state of his love life. Because of this, he had now been sitting in the same spot for the past 4 hours. Lennard was a type of man without any sense of embarrassment, yet even this was a bit... much. Seemingly having had enough of her unusual patron. The bartender crossed over to Lennard. "Got anything to buy?" He shook his head. "No. I''m waiting for someone." She gave him a strange look. ''If they were coming, then they''d be here.'' Lennard chuckled. "I still think I''ll wait." he said, ignoring the look of surprise on the lady''s face as she realised he''d just read her mind. The bartender stiffened. "I¡ªI wasn''t aware that you were Tellemen" she stammered. "Please, stay as long as you wish." Then, as quickly as she came, the bartender retreated to her original position. Preparing to leave, Lennard rose from his stool, pausing only when he sensed a familiar consciousness approach. "I''m here, Mike." He announced as the young boy drew closer. Mike placed a large, rectangular object onto the counter with a soft thud. It was wrapped tightly in a thick opaque cloth that gave off no impression of its nature. The fabric hung tightly to the frame, disguising the painting hidden beneath. Lennard grinned, already certain that he''d pay Mike well. "Did you encounter any trouble?" He inquired. The boy shook his head, and Lennard detected no lies. He reached out and ruffled Mike''s soft, woolly hair, earning a cry of dissatisfaction from the boy. Handing him his allotted four Duan¡ªplus a three Duan bonus¡ªLennard gave his final message. "Say hi to Father Castellan for me." The message was more of a warning than it was a farewell, it would protect Mike during his journey back to the orphanage. Aghnrani or not, it would''ve taken a serious level of stupidity to target one of Castellan''s wards. Placing the painting under his arm, Lennard left the bar with a wide smile on his face. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. So far, so good. He thought to himself, banishing any notions that his gift would not be welcome. Which acrobat wouldn''t appreciate a painting of themselves? Even if she refused to date him, at least he''d get the satisfaction of having provided a good gift. As his mind churned with such thoughts, Lennard went back to her last performance. Serena, for that was her stage name, had been majestic. Lennard couldn''t even describe the joy he''d felt seeing her on that big stage, performing in front of more than nine-thousand people for the Festival Of Strings. His favorite performer was up there! Lennard wanted to shout out that fact to the entire world. He''d watched her from the very beginning, when he was nothing but a street rat selling scraps for food. And Lennard had come a long way from then. Indeed he had. A little girl ran up to him, face flushed with joy and vibrance. She handed him a piece of red string, a traditional token of the festival¡ªLegio Astolfo Gratia¡ªand giggled as she continued down the road. Lennard stared at the red string for a moment. He had never been a fan of folklore, but if the sayings were true... He tied the piece of string to his wrist. For luck. The caravan''s camp site was becoming increasingly visible. Green and red tent tops pierced the night sky like colourful spires. At this hour, the caravan would still be letting people in to see their exhibits. Lennard didn''t care much for magical beasts, much less ones in captivity. However, the large crowd would certainly provide an avenue to place his gift. He moved toward the entrance, fusing seamlessly within the ever growing cluster of spectators. The sheer number of people helped disguise his heavy baggage. What did not help, though, were the innumerable thoughts threatening to erode his mental barriers. He had to move fast, lest he succumb to madness in the middle of a crowd. How shameful. Perhaps his statement about being ''without any sense of embarrassment'' needed to be revised. After swerving through the crowd, he finally exited the suffocating mob right before a sign that read: ''Employees Only'' Perfect. Lennard had it on good faith¡ªand excessive amounts of money¡ªthat Serena''s tent was only a few metres ahead. Taking ten steps forward, and then fifteen to the right, he came to a stop right before a small-ish brown tent and frowned. Those damned organizers probably couldn''t tell a diamond from glass. To give Serena such a drab tent... How despicable! Lennard stepped into a tent, and was greeted with a magnificent sight. The inside was meticulously arranged. Each object placed with the care of someone who valued both order and sentimentality. Silken drapes of gold and crimson lined the walls, embroidered with beautiful patterns which shimmered softly under the glow of a crystal lamp hanging from the center pole, A delicate scent of jasmine and aged parchment filled the air, a strange yet oddly comforting mix. Trophies of all shapes and sizes gleaned from a sturdy wooden shelf, their plaques etched with years of triumph. Some bore the insignia of prestigious competitions, while others were smaller, more personal¡ª awarded at smaller festivals long before she had gained renown. And Lennard recognised each and every one of them. There was the trophy from the Ledger''s Gala. From Antares'' Elysium. Even more surprising, hidden among the grander accolades, was a simple, unassuming second-place badge¡ªher first ever award. A badge from her very first performance. The first performance he''d seen personally. and Lennard liked to think that he''d seen all of them. In the corner, a mannequin displayed her most iconic costume: a flowing, midnight-blue leotard embroidered with silver thread, mimicking the constellations above. The fabric shimmered as if woven from the night sky itself. She had not worn that costume during the Festival Opening. He did not know why: he considered it her best outfit. For all its elegance, the tent still felt lived-in, warm. It wasn¡¯t just a performer''s space; it was a shrine to Serena¡¯s journey, a testament to the years of effort that had led her here. Lennard couldn''t help but smile. Despite the dull exterior, this tent was Serena through and through¡ªgraceful, disciplined, and undeniably brilliant. Serena wasn''t here yet, but... He placed the canvas down next to the mannequin¡ªJust as it should be¡ªand sat on a nearby stool. Lennard could certainly wait. CHAPTER 5: Chattel The Knight barely acknowledges the festivities as he moves towards the stall. I do not pause even to question what moves me forward; I only know that there is something, an inexplicable force that pushes me towards him. In a few steps, I find myself before him. His frame is large and broad, so much so that it almost blots out my view of the moon. An odd stillness clings to him¡ªa disquieting sense that he is somehow different; somehow other. His gaze drifts downwards to meet mine. I should turn away. I should go back to Naeve, back to the festivities, back to something familiar. Yet I stay. "You do not celebrate." he says, tilting his head slightly. "Is the Empire''s anniversary of no interest to you?" "I could ask you the same thing." I retort. "I am here for a reason." he replies. "That is the difference between us." "And you assume I am not?" He pauses for a moment, then gestures slightly towards the crowd. "You belong there, among them" I arch a brow. "And where do you belong?" His lips pressed into a thin line. "Elsewhere." His voice is flat, yet there is weight behind it. The words linger in the air, heavy with hidden meaning. The Knight scans my face for a reaction that does not come, and frowns. There is a tangible shift in his demeanor. I open my mouth, ready to calm the situation down with a few quips, yet no words come out. A startled gasp escapes my lips, and an involuntary expression of fear clouds my features. It is as if I have lost control of my body. That momentary lapse in control is all it takes for the Knight to react. In a few moments he is upon me, his drawn sword painting a deadly arc through the air. The blade descends swift and merciless... And slices right through me. There is no pain, no impact. Only a strange, fleeting sensation, as though i am being unraveled, my very form slipping away like sand through fingers. A gasp catches my throat, yet I cannot hear it. I cannot hear anything. I fall. Like a puppet with its strings cut, I collapse in a heap on the ground. My limbs become heavy, refusing to move even as I strain my muscles to their limit. It feels as if my arms and legs have been replaced by giant slabs of stone. "Who is she?" someone asks, their voice uncertain. "Is she a criminal?" another murmurs. "She doesn¡¯t look dangerous." "I swear, the guards are always making a scene over nothing." Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. "Did you see what happened? She just¡ªcollapsed!" "No blood. No wounds. That¡¯s not normal." The whispers grow, spreading like wildfire through the crowd, a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and unease threading through every hushed word. Some voices are laced with intrigue, others with irritation. "Must be serious if he¡¯s involved." "Whatever it is, I want no part of it." Yet despite the apprehension, no one dares step forward. They watch. They wait. And the weight of their collective gaze is infuriating. An unexplainable wave of anger runs through me like electricity through a wire. What right did they have to just stand there while I suffer? How dare they refuse to help me! With a sense of indignation that isn''t quite my own, I shoot a hateful glare at the Knight as he approaches. The large man sheathes his silver blade, extending his arm in my direction. His large fingers grasp my collar, lifting me into the air. In a swift motion, he throws me onto his shoulder. The knight takes a deep breath, and leaps. He launches himself¡ªand by extension, me¡ªinto the air. The rushing wind sends strands of my hair flying into my face and eyes. I narrow my eyes, squinting in order to avoid the stinging pain. The Knight leaps from rooftop to rooftop taking me farther and farther away from the festival''s epicenter. I see a faint silhouette racing towards us, and as I open my eyes, the familiar anger reawakens within me. Naeve''s face is coated with a layer of perspiration, illuminated only by the lamps that line the edges of the flat-roofed houses we are on. She is gaining on us fast, which makes sense considering her Path. The ''Windswept Wanderer'' certainly seemed like one of those speedy Paths. A burst of envy clouds my thoughts, mixing with the ever present rage in a particularly venomous reaction. It doesn''t take much introspection to realise that the words threatening to spill from my lips are not at all mine. Not entirely, at least. The Knight halts and then whips around, having unsheathed his sword in that short timeframe. The flat of the blade slams violently into Naeve''s face, blood spraying all over as my niece gets sent flying, coming to a stop only a few buildings away. She moans in pain, and then falls still. Seeing Naeve laying unconscious on the ground sends a jolt of fear¡ªan emotion this time certainly my own¡ªrunning through me. I attempt to struggle, yet my limbs remain as unresponsive as they were before. The Knight continues moving after sheathing his sword. And it does not take long for us to arrive at our destination. The dingy hut is located somewhere in the Western Forest, cleverly hidden among the gigantic trees populating the area. Its faded beige walls give it a somewhat weathered appearance. A Copper Current Receiver (used to tap into stray electrical currents in order to power houses) hangs crookedly from the side of the roof. Its red warning light blinks periodically, indicating a low signal. The hut''s interior is in a much worse condition than its outside, utterly lacking of any meaningful furniture. There are no beds, no couches; only a single, lopsided table accompanied by two wooden stools. A metallic musk permeates the air within the hut. The Knight unceremoniously dumps me onto the floor and lumbers off to some unseen, shadowy corner of the room. His large stature obscures his movements, but as he shifts, a length of rope glints in the dim light, coiled tightly around his hands. My hands and feet are quickly bound, an action that seems quite pointless. The Knight secures the final knot, then steps back to inspect his work. I don''t bother struggling¡ªwhat would be the point? My limbs remain as unresponsive as before, my body little more than dead weight. He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Under the dim lighting, his hands seem formless shadows as they slide forward. Without saying anything, he presses his two thumbs against my forehead. A sharp jolt spreads through my body, like a surging current through my veins. My fingers twitch subconsciously, and then flex. Feeling floods back into my limbs. I have regained control of my body. I lift my head, heart pounding. The Knight leans back, resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze is heavy, expectant. ¡°Now,¡± he says, voice cool and measured, ¡°What do you know about the Cult of Azntenia?" CHAPTER 6: Sudden Intrusion Naeve woke up with a jolt. Her hand, instinctively rising to nurse her sudden migraine, froze when it came into contact with a strange fluid. She slowly retracted her hand only to find that each of her fingers was coated in a dark red liquid. She shifted, attempting to push herself into an upright position. But the moment her arms took on weight, a sharp pain lanced through her skull. The world tilted violently. Her balance betrayed her. With a gasp, she collapsed back onto the ground. The impact sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over her, and in the struggle to orient herself, her cheek landed in something warm and slick. Her stomach twisted. A slow, dreadful realization dawned as she pulled away, only to feel the unmistakable wetness smear across her skin. A jolt of pain caused her to jerk her head to the side, where she saw more of the crimson liquid splattered all over the floor. The same liquid now coated her face, flooding her nostrils with the heavy scent of iron. Memories crashed down on her. Dread coiled tight in her chest. She scrambled over to the edge of the building. Naeve didn''t know exactly how long she was out for, but she assumed that it was probably more than enough time for her aunt and her kidnapper to escape. She peered over the ledge at the ground below. A jump from that height would certainly hurt, but she''d prefer that over having to explain to who ever owned the house why and how she''d got on their roof. Naeve stepped onto the ledge. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. - The tent was quiet. Too quiet. Lennard sat on a wooden stool, his posture stiff and rigid, hands resting on his lap. He was waiting¡ªand, as of now, still was¡ªfor a very long time. For what exactly, he wasn''t sure anymore. His initial hope that Serena would soon come had¡ªmuch like the feeling in his legs¡ªquickly faded. His gift¡ªwrapped neatly in brown paper¡ªremained untouched at its position beside him. The lamp hanging overhead cast restless shadows against the tent walls. Lennard''s faith in the acceptance of his painting remained steadfast. Rather, what troubled him was whether his presence would be welcome at all. He had rehearsed how the meeting would go multiple times already in his head. He would show her the painting. She would laugh¡ªmaybe even be impressed. They would talk. They would connect. He would have his date. Yet here he was, sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and beginning to wonder if coming here was a mistake. Lennard reached out with his ability, probing gently at the edges of the world beyond his consciousness. He awaited the familiar warmth of a nearby mind, yet there was nothing. He increased his range¡ªtwenty metres, fifty, one-hundred¡ªstill nothing. Just the dull hum of the festival in the distance. Lennard retracted his Mind-Sense. There was no point in keeping it active any longer¡ªit had already drained most of his Quintessence. He resolved that, in the next four minutes, he would leave if Serena did not arrive. The first three minutes flew by quickly, with no sign of Serena¡¯s arrival. He exhaled deeply. It seems I must go. Yet, just as he was about to rise, a presence brushed against the edges of his awareness¡ªfaint, cautious, and unfamiliar. Someone was outside the tent, moving with deliberate care, their steps too light for an ordinary passerby. Lennard stilled. This wasn¡¯t aimless wandering. Whoever it was, they were sneaking. They got to the back of the tent, right where Lennard currently sat. If their intentions weren''t clear before, they certainly were now. There was a sudden flash of resolve, and a hand burst through the seams of the tent wall. Lennard ducked downwards as it whizzed above his head with startling speed, grasping uselessly at the air before withdrawing. A small hole was left behind, and through that hole appeared an eye, glaring down at him. "Who the hell are you?" CHAPTER 7: The Meat Of The Matter It''s about twenty-nine Sectors past the First Cycle. Thought Mara. She verified the thought by taking note of the Moon''s position in the night sky. Her estimation was bit off (though that was a given considering where they were) and it was actually thirty-three Sectors past the first of the Ten Cycles. Accounting for the constellations was always the shittiest part of calculating cycles. It was worse now than it was before. In these strange lands, Asterion and Neleus weren¡¯t where they were supposed to be. Nothing was. She ran her fingers through her short, hastily chopped hair, grimacing as she felt for the burnt strands. El would have to get those out for her later, the smuggler owed her that much at least, after what she had to endure. Her wounds had healed, the memories remained imprinted in her psyche, like an iron brand. How ironic. Mara turned to face the rocky outcrop that hid their camp and began walking. Her shift was almost over anyways, Aele probably wouldn''t hold her abandoning post so soon against her. The walk back to camp was quite uneventful¡ªa welcome change in Mara''s opinion. She''d take this over endless hordes of revenants any day. Which bastard was it that said ''Danger is the joy of the soul''? I''d like to skin him alive. A steady plume of smoke rose from within the center of the encampment. Along with it came the tantalizing scent of roast meat. Mara''s face contorted into a dark grin. It seemed, in the end, that there would be some skinning alive to be done. As she stepped into the boundary of the camp, the air became thick with the smoky fragrance. Mara''s anger boiled over. The meat wasn''t theirs, the fools had not bothered to gather up food before they crossed over to the other side. Rather, It was she who had taken it upon herself to collect meat from the carcasses of the beasts they slew. Not for charitable reasons (she was not that kind) but for her own enjoyment¡ªMara intended to eat that meat. However, it seemed her teammates had gotten to it first. Mara stomped over to the center fire, where the guilty parties had busily gathered themselves, greedily eyeing the roasting meat atop the flame. "Now, what the fuck is all this?" The words dripped with venom as she stalked toward the fire. A few heads turned, others looking guilty, some pretending they hadn''t heard at all. "I don''t recall any of you doing the butchering," she continued, arms crossed, voice dangerously even. "So tell me¡ªwhat manner of demon possessed your empty-as-fuck brains and gave you the gall to to cook my meat?" The smuggler, El, sat cross legged by the fire, brow raised, lazily chewing on a reed. "Didn''t see your name on it." Mara glared at him. "You''ll be damn familiar with my name once I''m done with you¡ª" "Stop." Aele''s voice cut through the air, stifling the words that threatened to spill from Mara''s lips. ¡°Enough, everyone¡¯s starving. You¡¯d rather let it go bad?¡± "I''d rather they didn''t touch it at all." "Well they have." Aele held her gaze. "And it''s about done. Sit and eat would you?" Exhaling deeply through her nostrils. She plopped down onto the soft grass as Julius¡ªtheir de-facto chef¡ªheaped carvings of meat onto bleached-white plates. Mara scoffed¡ªfor people who were ''too busy'' to butcher a few animals, they certainly wasted no time in gathering those pretty ivory pieces. The night was alive with the sounds of dining and laughter. The crew gorged themselves on the delectable meat, collected from the carcass of the Half-Fey doe that guarded the entrance to the other side. Mara vividly remembered butchering the creature¡ªthe tensing and snapping of bones and ligaments as she separated Its limbs from the rest of the body, to be used later in a stew. The pelt had been rough, unnaturally thick, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not peel it off the beast. So, in the end, she had simply taken what she could and left the rest to rot. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Julius quickly handed Mara her portion of the meat, mouthed a small ''sorry'' and then scurried back to the corner where his friends stood waiting. Shove your ''sorry'' up your ass! She wanted to say, but Aele would probably chastise her for needless antagonism. Once they had all finished eating, Aele rose to address the crew. Their faces lit up with anticipation. Much Mara hated to admit it, she felt the same. After all, they had just accomplished something once thought to be nigh-impossible¡ªthey had crossed over to the other side. And they''d done it in a month. Aele took in a breath "So..." She began. "We''ve done it; from the Bound Mountains to the Crimson Lake, our journey has become legend. The Land Of White Moon, where no beasts lurk in shadows, where the corruption cannot reach, and where no soul from our side has set foot in centuries.." The weight of Aele''s words pressed down on the gathered crew. The fire crackled, wisps of smoke traveling into the crisp night air. Up above in the sky, the silver moon shone bright. So very calm, so very different from what they once knew: the twisted mass of corruption and flesh that once accompanied their nights and evenings. "We have fought and bled, poured sweat and tears into the hope of a better world, of making something of ourselves, of becoming legends. There were losses, many deaths too gruesome to recount; Marlo, Sera, Loide. We owe our lives to them¡ªthe fallen, the ones still suffering in the Dreadrealm. We carry their hopes, their sacrifices. And so we must return." As the words echoed through the air, the crew grew deathly silent. Their expressions turned stiff and strained, as if doused in cold water. Murmurs rose among them. "Return?" someone echoed, voice tinged with disbelief. "What does she mean?" another asked, hushed but urgent. "She can''t be serious... right?" The last voice cracked slightly, uncertain, afraid. Silently, Aele took in their tense expressions. She no doubt expected this outcome, surmised Mara, She''d be a fool not to. The members of their crew were far from noble, both in mind and character. They would no sooner stab each other in the back than suffer even the smallest loss. Aele''s words were nothing but wishful thinking. Even if they wanted to go back, the many enemies they''d made would rip them to shreds without even batting an eye. Although... She felt for the burn scars on her neck, thoughts of violence flashing through her mind. A reunion doesn''t sound too bad. Aele''s voice broke through the murmurs. "I understand your reservations, but this is a decision we must make. What life can we make in these lands? What kinship is to be found amongst those who do not understand our ways? We will find no friends amongst them. Those of a different kind do not share our mind." Their leader turned round, signaling the end of her speech. As she left for her tent, Aele gave the crew one last instruction: "Ponder upon it till tomorrow. The decision will be made then." After her departure, a tense silence descended upon the crew. A stunned one. No member let out a sound, they were too busy trying to understand Aele''s strange behavior. She was the one who convinced them to join, the one who''d led them here. Why did she suddenly want to return? "This is bullshit." A deep voice growled. Mara, and everyone else gathered, turned their heads towards the person. He was well built. Tall, dark-skinned. The man''s hair fell down his back in thick, matted dreadlocks. Mara recognised him from from her days in the Holding Centre, a quiet and reserved person: ''Twitch,'' they used to call him. "What''s the matter, Garm?" asked El, leaning forward as if to glean more information from the man. Garm gestured to the surrounding area, his voice rising. "Everything. This entire speech¡ªit''s all bullshit. Tell me why Aele, the same Aele who hunted down every clue to lead us here, would suddenly want us to turn back. Something''s wrong. I know it. Somebody has to talk some sense into her." At that, all eyes turned to Mara. The message was clear: You know her better than any of us. Go. Mara groaned, "Alright, Shitheads. I''ll go." Garm crossed his hands, genuine surprise painting his face. "I¡ªthat quickly?" Mara shot him a glare. "What, you want me to put up a fight?" El snickered from his spot by the fire, chewing on that damned reed again. "Wouldn''t be the first time." Mara rolled her eyes, pushing herself up. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her limbs, but she shoved it down. She was used to this¡ªto being the one everyone looked to when things got complicated. Used to being the only one with enough guts to ask the hard questions. As she stepped away from the fire, the warmth on her skin faded, replaced by the cool night air. The shadows stretched long across the ground, flickering with the firelight. Aele¡¯s tent loomed ahead, silent, waiting. Mara took a breath, muttering under it, "This better be worth it." Then she stepped inside.